Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The 1920s are a wonderful time all around, with the first world war over and soldier boys returning home and the government enabling people to live and dance as they please - unless you want to drink alcohol, then you’re shit out of luck.

Unless you happen to have connections that run in the same circles as Victor.

Most men that run in the same circles as Victor live uneasily, waiting for the day they may be backstabbed or killed or arrested by the police. Of course, they have their times of elation in that they’re kings in their own right, with control over booze or weapons or cheap labor or whatever their family specializes in. Kings in their own right, but aware that their position has left them with a figurative Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads, with the possibility of high losses happening everyday in their high-stakes life.

Victor Nikiforov is not “most men”. “Where’s the Crispino representatives?” he asks, impatience hidden as he takes a long drag of his cigar. “They practically begged for this meeting, and now they don’t show up?”

His men don’t reply, and from the corner of his eye he sees Mila hold back a scoff from a hidden vantage point ideal for shooting any threats to him. Honestly, at this point the biggest threat to his wellbeing is boredom.

The Crispino representative shows up eventually, a nervous man with mousy brown hair and a thousand apologies pouring off his lips. If he wasn’t bearing the equivalent of the group’s offer to call a ceasefire on their recent squabble over alcohol production rights, most men would have had him lose a few fingers to send them a message of his ire.

But Victor is not like most men. So he drops his cigar and steps on it as he looks the terms of the deal over, and Yuri next to him does his best to make the representative cry with his glare alone. By the way the man’s knees shake, it’s effective, which he finds quite pitiable.

He rereads the deal over once, twice, and then a third time just to make the representative sweat, keeping his expression schooled the whole time. But even as he pockets his half of the papers and tosses the others at the Crispino representative, for all his own air of confidence that most men don’t have the influence to back, he’s disappointed.

“What’s wrong, Victor?” Mila asks as she slinks out of the shadows, after the man has run away back to his bosses. “Something shifty with the contract?”

“Nothing at all,” he replies, falling in step behind her as he and Yuri go to where they’ve parked. “It’s just a shame, is all. I thought that the Crispino’s had a bit more bite in them. Wasn’t expecting such... favourable terms.”

“Tch.” He feels Yuri’s displeasure as much as he would have if Yuri had kicked his back instead. “You’re just pissed because you thought they’d give you a challenge. Michele was practically spitting in your face at the Leroy social, after all.”

Mila laughs as they get in the car. “Aww, Victor, if I’d known you wanted a fight I wouldn’t have seduced the Crispino sister then!”

“You what?”

Georgi, who’d been waiting in the driver’s seat, takes one look at the atmosphere and says nothing, firing up the engine once everyone is in.

“It’s nothing, nothing.”

“Mila,” Victor wonders if this is how Yakov used to feel about him, “Seducing the sister of the Crispino head is not nothing.”

She offers nothing more on the subject, and Victor does nothing but fish out another cigar (even though Yuri hates the smell in close quarters) and lament the loss of what he’d thought was a decent rival. His last possible rival.

Victor is not most men, because most men do not sit comfortably on their thrones with all their competitors either dead, converted into allies, or too scared to dare lift a finger against them. The Crispinos had been his last hope for making his unconventional career interesting again.

Not that being a mob boss is boring, necessarily. But Victor is only twenty-seven, and while he enjoys the perks of having a massive influence on arms smuggling and alcohol and prostitution and every other enterprise the City declared illegal, none of said perks quite give him the same thrill as when he had been younger and people had been all too willing to kill him.

Now they’re just waiting for him to fall, but no one’s willing to try to make it happen.

“It’s such a shame,” Victor breathes out all the disappointment from the deal that had boiled in his mind. “No one’s willing to give me a decent fight these days. When’s the last time you had to do your job, Mila?”

“Fifteen minutes ago?” she says, a tilt of confusion to her voice.

He waves his hand. “No, I mean when was the last time you had to throw one of your knives at someone trying to kill me.”

“Oh.” She takes too long to answer, and he knows her face well enough to know when the answer comes to her.

“Why is this a bad thing, old man?” Yuri bites. “Shouldn’t you be happy that no one’s trying to kill you?”

“Maybe I am getting too old.” Yuri gapes at him like a fish at the admission. “I have the entire City locked down under my control. Even the police don’t want to move against me. Everyone squabbles with each other but I’m too high for their minor skirmishes to even affect us.”

No one says anything, as it’s the truth, and they know better than to speak when he’s ruminating like this. Not because he’d kill them for something like insolence, but because he’d start rambling.

The group gets to the mansion safely, and as they walk in the main doors, servants bowing and Mila peeling off towards the kitchen with Yuri, Georgi decides to open his mouth. “Victor.”

“What is it, Gosha?” He uses the diminutive to let Georgi know that it’s okay for him to speak.

Georgi chooses his next words carefully. “You say you have the entire City locked down, right?”

“Yes. Business part of my life is all under control, and it’s boring.” I’m bored, do not drag me into this boring topic.

“Then... maybe you should consider addressing the romantic side of your life now!” he suggests cheerfully.

Victor stares at him, and closes his eyes as he smiles. “Georgi?”

“Yes boss?”

“I know you’re still hung up on Anya, so don’t try to voraciously live your love-life through me, okay?” Victor walks off, and wonders if Georgi has started crying again.

Knowing Georgi and how hurt he had been when his ex-girlfriend Anya had tried to kill Victor three months ago, probably.

He goes to Chris’ speakeasy this time.

The front is a quaint little cafe called the “Relaxation House”, which isn’t inaccurate. It boasts alluring staff (male and female) and desserts that are to die for. Order a bowl of green tea (not on the menu) and you get shown into a back room where a staff member who is usually of Japanese descent offers to show you traditional tea ceremony. Agree to them, and when they first start pouring the water, ask where the hot water is from. They indicate the closet, and from there is the entrance to the speakeasy.

“If it’s not my old friend,” Christophe approaches Victor through the crowd of silently drinking strangers, a glass of something in one hand and a welcoming smile on his lips. “How have you been?”

Victor doesn’t take the glass, even though it’s clearly an offering to him. Chris’ opening salvo is always to offer him something strongly alcoholic, and while some days it’s a blessing, tonight Victor intends to keep his sobriety, if only to make sure that his displeasure is coherent to whoever decides to decorate his side tonight. He’s here to have a few drinks, possibly drown his boredom in alcohol, possibly leave with someone to warm a hotel bedroom with him.

He’s not necessarily a regular, even if he’s acquainted with Chris- no sense in establishing the place as somewhere some enterprising hitman could (try to) get a drop on him. But he’s been there enough that he and Chris are on closer terms than Victor usually is with people outside the family. “The usual,” Victor says, and it’s a testament to their long acquaintanceship that Chris recognizes the words as a complaint more than anything.

“Here for anything in particular, then?” Christophe asks, dodging the usual pleasantries in favor of possibly alleviating Victor’s mood.

Victor waves him off, a clear dismissal. “I’ll let you know, Chris.” And that’s that. The man disappears back into the gathering of patrons in the speakeasy, and Victor approaches the bar, where only three others are seated.

Behind the bar counter is what appears to be a bookshelf, but what he knows to be carefully crafted glass vessels shaped to look like books but intended to hold alcohol. An ingenious way to hide the goods, in his opinion. In case of a police raid, the backroom had actual books that could be switched out with the alcohol vessels, and the entire place would look like some shady book club instead. Of all Giacometti speakeasies, this one has to be Victor’s favorite, if only for the memory of the police chief who had led a raid looking the tiniest bit displeased at the presence of books instead of alcohol.

Considering that Chief Anzwei is a stone-faced emotionless bastard, it was the equivalent of any other police chief flying into an amusing frothing rage.

He regards the memory fondly as he leans his head on his hands, a finger tapping at his cheek as he debates what to drink tonight. “I’ll have-” Victor starts to order, but for the first time in a very long time, he’s left speechless.

Christophe said nothing about there being a new bartender, he thinks as a man with wide eyes behind blue-frame glasses and slicked-back hair greets him with a sheepish smile. The bartender says something, wiping a glass on his apron, but Victor’s mental faculties have crashed and all he can do is stare. Would he be mad if I tried to seduce one of his bartenders? It won’t be considered intruding on his turf, right? I mean bartenders aren’t part of the alcohol production but I could get drunk on this guy-

“Sir?”

“Surprise me,” Victor orders, tilting his head just so, with an additional wink thrown in for good measure. The bartender’s face flushes red for a moment, but he nods his head and goes to the alcohol shelf, pulling out a cocktail glass and two “books”.

Victor watches intently as the man makes his drink - both out of usual caution at people possibly slipping things into his drink and fascination. The man is economical with his movements, more than anything, but there’s an atypical grace as he pours out alcohol and stirs with deft motions, pulling out vials from under the counter and a stream of liquid pouring out into the glass without a wasted splash. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he was staring when the bartender approaches him again.

“I hope you enjoy,” he says as he slides the highball glass to Victor.

“What is this drink?” Victor took a sip, and could taste orange mixed with vodka.

A smile. “Something that I thought would suit someone like you.” He hesitates for a moment, “Though, Mr. Giacometti likes to call it a wallbanger.” 

I’d like to bang you against a wall. Victor thinks into his drink. There was Chris and his amusing cocktail names again. “Is that so?” he knocks back a gulp, and the bartender seems to take it as his cue to leave, going to the other end of the bar to attend to a pair of women.

When the bartender comes back in Victor’s direction, asking if he’d like another drink, Victor agrees, asking for something less alcoholic this time. He licks his lips as he does, and doesn’t question the feeling of gratification he has when the bartender blushes again. “I wonder...”

“Hm?”

“What’s your name?” There is a time for being roundabout and times for just going straight in for the kill.

The bartender blinks, once, twice, and Victor took note of the way his lips frame his own name. “Yuuri.” Victor remains nonplussed at the similarity of the name to his bodyguard’s.

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats, drawing out the vowels. Yuuri looks away, but Victor can see embarrassment reach the tips of his ears. “Well then, Yuuri. Do I look lonely?”

“Wha-?” Yuuri cuts himself off, turning to look at Victor again. He’s silent for several seconds, as if searching for something in Victor’s face.

He shivers inside, something akin to glee licking up in his bones and making Victor smile. “Answer as you please. I value your honesty.”

“We just met.” Victor hears Yuuri mutter as he wipes a glass to occupy himself. But he maintains eye contact with Victor when he finally gives his answer. “You do.” Short and succinct, with a waver of something that Victor would very much like to taste with his tongue.

Victor quickly finishes the second drink that Yuuri had given him. It’s tart, but there’s a hint of a chocolate sweetness behind the burn of alcohol. “Well, Yuuri,” he holds out a hand. “Would you like to change that?”

If it were possible for a human being to spontaneously combust, Victor thinks that Yuuri would have tried it right there. His smile is on his face and in his heart as he watches Yuuri lose composure, sounds that are syllables failing to chain together to be comprehensible spilling from his lips. He seems torn between staring at Victor is disbelief and looking at anywhere but Victor, and it’s honestly quite cute.

Victor doesn’t have the luxury of propositioning someone so easily like this. He is a high-profile man, after all, and he knows that Yuuri knows who he is (or at least, have a very strong inkling to his identity) but it’s rare for him to want to take someone to his bed. Or on a date, he muses as Yuuri settles on not answering and instead going to serve other patrons.

“... what if I said no?” Yuuri gives his reply several minutes later, subdued and not meeting Victor’s eyes. Surprisingly, there’s no fear that Victor can see. Nervousness, yes, but no fear.

He can’t help but smile again, a genuine one, with only the barest hint of slyness. “It would be a shame, but I would understand if a man such as yourself already has someone to go home to,” he says, the cheer in his voice not entirely unfounded. While Yuuri carries himself with a grace, his reaction to being propositioned had indicated that he is just as much of a bachelor as Victor is.

Yuuri is embarrassed yet again. “I- I don’t.”

“Have anyone?”

Finally, the last vestiges of professionalism fall away. “I do! I mean, I share a flat with friend, so I go home to them, but I don’t have anyone I’m with currently, and I don’t think I would mind,” his voice rises into a nervous pitch, “If I could make you feel a little bit less lonely, I wouldn’t mind?”

Victor smiles, all teeth, and plucks a business card from his pocket, sliding it Yuuri. “Victor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri shows no shock or fear, just more of that cute flustered state as he nods shyly and takes the card. “I...”

“I’ll talk to your boss,” Victor says, “And you’ll leave with me then, won’t you, Yuuri?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. “I will, Victor,” he answers.

Victor slips off to find his friend with the most peculiar thought curling around his mind. I  wouldn’t mind hearing him call me Vitya.

It’s embarrassing, and Victor wonders if this is how giddy schoolgirls with infatuations feel. It’s not a bad feeling at all.

Chapter Text

Christophe looks downright amused when Victor tells him a short, “I’m kidnapping Yuuri for the night. I’ll pay for the drinks and for his time.”

“Oh? My new bartender catch your eye, Victor? You could have said you were feeling lonely, I wouldn’t mind comforting you.” Chris purrs.

Victor makes a derisive snort that makes Chris raise an immaculately groomed eyebrow at him. “Tell me about him,” Victor says, not taking his eyes off Yuuri across the room.

Christophe is long used to Victor turning down his offers of sex, so he takes no offense at the reaction. “Yuuri Katsuki. I hired him last week. An immigrant from Japan, he bounced to the City from Los Angeles with a friend recently. Keeps his tongue shut if you tell him to, background is clean from involvement with the police and other families. I originally approached him to work in the tea room upstairs, but apparently his parents ran an inn back in Japan, and I needed a new bartender.”

“How did you meet him?” Victor asks, filing the information away.

His friend smiles. It’s the smile that says wouldn’t-you-like-to-know? but is prelude to being stonewalled. “I think you’d prefer finding that out for yourself, Victor.” He winks. “Let’s just say that he has some fantastic moves.”

Yuuri’s body is moving without input from his brain as he follows this man - Victor - out of his workplace. His very shady work at a very illegal and shady bar, which means that Victor must be equally shady, and influential as hell considering that he had talked to Yuuri’s boss for only a few minutes and Yuuri had been dismissed to go with Victor.

They’re walking through one of the discrete exits, dimly lit by the gaslights placed every few meters. It occurs to Yuuri that this is probably an immensely bad idea - following a complete stranger from his work? He doesn’t even know where they’re going.

“Victor?” he asks. The man turns to look at him slightly, but continues walking. “Where are we going?”

Victor looks vaguely surprised for a moment, but it’s hidden quickly. “A hotel nearby,” he says as they ascend a staircase to leave the hidden hallway. The chill of the night makes Yuuri shudder, and Victor frowns. He falls back so that they’re walking next to each other, even though Yuuri is still depending on him on where to go.

I’m leaving my work to go to a hotel with a complete stranger, he thinks half-hysterically. But he remembers the ease at which Mr. Giacometti had sent him off, and forces himself to relax. My boss wouldn’t send me out unless he trusted Victor. Granted, his boss was involved in some criminal business, but the man had ethics underneath all his flamboyance.

They walk in silence, hands occasionally brushing, Yuuri stealing glances at his mysterious companion. Victor offers him a smile whenever they eyes meet, but otherwise he’s silent.

Yuuri does a double-take upon seeing where Victor has led him. Golden is a hotel that rises a respectable six stories, shining with lights in the night and an immaculate lobby welcoming anyone with the money to afford a room. Few people can. He holds his tongue, though, because Victor is still at ease, and he wants to trust Victor.

It’s hard to conceal his shock though, when the concierge takes one look at Victor and bows deeply. Other people in a lobby, whether they are staff or customers, pause at the sight of the man with silver hair, and Yuuri feels so confused. “Mister Nikiforov,” there’s the slightest waver in the receptionist’s voice, “What can we do for you?” She’s not looking up.

“A room for the night...” Victor turns to Yuuri with an assessing eye, “With a queen bed. Third floor.” Yuuri abruptly feels mortified, because suddenly all eyes are on him, and he can hear people murmuring, wondering who he is.

I’m just a bartender. He would say. But somehow, Victor sees more in him than ‘just a bartender’, because the receptionist is giving Victor a key now, bidding him well, and Yuuri gulps as he follows Victor to the lift -

It finally hits him what he’s doing - as in, entering a fancy hotel with a stranger who wants to “feel less lonely”.

Normally, Yuuri would be a mess of nerves by now. But he remembers Victor’s request, remembers how the words ad been phrased flirtatiously but had been genuine. And he steels his posture and shoves his anxieties down, because he wants to trust this man.

And inside, he wants to feel less lonely, too.

Victor doesn’t know what to make of Yuuri Katsuki.

This whole thing is spur of the moment, an impulse made upon noticing how beautiful the bartender is. He’d meant to go to the bar and find someone to sleep with, possibly, but... part of him doesn’t want to do that.

Judging by the way that Yuuri looks at him with tentative trust and the fact that he’s barely shown fear of Victor - came to the City recently, according to Chris - Yuuri has no clue who Victor is. It’s delightfully novel.

Yuuri has no idea who Victor is, so he’s a blank slate for Victor to make a first impression upon. He has different expectations for Victor than everyone that’s heard of him. Victor feels his shoulders drop the slightest, like a weight has been lifted. The weight of his reputation - right now, he doesn’t have to be the head of the Nikiforov clan, doesn’t have to be a cold mob boss with the entire City under his control.

Victor can be whatever he wants, and oh, isn’t that a heady thought.

They reach the third floor, and the room that the receptionist had given to him, and as he unlocks the room, it occurs to him that Yuuri has been silent this whole time.

”Why did you agree to this, Yuuri?” Victor asks, holding the door open slightly. “You don’t know me at all, do you?” Doubts about this, whatever this is, start surfacing like venomous snakes from their den.

Yuuri’s breath hitches. His cheeks are pink from the temperature, and his lips are red from being bitten out of nervousness. “Oh, I...” he fidgets, but doesn’t look away from Victor. In the muted lighting of the hotel corridor, his eyes are wide and Victor wants to drown in them - embrace this beautiful man and pretend that his life is less empty than it feels. “You wanted to feel less lonely,” Yuuri explains, gaze gentle. “I... might want that as well.”

It takes absolutely everything in Victor to not grab him by the chin and press their lips together right then and there, start to mark Yuuri as his and eat him alive in a way that is wholly pleasurable. He takes a fortifying breath instead, and nods sharply, ushering Yuuri into the hotel room. It’s modest but comfortable, as Victor had felt that his usual ostentatiousness would make Yuuri nervous.

“So how do you want me?” Yuuri asks, and he’s reaching up to start unbuttoning his shirt. The sight makes Victor feel weak, makes his usual control slip.

But the way that Yuuri stands, relaxed where most would be wary - trusting, as opposed to wanting Victor six feet in the ground - has his initial plans of sex discarded. “On the bed,” he says, “you don’t have to take off your clothes, though. Not if you don’t want to.”

Yuuri goes to sit on the mattress, bouncing a little to test it, and something in Victor’s heart feels amused by how delighted Yuuri is at such a simple thing. Victor takes his time divesting himself of hat and coat and shirt and tie, draping them on a chair before approaching the bed. “Lie with me?” Victor sprawls himself next to Yuuri, willing himself to relax, to trust someone for once in his life. A leap of faith, as some would say. Pure idiocy, everyone that Victor interacts with on a daily basis would call it.

“I feel a bit over-dressed,” Yuuri laughs, but complies, sinking next to Victor, using an arm to prop his head up. They face each other, a few inches between their bodies, Victor half-naked, Yuuri fully dressed but his top buttons undone, a teasing glance of nipple visible if Victor looks closely enough.

“What do you want, Victor?” Yuuri murmurs.

“Vitya,” Victor blurts before he can stop himself. Yuuri looks at him, confused, so before he can rethink Victor clarifies, “Call me Vitya while we’re like this?”

Yuuri blinks once, twice, but he smiles. “Okay then. What do you want Vitya?” he asks, searching Victor’s face for any clue of what he plans.

Victor prides himself on being unreadable, so he closes his eyes and lets a corner of his mask fall, tries to let go of Victor Nikiforov, mafia boss, for a little bit. Being called Vitya helps. He reaches for Yuuri’s hand, takes it in both of his, holds it between them. A physical connection to ground him, so Victor knows that he’s not hallucinating this. “I want you to make me feel less lonely, Yuuri,” Victor whispers. “And since you’re looking for the same thing, I want you to feel less lonely, too. Surprise me.”

They stare at each other, the fragile words hanging in the air, sentiment in the words that are unspoken but so very clear. “How long do we have?” Yuuri pauses, and adds, “Vitya?” It’s so wonderful to hear, and Victor has no idea what sort of expression he’s making because Yuuri is looking at him with no small amount of delight in his eyes now.

“We have the room as long as I want it,” Victor answers, and pulls Yuuri’s hand up to his mouth to kiss the forefinger.

Yuuri shudders, not from the cold. His eyes darken, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and Victor braces himself, wondering how Yuuri would engage him, how it would feel to splay his hands on Yuuri’s chest and press him to the mattress, tease him until he begs-

“I’m from Japan,” Yuuri says, instead of some prelude to sex. “I came here awhile back with a friend. My family runs a prosperous hot spring inn in my hometown. My sister is set to inherit, and while I liked to help out as a child, I... took a chance. Came here instead of staying there, because I wanted.”

“Wanted what?” Victor asks.

“Something new. If I had stayed in Hasetsu my life would have been set out for me. But here, they call the land of opportunity.”

“Are you happy with the opportunities you’ve had so far?”

Yuuri smirks, and Victor is compelled to kiss his hand again. It’s a terrifyingly intimate gesture that would have his men gaping at him doing it to someone else, but it feels right to do in this moment. “Well, I got the opportunity to meet you, Vitya, so I would say I am.”

Victor can’t help it.

He laughs.

“You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?” he winks. “A playboy, possibly? I can’t believe that someone like you is single.” Yuuri laughs at that, too, and somehow something in the air breaks, and Yuuri pulls Victor’s hands to him and holds them close, caressing Victor’s hand to his cheek as some emotional barrier between them fell.

“I’m from Saint Petersburg,” Victor begins, “But I haven’t been there ever since I was very young. My uncle brought me here, and I haven’t left ever since...”

Somehow, all they do is talk. Later on, Victor will look back and marvel at this, at the memory of their first night together being nothing but casual intimacy in a hotel room, running lips over fingers tenderly and talking about old memories long-buried.

Weariness overcomes them, eventually, but rather than either leaving the two men simply crawled under the blankets together. Yuuri takes off his shirt, and both of them take off their pants for the sake of comfort, but somehow all they do is talk. Their hands are barely ever apart.

Neither know who fell asleep first, but when they wake up, Yuuri’s back is to Victor’s chest, arms and legs entangled as if in their sleep, their bodies decided to match their physical closeness with their emotional one. Victor’s first sight upon waking up is Yuuri turned away from him, his neck inclined in a way that Victor wants to bite it, mark it, because it’s so ridiculously vulnerable and trusting that he wants to sink his teeth into his feeling to make sure that all this isn’t some crazy fever dream.

He doesn’t, though. Now is not the time.

Victor detaches himself carefully from Yuuri, trying not to wake him, but Yuuri mumbles incoherently, and turns to face Victor as he gets out of bed. “Vitya?” he mumbles through the haze of sleep. Yuuri is clearly not a morning person. “Are you going?”

His heart leaps at the the domesticity of this moment. Waking up next to someone, being called Vitya, not feeling like he owes anything, or should worry about anything.

He swallows the sentiment down, tries to keep his heart from bursting with some unknown emotion that’s spilled into him from that moment. “Yes. If I don’t go back soon, people will worry, and look for me.” The light of dawn is only just starting to peek through the window, so Victor has plenty of time to get back before Yuri starts assuming that drastic measures need to be taken to track Victor down. Part of him is reluctant to leave the hotel room, honestly. This sort of intimacy and trust and everything that Yuuri Katsuki has given him, unwittingly, feels like a sanctuary that will disappear the moment Victor goes. Something that he doesn’t know whether he can come back to or not.

Intellectually, he knows it’s a bad idea.

Emotionally, he couldn’t care less.

“I should get going too, then...?” Yuuri yawns, stretching and trying to rub the sleepiness away from his eyes. The blankets pool at his waist as he sits up, and Victor can feel his eyes on him as he puts on his clothes.

Victor pauses in the middle of buttoning his shirt to place his hand to Yuuri’s cheek. “No, you can keep sleeping,” he says, “Leave when you’re ready.”

“Are you sure?” Yuuri stares up at him, puts his hand over Victor’s. He shivers at the gesture, but nods. “Will we meet again?”

Again? The idea of this - this comfort, this ease of mind with another human being - seizes Victor’s heart, and he knows that he wants it again. Again and again, until there is no “again” and it is a constant state of being. “Yes,” Victor bends down on a whim, and kisses Yuuri’s temple. “I’ll meet you at your job again.”

“Soon?” Yuuri’s eyes are fluttering shut, like some sleeping beauty about to return to their natural state.

“Soon,” Victor promises, and he lets go of Yuuri to finish changing.

When he leaves, he feels lighter. Different.

Less lonely.

Chapter Text

They fall into a routine, eventually. As much as Victor wishes that he can escort Yuuri to various hotels (walk hand-in-hand as lovers do, watch how the snow settles on Yuuri’s eyelashes and his hair), he knows better.

The second time, he sends a message to Yuuri through Christophe where to meet, and makes arrangements for the third time before he leaves the next morning. It’s a careful thing, these arrangements — Victor treats them with delicacy, making sure that they don’t impede on Yuuri’s plans, not just his own. He never wants Yuuri to regret meeting him.

The routine goes like this: Yuuri arrives first, usually, and waits. He brings a book, for these times, and they’re never the same title. Victor arrives within an hour, usually, after telling his people where he plans to be and making sure no one is following him to his haven. He sheds his emotional masks and mob boss persona with his coat, bares himself to bask in the comfort of Yuuri’s presence. Yuuri closes his book, greets him with a soft, “Hello, Vitya,” and hugs him.

Victor doesn’t know how he’s lived without Yuuri’s hugs until now. They’re warm and gentle just like Yuuri himself, and they’re given so freely that it makes Victor almost... hesitant, to take them. It’s a slow learning process, to accept the hugs and return them and remember what it’s like to feel almost-warm. But Victor manages to reciprocate the affection without nearly killing Yuuri out of long-ingrained reflexes, manages to wrap his arms around the other man and relish in the sound of Yuuri’s breath, and Yuuri’s heartbeat, and the scent of whatever shampoo Yuuri uses. It smells faintly of oranges.

He has known people long enough to know that Yuuri’s initiation of hugs are out of his comfort zone. Victor is intimately aware of the feeling of Yuuri’s hands on his back that can tell when Yuuri wants to push him away and when Yuuri wants to pull him closer. It baffles Victor though, why Yuuri instead every time simply takes a fortifying breath and continues prolonging the contact.

“You don’t have to push yourself, you know,” Victor had said one day. Yuuri had looked at him with confusion evident in his brown eyes. “If you don’t want to hug me, you don’t need to.”

But Yuuri’s hands clenched the back of Victor’s shirt. With his head bowed, he mumbled, “I do want to. It’s just... hard. But I’m trying to get better with it, for your sake and mine.”

Sometimes, it was difficult for Victor to not kiss Yuuri. That moment though, he had indulged, just briefly, and dropped a kiss on Yuuri’s head.

They separated after that to lie on the bed together, and said nothing about it.

The rest of the routine is simple. After the hug, after conversation and comfortable silences and half-caresses, Victor leaves. They don’t sleep together like they had that first night because Victor knows that if he stays for too long, people may notice. Yuri and Mila and Georgi would worry, or those that await Victor’s downfall would find out why he lingers and possibly harm Yuuri.

Victor never wants to bring harm to Yuuri, whether intentionally or accidentally.

So even though it breaks his heart every time he leaves Yuuri after only a few hours of comfort, even though he can feel pieces of his heart fracturing off and falling away, he’s okay with it. The leaving , because all the pieces of his heart that break off fall into Yuuri’s hands, and he knows (trusts, for some strange reason even though he and Yuuri have barely known each other for a few weeks) that Yuuri will treat his heart well.

(Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but the feeling he has for Yuuri is too strong for it to be merely wishful.)

Mila and Georgi and Yuri — and all of his family, really — worry about Victor. They don’t know who Yuuri is, so it’s natural that they’re wary of his repeated disappearances without anyone to accompany him. He’s ordered them to not follow, as well, because Yuuri knows who Vitya is, not Victor Nikiforov, mob boss, and he doesn’t want to shatter the fragile peace they share by Yuri (or anyone, really) kicking down the door demanding answers.

“Maybe he’s in love!” Georgi suggests one day as Victor prepares to leave once again.

Victor pauses. “And maybe you should keep your mouth shut, Georgi,” he says, smiling. Georgi is silent at once; Mila and Yuri regard him warily.

“Victor!” Yuri barks, voice harsh with his irritation, “You can’t keep disappearing like this without telling us where. If you’re paying me to do this job, then don’t go around making yourself an easy target like this.”

“Are you worried about me, Yura?” he replies in jest.

Yuri snarls, “Of course I am. You might be a flighty bastard, but if shit happens to you then shit will happen to all of us.” He deflects the statement that he cares by hiding his feelings under harsh words, but Victor sees the sentiment for what it is. “Besides, you’ve been going off like this for weeks, and people are starting to talk.”

People are starting to talk. It’s a warning, not an unfriendly one, but it doesn’t stop Victor from clenching his hands into fists. “... I’ll give you all details about my business soon,” he says. After I talk to Yuuri, is what he doesn’t say.

It’s not love, no matter what Georgi thinks, he muses as he slips out of the estate. He doesn’t love Yuuri.

A memory comes unbidden, of the sweetness of Yuuri’s voice as they greet each other in the dim light of a motel room, the way that Yuuri’s hair fans out when he lies next to Victor, the pressure of his fingertips on Victor’s cheeks.

Victor stops in his tracks, turning to look at his reflection in the window. I don’t love Yuuri, he mouths the words; even unvoiced, they sting bitterly.

But oh, how he wants to.

There is no one word that can be used to define their relationship. He continues down the street, dodging other pedestrians and walking with a purpose to their meeting. All they do is talk. Meet in various hotels on various days, talk, hold each other for a few hours, and leave. Yuuri doesn’t take any payment, and Victor gives him none. It would... cheapen what they have, he feels. (Cheapen it to a relationship founded on money, and Victor doesn’t want that. Not from Yuuri, never from Yuuri.)

Is it love, what they have? Is it just a passing flight of fancy, in seeking to chase away loneliness with a bartender rather than dealing with his business?

Yet, when he spots Yuuri idling under the eaves, breathing into his hands to keep them warm in the early December cold, Victor knows that whatever this is- it makes him happy.

Yuuri knows and doesn’t know at the same time.

What Yuuri knows is this:

“Vitya” is Victor Nikiforov, mob boss. His boss had told him that after their first night, because he thought that Yuuri deserved to know what Victor was reluctant to say. “He’s a decent person... relatively decent, I mean,” Mr. Giacometti had said. “But if you ever feel like you need to run, tell me. He might be king here, but you don’t have to go along with him because you’re scared. He’s...” he searched for a word.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri had replied. “I... I don’t think he’s like that.”

“He’s a mob boss, and the one that controls this city from the shadows, Yuuri,” Christophe snapped, uncharacteristic for him.

He’s lonely. That’s all Yuuri registered, really, back then and even now still as he waits for Victor for the sixth time that month. Victor, for all that people speak cautiously of him, for all that Christophe and his coworkers warn him, is not the kind of person that makes Yuuri feel on edge. There’s a fragility in him whenever they meet, turbulent waves of the ocean in his eyes calming down to something peaceful.

Yuuri knows who Victor is, and that objectively he’s done several terrible things. You don’t get to the top of the criminal world without dirtying your hands, after all. But he also knows that Victor’s softness towards him is not a ruse, knows that whenever he expresses discomfort with something, Victor backtracks and avoids it. Victor doesn’t do anything to make Yuuri feel uncomfortable, or unsafe, and it doesn’t feel like an act at all. He’s voice is too warm for it, his demeanor too relaxed, his loneliness too clear for his behavior during their meetings to be anything but true.

What Yuuri doesn’t know is this:

Whether what they have is permanent, or if one day Victor will show up saying that it would be their last time together. Whether Victor himself will tell Yuuri who he is outside of their hotel room. What goes on in Victor’s life, when he isn’t around? Even if it’s a life of crime, Yuuri cares, and he... wishes to know. Know if Victor is safe, and happy, and what Victor regards him as.

Is it love? Is it friendship? Both words don’t fit; they waver on Yuuri’s tongue. What they have can’t be easily quantified as either, and it is a source of frustration for Yuuri and amusement for his roommate, Phichit. “We haven’t known each other long enough to be in love,” he murmurs to no one in particular.

The thought of loving Victor is terrifying. Enigmatic Victor that asks to be called Vitya, considerate Victor that treats Yuuri like an equal, tender Victor that embraces Yuuri whenever they meet. It’s all so sweet that Yuuri could drown in it, not bothering to reach for the surface because there is no need to run from the affection they share. But he doesn’t know what Victor thinks of him (Yuuri is confident, at least, that Victor is genuine in his actions, but-), doesn’t know what Victor thinks of them. Victor can end this relationship whenever he wants, except...

Yuuri gasps softly when he sees Victor in the distance, snow complementing his pale features and his crisp-cut suit. He is beautiful, and could break off what they have at any time.

Yet, he’s given Yuuri the power to do so as well.

(Victor is terrifying not because he is a mob boss. Not because he’s a criminal. He’s terrifying because for the first time Yuuri wants to reach out to someone and not let them go, anxiety be damned, because Victor always meets him halfway and Yuuri knows and wants and wants to know more about Victor, like he’s a dragon that has taken to hoarding everything it’s possible to know about Victor Nikiforov.)

I don’t love you. Yuuri muses as Victor waves at him, expression ecstatic. ... I think.

“How does next week, the Rue hotel sound?” Victor asks as he buttons his shirt back up, Yuuri’s nimble fingers in assistance.

“Tomorrow, on Saturday, and next week Monday?” Yuuri says. “You’re quite greedy, aren’t you, Vitya?” They do this after every meeting, confirming the next three, as Victor’s schedule is mutable and it’s not uncommon for Yuuri to have to fill in shifts at his other job on short notice. This arrangement is easier and safer than using Chris or someone as a courier — it’s a shame there are no portable phones to make everything easier.

Victor indulges himself and levels Yuuri a sultry look. “I’ve been told that before, but when it comes to you, I can’t help it.”

Yuuri’s instant blush is gratifying in a way that Victor can’t name. It makes Victor want to kis- it makes Victor reluctant to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow night then,” Yuuri says quietly, as if raising his voice too loudly could shatter the peace they have.

After shrugging on his coat and Yuuri tying his scarf around his neck, Victor leaves. He lingers in the hallway though, to watch Yuuri’s fond smile as the door closes, pink lips that remind Victor of a sunset.

Sometimes, the next meeting can’t come soon enough.

It’s only when Victor is halfway home that he realizes his mistake. Tonight, Yuri would demand answers about Yuuri- Victor had meant to tell Yuuri about his identity, tell him that Victor’s closest circle wanted to know, tell Yuuri that his name would be known to members of the mob, if he was okay with it.

If Yuuri had said no, not wanted to continue meeting Victor because of who he was- Victor clenches his fist. I would understand, he thinks to himself, Yuuri deserves so much more.

Victor has no illusions about himself. He may be dashing, charming, and influential, but he is a criminal. The police are constantly watching for him to slip (Victor bets that Police Chief Anzwei would do many things to have evidence to throw him in jail). Not to mention all the other groups that circle Victor like injured vultures; too afraid of him to do anything, but all too willing to tear him into shreds the moment he shows weakness. So while Victor is fond of Yuuri (adores him, would wrap him in his arms and all his influence to keep him happy) he has few compunctions of letting Yuuri go if he expresses it.

He is quiet as he enters his mansion. Letting go of Yuuri would hurt, but Victor never wants to bring him pain, intentionally or indirectly. If Yuuri was ever harmed because of Victor, that would hurt Victor so much more than any sort of rejection at this point in time. He thinks.

“Welcome back, old man,” Yuri’s voice echoes in Victor’s bedroom. He flips the lights on, and suppresses a wince at the sight of his young bodyguard leaning back one one of the couches, his feet on Victor’s coffee table. “Are you going to give us details now?”

Us, Yuri says, but there’s no one else in the room that Victor can detect. “I said later, not immediately after I get back,” he replies, keeping his tone even.

Yuri sits up straight to glare at him. “Don’t try to dodge this,” he snarls. “You’ve been disappearing off randomly for weeks for no reason, and you’ve been tighter-lipped than a traitor.”

Victor stares at him for one, two breaths before taking off his coat and starting to get ready to retire for the night. “Give me a minute,” he says.

For Yuri to be approaching him like this, intruding in Victor’s room, waiting to demand answers, it means that this confrontation has been long overdue.

Yuri had joined Victor’s clan when he was much, much younger. Ten? Eleven? Victor’s not sure — all he remembers is Yuri trying to pickpocket him in order to get money to buy medicine for his ailing grandfather, eyes green and sharp like broken liquor glasses. Now he is eighteen, and is far from a child pickpocket. Now, Yuri is his bodyguard, and specializes in carrying a plethora of knives and keeping Victor safe rather than pickpocketing.

Victor feels borderline parental towards Yuri, sometimes, what with having seen him grown up over the years. It’s the biggest reason, really, that he’s going to indulge him now. “I met someone,” Victor says. “Don’t tell anyone else.”

“Met who?” Yuri demands.

Someone new, someone that makes me feel like I can breathe easy. “You don’t know him,” Victor says instead. “He’s not a liability though. Only recently moved here, and we met through Chris. The Giacometti family is trustworthy.”

Yuri scrunches up his face in distaste. “You’re going off to fuck a whore?” he asks.

The rage that wells in Victor is vicious and sudden and he’s stalking towards Yuri without really thinking, looming over him and staring him down. “Do not call him that,” he hisses. “I’m going off for personal reasons, Yura, do not question them. And do not imply that-” Victor’s fingers twitch, wishing to grab Yuri by the collar, “- do not imply that I would risk my life going out just for sex. I’m not a fool.”

He takes a fortifying breath to calm himself before heading to the washroom, trying to calm the unutterable anger he has at the thought of going to meet Yuuri like he’s a prostitute. Yuuri does not give him sex, Victor does not give him money. Yuuri gives him a chance to be human, and there is nothing that can repay that- the thought of anyone thinking that what he has with Yuuri is anything as cheap as something that relies on money and sex makes Victor want to scream and throw someone into the wall.

Yuuri is so much more. Yuuri deserves better than to be thought of like that. Yuuri is bright and lovely and- Victor bites his tongue as he brushes his teeth, swearing at the pain.

He doesn’t love Yuuri. But he hates the thought of anyone thinking of Yuuri as someone less than who he actually is.

(He hates the thought that anyone would look at Yuuri and associate him with a cheap love, bought with money, when the intimacy that they share is something Victor would gladly pour his entire fortune for.)

(Victor doesn’t love him. He just cares deeply. That’s all.)

I’ll tell Yuuri the truth tomorrow, he thinks as he settles down to sleep. He deserves to know the truth.

The next day, Yuuri is not at the appointed place and time.

Victor waits there for a full three hours, switching between pacing anxiously at the door and lying on the bed, trying to imagine his presence in order to relax. It doesn’t work.

He leaves reluctantly, wondering if Yuuri was just... held up by his job, or some kind of obligation, and would just arrive extremely late. But when midnight strikes and his Prince charming doesn’t show, Victor shrugs his coat back on to go back.

His coat is expensive and warm, but all Victor feels inside is ice.

He’s not there Saturday, either.

Victor leaves the bouquet he had been planning on presenting to Yuuri on the bed. Just a small thing of red roses, because he had passed by a florist on the way and been struck with the urge to give something to Yuuri. To reaffirm their relationship, to soften his questions of where Yuuri had been.

But Yuuri isn’t there, and Victor leaves the roses on the bed after four hours of waiting, and bites the inside of his cheek every time he looks at Georgi when he gets back. Find Yuuri for me, he wants to order. Find him so I can ask him why. Where is he? Find him for me. Find him.

He holds his tongue, though, because Yuuri does not deserve to have his life interrupted like that. They’ve never spoken about meeting outside of their arrangements, and... and tracking down Yuuri’s home and demanding answers feels like a violation of trust. True, Yuuri had never said that they shouldn’t meet outside, but Victor knows that just because he’s worried and questioning (and freezing slowly inside, with every day that passes that he doesn’t see Yuuri) it’s not a good enough reason to bring the full force of his influence down to find him.

Victor walks into an empty hotel room for the third time, a gift tucked into his pocket, and closes the door.

He waits, fifteen minutes, before putting his face in his hands and thinking how the best way to track Yuuri down would be.

He waits another forty-five before standing up and leaving the room. He might slam the hotel door shut, unconsciously, but he doesn’t care. Everything in Victor’s body feels like ice has replaced his blood and is freezing his veins and arteries; the mid-December weather when he steps outside barely feels cold.

Christophe’s speakeasy is where he goes, intent on asking Chris where Yuuri was, whether Yuuri was okay. If Yuuri had decided to suddenly cut ties with Victor and leave the City. After all, Chris is Yuuri’s boss so surely he knows where he is? Chris will have answers.

But when Victor gets to the Relaxation House, there are no answers available for him because Chris isn’t there. It’s ten at night and and the bar is as crowded as usual, but the terrified bartender tells him that no, Christophe isn’t there, and she knows nothing about the other bartenders that work there.

Victor might have slammed the door on his way out, breathing heavily, his entire body shaking with the promise of violence because he cannot find Yuuri, he misses Yuuri and can’t find him and-

“Vitya?” a voice, behind him. Victor spins around to see Yuuri, dear sweet Yuuri in his modest coat and glasses and bare hands that made Victor buy gloves to give him tonight. Yuuri, who had been gone. “Victor,” Yuuri amends, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it! I’ve been really sick the past week and I couldn’t get a message to you-”

All he can register, really, is that Yuuri is here and Yuuri wasn’t ditching me on purpose and the way that Yuuri’s eyes are wide and clear with contrite apology. A genuine softness that has Victor reaching out to wrap Yuuri in his arms, public setting be damned. Yuuri squeaks a little in surprise at his apology being cut off, and Victor feels all the ice melting.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into Yuuri’s shoulder. “I missed you so much.” Don’t make me worry like that again, worry that you’ve left me. I can’t bear it, Yuuri.

Yuuri gasps a little, breath hot over Victor’s neck, and he reciprocates the hug, wrapping his arms around Victor’s waist and drawing him close. “I missed you too, Vitya,” Yuuri whispers, and oh, something finally clicks between the both of them.

Victor draws himself up, to cup Yuuri’s face in his hands, drinking in the sight of him desperately. “Are you better now?” There’s no point in doubting whether Yuuri’s illness was a lie or not, because Victor trusts him, even though he logically shouldn’t. Logic seems to fly out of the window when it comes to Yuuri, though.

The other man nods, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, I got a really bad cold the other day, and it lasted awhile... I got a fever too, and I couldn’t... I’m sorry for missing all the meetings. I-”

Looking at Yuuri now, Victor feels... feels like he can feel again. “You don’t have to apologize, Yuuri,” he says, smiling as though he hadn’t been mad with seven kinds of worry.

Yuuri’s gaze is steady, and undeniably warm. “I’m still sorry- that I’ve made you worry.”

The final pieces click, fit together perfectly just like the way that their lips fit together as Victor bends down to kiss him. It’s impulsive and he knows he might regret it because they’re standing in the middle of the street, anyone could see them, but there’s only one thought that consumes them as they kiss under the streetlight in front of the speakeasy.

Oh.

I love him.

Chapter Text

For a moment, Victor forgets about the world. Forgets that he’s a mob boss, that every action he makes has at least a dozen eyes watching him.

He forgets about everything, focusing in on this moment right now. Yuuri in his arms, warm and here. Yuuri’s arms around his waist, lips pressing against his. Like this, it’s too easy for Victor forget his circumstances, because this is something completely new to him, but has been building ever since that first meeting.

They break apart soon for breath, Yuuri’s face flushed red and his eyes brilliant. He stares up at Victor with so much delight that Victor thinks his heart might burst with it. “I- wow.” He’s breathless, and Victor is sure he’s the same.

Victor lifts a hand to Yuuri’s cheek, feeling how Yuuri leans into him, so trusting and sweet. “How did I not do that sooner?” Victor whispers with no small amount of wonder. He leans down, intent of another kiss, to relive that joy over and over again, but Yuuri’s face scrunches up.

He sneezes.

Any amusement Victor would normally have is replaced by the fact Yuuri is just recovering from a cold and fever that debilitated him for a full week. He uses his hold to tug him into the building of the Relaxation House right away. “Are you okay?” Victor asks, concern falling from his lips to Yuuri’s ears. “You haven’t been out too long, have you? I-”

Yuuri cuts him off with a smile full of mirth as he moves away to snag a napkin, blowing his nose. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assures Victor.

“Are you sure?” Yuuri nods. “That’s-” a comfort, Victor wants to say, but then he comes to himself again. Realizes, with resigned clarity, the eyes watching him. Watching them. He grabs Yuuri again immediately, hiding the younger man’s face in his chest, one hand around his waist, the other on the back of his head, looking around at those in sight. Across the street, four people that had been looking in their direction. Both people behind the counter, various staff and patrons around them. Yuuri stiffens in his arms, and Victor swears quietly, under his breath. “Can you come home with me tonight?” Victor asks, scanning for any people that might make action right away. He phrases the question as casually as possible, not wanting to spook Yuuri so soon after he’d just returned to him.

He feels Yuuri’s hands clench and unclench his jacket. “I was going to talk to someone about my hours and making up for the week I missed,” Yuuri replies tersely, his voice muffled by Victor’s shirt, “And then see if I could pick up a shift tonight.” Victor hears the unsaid question of ‘What’s wrong?’, knows that he’s already accidentally put Yuuri on guard.

Victor leans his chin on Yuuri’s head, still making sure that no one can get a good look at Yuuri’s face now. “Let me call a car around and take you to my home,” he says. “Please.” Victor’s heart clenches at the thought of Yuuri saying no — he’ll let him go if he does, but he wants Yuuri safe —

Yuuri is silent, his breathing even. Victor idly wonders if Yuuri is smelling his cologne or trying to calm down from possible panic. Maybe both? “Okay,” Yuuri agrees, Victor heart leaping at the single word. “It’s important, isn’t it. But you have to explain later.”

“Of course.” Somehow, Victor manages to shuffle them over to the cashier, and politely asks to use the phone. The woman at the counter knows better than to refuse him, and backs a prudent distance away as he dials. Yuuri remains hidden in his coat, and in other circumstances Victor would be elated at the closeness but- not like this. Not now, when he’s just likely painted a bright target on Yuuri’s head to the whole Underworld.

Georgi arrives within fifteen minutes, having most likely broken several traffic laws to get here. “I’ll pass on a message to Chris for you,” Victor says as they get in the backseat. “He’ll understand. Georgi, this is Yuuri.”

Georgi nods politely before flooring the gas. Yuuri screams in shock, grabbing Victor in order to prevent himself from hitting the car door as they make a sharp turn. “Sorry, Yuuri,” Victor yells over the screech of the wheels, “The sooner we’re there the better!”

By some miracle, they don’t run across any police on the way. He can only imagine that newspaper headline: Victor Nikiforov arrested for traffic violations! The police chief would be deeply unimpressed. He laughs a little at Yuuri’s expression, careening between fright at the turns and unease at the screech of the wheels, unwittingly clinging to Victor’s arms in desperation. Part of him feels bad about enjoying Yuuri’s terror, but another part — another part revels in Yuuri’s expressions, in how real his laughter is for once, bubbling out of his throat like champagne bubbles popping at the surface of a glass.

While the circumstances of these feelings are unpleasant, Victor wouldn’t trade this moment for the world.

By the time they finally arrive at the estate, Yuuri is wide-eyed and trembling like a leaf. “Thank you, Gosha.” Victor turns to Yuuri and ushers him out of the car. “I’m sorry about the speed,” Victor says, even if he really isn’t. “Have you not been in cars often?”

Yuuri shakes his head, lifting his head to stare at the estate. It’s fenced off; a sizable lawn surrounds it on all sides. The building itself is three stories high, of brick and mortar. Somewhat built in the Victorian style, but not quite. It’s not especially striking, as most of what make houses look nice also make them vulnerable, and Nikiforov isn’t a dangerously-whispered name because Victor prefers appearances over practicality.

He hopes Yuuri likes it, at least. “Come with me.” He holds out his hand without much thought, and the gesture doesn’t even occur to him until Yuuri looks down and a faint blush appears on his cheeks. “Oh, I-”

Yuuri takes his hand, and god, Victor wishes that the situation was different. He threads his fingers through Yuuri’s. Georgi watches them from the main doors, and that’s what spurs him to movement.

He focuses on the feeling of their entwined hands as they enter the building in order to lessen his nerves. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be bringing you here,” he murmurs, his men lining up in front of him, Mila and Yuri in line, Yuri’s eye noticeably twitching.

Yuuri says nothing, but Victor sees the apple of his throat bob, and he squeezes Yuuri’s hand for reassurance. This is the worst way to have the truth come out, Victor realizes, and for a full second, he is stricken. I’ve never told Yuuri that I-

“Welcome home, bastard,” Yuri grouses, his voice addressing Victor but gaze boring a hole into Yuuri next to him. His other men follow suit, all sizing up Yuuri. It makes Victor want to step in front of him, but they have lain next to each other for so many nights now. He knows that if he did step in front of Yuuri, Yuuri might take it as a slight, as Victor thinking of him as weak.

Yuuri is not weak, Victor knows. But whether or not he can stomach organized crime activities is something else entirely. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

“So what, exactly, is the matter?” Mila asks. “Georgi almost tore up the streets with how fast he got out of the driveway.” Her eyes flicker to Yuuri, but she says nothing.

Victor keeps his voice steady. “This is Yuuri, someone dear to me,” he begins. He catches the raised eyebrows, the curiousity. “He is staying here for the night for safety purposes. That’s all. I may have been hasty in calling Georgi to rush over, but all of you can stand down.”

Everyone relaxes except for Yuri, most of them even leaving the room. “Come with me, please,” Victor tugs Yuuri along towards his quarters, Yuri and Mila falling in step behind them. He can sense Yuuri’s nervous energy like this, as well as Yuri’s ire.

Yuri understands Victor’s behavior, he likes to think. At the same time though, he doesn’t.

His boss called the guy “someone dear to him”. Yuri can tell it’s true — he’s watched Victor’s back for so many years, been raised almost like a protege, that he can tell when he’s acting or not. Victor holds the other Yuuri’s hand like a lifeline, like letting go of him will cause him to drown in the depths of loneliness. Yuri’s no fool — he knows that Victor has been bored. He knows that Victor has been going off to see Yuuri, and that he’s happier for it.

He doesn’t understand why though. Why this man, among others that have thrown themselves at Victor’s feet. Yuri is eighteen, a child by most standards, but he has seen murder and prostitution and drug use throughout his short life. He’s seen people beg at Victor’s feet, kicked people out of the mansion that have tried to get into Victor’s bed. And then Victor meets this man and he’s willingly crawling into a hotel bed with him.

Yuuri looks like he hasn’t seen half of anything that Yuri has. He looks the type to get eaten alive by the underworld, and it strikes a sort of fury in Yuri that he doesn’t know how to classify — fury at this security breach that’s gotten past all of Victor’s defenses, fury at Victor for choosing a civilian to woo, fury at how obvious Victor is with his feelings for Yuuri.

The possible issues that could come out of their relationship are numerous; Yuuri is a weakness in that someone could use him to hurt Victor too easily. If he’d been part of the Underworld, at least Yuri would have comfort in knowing that the man would know how the game goes, how dangerous life is. Except no, he’s a civilian, making Yuri’s job of keeping Victor alive harder than it already is. And with the way that Victor holds himself around Yuuri — he holds his hand, stands in front of him protectively yet in a way that Yuuri is not completely hidden, like Yuuri has a strength that Victor has utmost confidence in — there’s no way for Yuri to point of all the cons of this relationship and succeed in getting Victor to break it off.

What makes Yuri the angriest is that against all odds, Victor Nikiforov is happy. Which wouldn’t be an issue if his gaining happiness didn’t come along with him gaining a giant weakness too.

Ugh.

Once the four of them are in Victor’s room and Yuri shuts the door, Victor lets go of Yuuri’s hand, gesturing to them. “This is Mila and Yuri; Mila is my left hand, Yuri is my bodyguard. Georgi, who you met earlier, primarily acts as big guns and my chauffeur.” He hesitates, and it’s somewhat a shocker for Yuri to realize that he’s nervous. “I... run a mafia gang.”

“You’re a mob boss,” Yuuri says, and Yuri kind of wants to smirk, because even if he’s a civilian, at least his head’s screwed on straight.

Victor squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m- I’m sorry that you had to find out about this, Yuuri,” and any satisfaction Yuri has about the other Yuuri immediately slides away, replaced with confusion because what the fuck, Victor looks like he’s ready to cry. “I meant to tell you, I swear- the timing was never-”

Yuuri looks at him, his expression soft, and Yuri exchanges a Look with Mila as Yuuri gently takes Victor’s hand in his left, running his thumb over his knuckles in an undoubtedly comforting gesture. He puts his back to them in order to face Victor (which... makes him and Mila share another Look) and uses his right hand to touch Victor’s cheek.

(Has anyone ever touched Victor like that? Yuri doesn’t remember if there were, and he’s been around him for five years.)

“Don’t worry- I know. Who you are and what you do. And I understand why you brought me here.” Yuri feels a little uncomfortable, honestly, because the tone that Yuuri is using is so soft it makes him feel like he’s intruding on something. And he’s walked in on prostitutes doing their business before and barely batted an eyelash, but this is something else entirely. “I’m not upset.”

“You’re not?”

“I’d be a lot more upset if I didn’t already know beforehand, Vitya.” Jesus fuck, give a man some warning before you call his boss a term of endearment like that, can’t you? (‘Vitya?!’ Yuri mouths to Mila and she mouths the same thing, meaning that he isn’t hallucinating, holy crap.)

“You knew?” Victor’s voice stutters, and he looks at Yuuri with the confusion that Mila and Yuri have right now. “How- How long?”

“After our first meeting,” Yuuri answers. “Christophe told me. He said that I deserve to know what I was getting into by meeting with you, Vitya.”

“Should we leave?” Yuri hisses to Mila.

She makes several hand-signs that read yes let’s get out of here stat and they start slinking back to the door, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. It’s not fast enough, though.

Victor looks at Yuuri like he hung the moon and stars from the sky. “You knew this whole time, and you chose to meet me anyways?”

“Yes.”

That’s the last thing Yuri and Mila hear because then the lovebirds are hugging and they both give up any sense of propriety and rush for the door, noise be damned. Victor barely notices their exit, too wrapped up in Yuuri.

“Did that just happen?” Mila asks, eyes wide.

Yuri pinches himself. It hurts. “Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“Oh my god, Victor’s in love.”

“Thought I’d never see the day,” Yuri mutters, but there’s not a bit of resentment in it.

“Yuuri!” Phichit tackles into him when he enters the apartment the next morning, “I was so worried!”

“Hi Phichit,” Yuuri returns the hug, grateful to be home. “You got my call though?”

His roommate huffs, squeezing Yuuri’s waist for a moment before letting go. “Well yeah, but you calling at almost midnight from some strange guy’s place had me worried, you know. Even if you said you were safe- you know how this place is.”

Phichit scans Yuuri for a moment. “Same clothes as yesterday, huh? I know you weren’t planning on an overnight stay wherever you went, so did you end up-”

“Phichit!” Yuuri squawks, effectively cutting him off. “No, nothing like that. We just... he decided it would be safer if I spent the rest of the night at his place.” Seeing Phichit’s eyebrows starting to arch, Yuuri hastily adds, “He was being serious, Phichit. It was for actual safety reasons.”

“Actual safety reasons, you say.” Phichit loses all of his cheer and Yuuri sighs, walking past him to his bedroom. Phichit trails after him. “Are you going to tell me who you’ve been meeting now?” he asks.

“I-” Yuuri looks at him helplessly, and starts to change into some more comfortable clothes, trying to stall for time.

He understands, somewhat, Victor’s indecision on telling him the truth about his identity, because right now Yuuri’s having an issue just telling his best friend. He trusts Phichit with his life — they’re been through thick and thin together, hitchhiked from Los Angeles to the City and kept each other alive the whole way. He wants to tell Phichit, but he knows that his friend could have a... less than enthusiastic response to him dating the most dangerous man in town.

“I know that look,” Phichit cuts into his thoughts with a soft tone. “You’re thinking too hard about this, Yuuri. I won’t pry if it’s upsetting you, but...”

“It’s not that!” Yuuri exclaims, shirt only halfway on. “I...” he looks at the wall in frustration. “I want to tell you, but I don’t know where to begin. And I’m afraid you might... freak out.”

Phichit looks at him with curiosity writ on his features, and he sighs, understanding. “Have you eaten breakfast?” he asks. “I have some leftover eggs; I didn’t know when you’d be coming home.”

“I have.” He’d eaten with Victor and his inner circle before leaving, and that had been... interesting, to say the least.

“I’ll wait for you at the table, then.” Their apartment is modest, two small bedrooms and an equally small kitchen. Phichit’s wage working at the local newspaper covers the rent, and Yuuri’s two jobs take care of utility bills and groceries. Together, they make enough to live quite well for two young men new to the City.

When Yuuri exits his room, swimming in a large comfortable sweater and thick pants, Phichit looks up at him from his notepad, probably working on an article. “Just start from the beginning, or wherever you find easiest,” he says. Sometimes, Yuuri wonders how he ever got such a good friend like Phichit.

“Do you know the name Victor Nikiforov?” Yuuri asks, fetching himself a mug and some tea. Earl grey, the only one you could really get here in America.

He turns around when he hears something dropping. It’s Phichit’s pen, which is now on the floor much like his friend's jaw is. “The man you’ve been meeting is Victor Nikiforov?!” Phichit hisses.

It... takes a while, after that, to calm Phichit down that no, Yuuri isn’t having sex with one of the most dangerous men in the City for money, no Victor is not threatening or blackmailing Yuuri, yes he went to Victor’s estate last night of his own volition, yes he’s known Victor’s identity ever since almost the beginning. But Phichit eventually does calm down, thankfully.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, having moved on from shock back to worry. “He was afraid for your safety because he kissed you in public, you said. A lot of people are watching him, waiting to fall. They might use you against him, if they find out about what you have.”

“We don’t have anything,” Yuuri says without a second’s hesitation. “And yes, that’s what he told me. Didn’t want me leaving because he was afraid someone would kidnap me on the way home. I agreed because he was... he was scared, I think.”

Phichit almost drops his pen again. “How can you say that and also say that there’s nothing between you two!?” he cries. “If there really is nothing, then you’d cut off ties for your own safety! I hate to say this, but he’s right, there is a very real threat to you just from being around him. But you’re choosing to stay by his side anyway, and he’s choosing to keep you safe anyway. The Victor Nikiforov I’ve heard about would have cut his losses right away.

“But no, you’re saying that he panicked last night because he was afraid that you might be targeted, and then brought you to his house, had you stay the night, and insisted that you eat breakfast with him and his inner circle.” Phichit leaned back on a chair with a sigh. “And you say that there’s nothing between you two?”

Yuuri can’t help the blush that spreads across his cheeks. “He also introduced me to everyone is his Family?” he deflects.

Phichit just stares at him, unimpressed.

Yuuri sighs. “I know what you mean, Phichit,” and he focuses on his tea instead, the way that leaves float on top of the water. They almost look like a star. “It’s just... we’ve never really talked about it? What we are?”

“You’re in love is what,” Phichit says. “Both of you, clearly. I mean, you’ve been coming home late because of meeting him, yeah, but you look so damn happy whenever you do. And somehow, I’ve barely heard a peep of your anxiety lately.” His expression shifts into something teasing, “Was it cured by love?”

“What? No.” Yuuri racks his brain for an answer. “I still... worry about things, like whether or not I’ve messed up during a dance at the Theatre, or maybe served someone the wrong drink at the speakeasy. I still worry about messing things up even though everyone around me is confident that I didn’t. But...” He casts his mind back to quiet nights in hotel rooms, telling Victor his past, his worries, his dreams, and listening to Victor’s in kind, holding each other and playing with Victor’s hair. “We’ve talked. A lot. The talks are what helped, not because of love.” Love is never a cure-all.

“What do you two talk about, usually?” Phichit presses.

Yuuri purses his lips. “Everything and nothing.” He returns to his tea, quietly sipping before it cools down completely.

A testament to their long friendship is that Phichit knows that Yuuri won’t say anything more about the topic, and he doesn’t inquire more about their talks. Yuuri is grateful that he doesn’t, because what they talk about is... personal, and he selfishly doesn’t want to share that with anyone else.

Phichit taps his pen against his notepad. “... I just hope that you’ll never regret this, Yuuri,” he settles on saying. “I know that he makes you happy, so I’ll support you — but please, be careful.” A pause. “May I ask, at least, how he makes you feel?”

He’s probably hoping to hear words like safe or loved. Neither of them are quite accurate.

A small smile forms on Yuuri’s lips as he finishes the last of his tea. “He makes me feel less lonely.”

All Phichit gives him in reply is a stunned expression. “Be safe on your way to work?” he offers the words like a peace treaty.

Yuuri takes the olive branch. “I’m just teaching some of the trainees at the Theatre. It’s just a ten-minute walk, I should be fine.”

“I’m not the one that got kissed in public by Victor Nikiforov last night.”

He smiles. “I’ll be fine, Phichit.”

Here are three truths.

One: Victor is in his mansion right now, sitting at his working table.

Two: Yuuri left wearing his glasses that morning.

Three: Victor is holding Yuuri’s glasses right now.

Mila shifts uneasily to his side, and Yuri stares so hard at the glasses that they might combust. “Security breach, knew it the moment I saw him,” the boy mutters.

Victor swallows the beginnings of his rage down, placing the glasses on the table so that he doesn’t accidentally grip them too hard and break them. “Explain,” he snaps, voice low, folding his hands together and crossing his legs.

It is Georgi who steps forward, an opened envelope in hand. “Anatoly got the mail today, Boss. He observed this as a strange package and checked it. It’s addressed to you.” He slides the envelope over the wood, moving back right after.

Victor picks it up with a white-knuckled grip, the paper crumpling before he forcibly makes his hands relax. There’s no return address, and there’s only his name. Hand-delivered, then. The envelope itself looks to be an ordinary one you can get at any post office.

The paper inside is unremarkable except for the words on it, a taunting typewriter’s ink. He scans the contents once, twice, thrice, becoming increasingly aware of his subordinates’ increasing worry.

If you’re on time, you’ll be able to meet the owner of these glasses at 7 tonight. Warehouse district four. Good luck guessing which one!

Being late would be bad manners. Sending a representative would be even worse manners.

“What time is it?” Victor snaps, not bothering to check his watch, too busy searing the words in his memory.

“Five-fifty, sir.”

Victor curses the lateness of the post delivering to their neighborhood, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. Standing up, he barks his orders. “Whoever delivered this message has Yu-” he bites the inside of his mouth by accident. “Fuck!”

“Are you serious-” Yuri starts.

Victor turns on him, “I know it’s a trap,” he snarls. “But who they have is important to me.”

Yuri, to his credit, doesn’t balk. “So you’re just going to walk in just like that?” he fires back, “What it it’s a lie- someone could have easily stolen that guy’s glasses-”

“I don’t want to take any risks.” Victor turns to the rest of the room. “I need fifteen men to go to the fourth warehouse district with me. Mila, Georgi, Yuri- you’ll be with me. Yuuri is there, somewhere.”

“There’s fifty-one warehouses in that district,” someone mutters.

Victor jabs a finger. “Who said that?” The speaker winces, but Victor just crooks his finger. “Since you seem to know the place so well, you’re coming too, Vlad.” Vlad nods his acquiescence. “Vlad, Mila, Georgi, Yuri- pick out ten more and let’s go. We have fifty-one warehouses to search, so be quick!”

It’s easy to bark out orders like this, to fall into the routine of getting weapons and telling people to find out who dropped off the envelope, send someone to Yuuri’s apartment to see if they can ask his roommate everything, check Yuuri’s workplace to see if he’s safe, whether the message is a lie. But Victor doesn’t sit back on the hope that Yuuri might be safe, because he can’t — he can’t take that risk.

He runs on autopilot, trying not to think too hard about the implications of Yuuri being taken and then this message being delivered. “I love you, Yuuri,” he says when there’s no one around to hear, waiting in the car for the rest to get going. “I’m sorry I brought this upon you.”

You don’t deserve this. I never wished to harm you.

Yuuri has woken up to many unpleasant things before. A list of them (not comprehensive) would go along the lines of: Phichit screaming because his hamsters had escaped his hands and were skittering around the apartment, his dinner burning because he'd dozed off while waiting for it, (every time that he's woken up in a hotel room, Victor a missing presence that he aches for), the news that he and Phichit were getting evicted from their last place of residence.

Waking up due to a bucket of water being thrown in his face is new, he thinks groggily, but it definitely makes the list. He remains still as water drips from his face and his hair, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Yuuri shivers a little.

“Throw another,” a curt voice orders, and then, “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

Someone grabs the back of Yuuri’s head, making him hiss at the pain as he’s yanked upwards. He’s bound to a wooden chair by ropes and handcuffs, with no leeway for movement except his neck. More water hits his face, and he registers his lack of glasses as he blinks awake, vision blurry.

There are several men in the desolate room he’s in, dimly lit by a few lightbulbs hanging up from  the ceiling. Most of them are impassive except for a single brown-haired man, who looks bizarrely cheerful. His eyes seem to be closed, but Yuuri can feel an analytical gaze aimed at him. “It’s good that you’re awake,” the closed-eyes man says. “How are you feeling? Nothing hurts, I hope.”

Yuuri honestly just feels confused. It’s obvious that he’s been kidnapped, but the demeanor of the man that seems to be the leader is strange. “Where am I?” he croaks.

“I see that you’re fine enough to be asking important questions. Good.” The man opens his eyes, revealing blue in one and brown in the other. “Seung-gil, where is the bait?” he addresses a stoic-looking man with dark hair and eyes.

“In the next room over,” Seung-gil says. “They can be brought in anytime.” He looks at Yuuri with something that might be pity. “Yuuri Katsuki. 23. Dancer for the Theatre and bartender for the Giacometti family. Do you have experience in fighting?”

The question bewilders Yuuri. “No?” his voice quavers, and he can feel that as his confusion fades, anxiety starts to creep in with black edging his vision. “I- What-”

The man with strange eyes clicks his tongue. “Of course you don’t,” he says, “But you can improvise, can’t you?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, the ropes digging in uncomfortably as he inhales. “Why am I here? Who are you people?”

Strange-eyes smiles. “You’re here to help me set up a gift, Yuuri Katsuki.” The other men in the room shift uneasily as he starts walking around. “As for who I am, that’s not very important.” He speaks with his hands behind his back, pivoting on his heel every few words. His clothes are simple, and he looks like a normal person, by all rights. Not one that would talk so enigmatically. “Someone untie him.”

They don’t untie him. Rather, Seung-gil flicks out a switchblade and cuts through the ropes. Another man hands Yuuri a towel, which he holds, bewildered, until Seung-gil mimes wiping his face. It’s easier to breathe now that Yuuri’s not tied up, but he doesn’t contemplate running — mostly because he’s outnumbered, but also because he has no idea where to run.

Victor, Yuuri’s mind flashes to Victor with the ugliest realization. “I’m here because of Victor, aren’t I?” he asks, clutching the towel to ground himself in some sort of sensation. “You’re his enemies. You- you want to use me against him.”

“Nice guess!” Strange-eyes says “But no. Not really.”

Yuuri is lunging for the man without a second’s thought, rage overtaking his anxiety in an overwhelming moment. But someone restrains him behind, strangely gently. Strong enough to keep him in place, but not enough to cause too much pain. “You scum,” Yuuri spits, straining at his bonds, “You can’t compete with Victor, so you do things like this-?”

He knows that Victor has done terrible things, that Victor is the man that has the City under his thumb. Yuuri knows, but he cares about him anyway, cares in a terrifyingly deep manner that the thought of someone using him against Victor makes him more upset than scared. Even if... if Victor won’t be able to find him. Yuuri doesn’t want to be part of any reason that Victor ends up being hurt. The bond that they have is one that Yuuri treasures, and the thought that someone would use it as a weapon-

“Calm down,” Strange-eyes has the gall to laugh. “I’m not involved in that scene.”

“Hyungnim,” someone interrupts. “We have about two minutes left if we want to be on time”

“What a shame.” Blue and brown meet Yuuri’s glare, and the man’s lips quirk into a smirk. “Yuuri Katsuki, I have three traitors about to be brought into this room. They’ve been told that they will have to fight each other and you for their life. Only one person gets to walk out of the place alive! Better than the usual punishment, I say.” The usual one means immediate death, clearly. “But they’re unarmed, and quite frankly, they’re pathetic.”

Three men, trying to kill me. A chill travels up Yuuri’s spine, but he keeps his glare. “So what? You want me to dispose of your traitors for you?” he snaps. “I don’t-”

“Of course you don’t understand,” Strange-eyes says dismissively. “But if I tell you that no one will stop you from leaving if you kill them, will you understand?”

Nothing adds up about this situation, and Yuuri clutches his confusion and anger in desperation to try to keep anxiety at bay, because having a panic attack right now would be the absolute worst timing in the history of panic attacks. “I don’t see the point of this.”

Strange-eyes smiles. “We’re leaving,” he addresses the rest of the people. “Have the bait brought in.” He turns back to Yuuri, eyes closed once more. “You don’t need to see the point. You just need to live, don’t you? Survive and maybe you’ll be able to see Nikiforov again soon.”

Yuuri takes note of the door that the men leave through, but he can’t do anything with the information, as immediately, three other men are shoved into his room, all in various states of injury. The door slams shut behind them. “Play nice, children! Only one can leave~” Strange-eyes’ voice calls.

“Can’t we all just work together to leave?” Yuuri asks half-hopefully, holding up his hands in a pleading manner.

They exchange glances, a tremor set in their limbs. “He’ll kill us otherwise,” one of them whispers, dyed-blond hair matted with blood.

“I’m sorry,” another says. The third nods as all three rush Yuuri.

Victor, Yuuri clings to the memory of him, of his laughter and the softness in his eyes whenever they laid next to each other, of the kiss they had shared under the snow. He clings to it to keep himself together, even as he picks up the chair he had woken up in and swings it, desperately.

He squeezes his eyes shut, clamps his emotions shut, and lashes out, because he needs to survive this.

I am not someone you can use to hurt the people I love. I’m not weak.

“Sir! Some people just walked out of warehouse thirty-seven!” someone yells, loud enough for Victor to hear in the bowels of warehouse fifteen.

He checks his watch. It’s seven precisely. “Intercept them!” he roars, bolting out of the building.

The evening greets him in time to see his people engage with ten men, their features hidden by hoods and masks and a peculiar lightness to their movement. One in the back snarls something foreign that Victor can’t make out, and they all rock back on their heels and run at the same time, fleeing into the shadows. Victor’s men give chase, but there’s only yells of confusion as his men give pursuit.

Victor ignores the chase, confident that his people will be able to catch at least one person. “Mila, Georgi, Yura! Warehouse thirty-seven!”

They end up running next to him, Yuri turning the knob and kicking the door in. This warehouse is different than the rest, it seems in that there are multiple small rooms in it. Yuri leads the group, his lithe frame and quick hands making him an ideal vanguard, for getting into places and taking people by surprise.

Victor himself favours guns for efficiency, but can hold himself in hand-to-hand. Georgi relies on his muscles and wicked daggers in close quarters, but uses big guns whenever he can; he usually is in the rear. Mila herself uses brass knuckles and copper-plated boots to take out anyone that would underestimate her.

As they get deeper into the building, Victor’s ears starts picking up the sounds of a fight, of at least three men yelling.

One of them sounds like Yuuri.

He wants to call out, to tell Yuuri that he’s here, but he holds his tongue just in case. By the time they reach the final door where the sounds are loudest though, Victor knows that one of them is Yuuri.

“Alive or dead?” Mila asks, ever practical.

“Dead,” Victor snarls, “Leave one alive if you can.” And with that, he turns the knob and rushes in.

His blood boils immediately, taking in the one man on the ground and three tangled in a fight to the left. Yuuri is in the middle of it, his gentle face twisted into something that promises violence, one eye ringed with bruises, blood on his clothes.

The other two men barely register to Victor as he takes a shot at one and little Yura peels off to jump on the other, knife in his hands finding its way into the person’s neck. Both fall at the same time and then it’s just Yuuri standing there, panting heavily.

“Yuri?” he asks, squinting, and it occurs to Victor that he forgot to take Yuuri’s glasses with him. “What are you-?” he sways, adrenaline no doubt leaving his body, and Yuri catches him with a panicked expression Victor would have called adorable under any other circumstance.

“Mila, check the bodies. Georgi, tell the rest to call off their search and get over here.” Victor orders before rushing over. “Yuuri!”

“Vitya?” he rasps, reaching in his direction. Yuri wordlessly transfers Yuuri over to him, stepping away to yanking his knife out of his victim’s neck.

Touching Yuuri again feels like lights turning on again after a blackout, like being lost and finally finding a way out. “Yuuri, it’s me,” Victor murmurs, folding Yuuri into his arms. “Yuuri, I’m so sorry, they were after me, weren’t they?”

“We have to leave, Vitya,” Yuuri says, voice tinged with urgency even in his apparent exhaustion. “The one with strange eyes- he said I was here to help him with a gift.”

“A gift?” is all Victor has the chance to ask, because then there are footsteps in the doorway that he knows do not belong to any of his men.

"...... What happened here?" a monotonous voice drags through the air like a dull blade.

Victor recognizes that voice and its lack of inflection and the owner's lack of emotion. He turns around slowly, and stares in horror with the rest of his family.

Police Chief Anzwei Naiyin stands in the doorway, a cup of coffee in one hand and an utterly blank expression on their face as they survey the room. Their eyes linger on the three unmoving bodies and Victor's presence.

(The first thing Yuuri notices, beaten as he is, is that the police chief has strange eyes like the man who had started this in the first place.)

Yuri articulates everyone's feelings the best. "Oh, fuck."

Chapter Text

Contrary to popular belief, Victor does not hate the police. Even if their job is enforce the law and thus put people like Victor in jail, they’re quite easy to bribe. And really, they’re just doing their job.

Just because he doesn’t hate them doesn’t mean he doesn’t dislike them though. He’d never go out of his way to deal with one, is all. Most of his family doesn’t understand this viewpoint — Mila is the closest, but otherwise they hold a burning distaste for the police, as the rest of organized crime tends to.

Anzwei Naiyin is actually the most tolerable person Victor has ever had to deal with in the police force. Dedicated to their job, but logical and unbiased. Emotionless, and thus never holding an irrational hatred for Victor or any other member of organized crime. In short, Victor doesn’t hate Naiyin, and vice versa, though part of it is possibly because Naiyin literally cannot feel hate, but...

Right now, Victor does hate them. Or well, their timing. “Impeccable timing,” he comments, eyes trained on Anzwei. He cradles Yuuri closer.

“I like being on time,” they say. “So, what happened here, Nikiforov?”

He looks at Yuri and Mila; he knows exactly how bad his situation is looking right now. There’s banging in the distance, a door being flung open, and for a moment Victor hopes that Georgi and the rest would be able to distract the police chief long enough to get away.

Anzwei stares at the bodies on the ground, a black and silver pressure on everyone. “I should very much like it if you didn’t try to attack me,” they say, sidestepping just in time for Georgi’s fist to miss. “I’m not on shift right now, so I have no authority, so I really don’t see what your problem is.”

“You’re police,” Yuri spits, fingertips on his knives, “Of course there’s a goddamn problem.” And the tension in the room ratchets up to an unbearable degree. Anzwei is the police chief — while Victor could have them killed, their disappearance would be noticed very fast, and some of the more overenthusiastic police types could take up Anzwei’s mantle and try to purge the City of crime via violent methods. So he really would rather not kill them, but at the same time it’s starting to look like that’s the only option.

Georgi and his men balk on the other side of the door, watching the police chief, who simply stands there, drinking from their coffee cup. Something tugs at Victor’s sleeve — Yuuri, his eyes fluttering weakly. “Vitya,” he croaks, “His eyes.”

“Not a man,” Anzwei says reflexively.

Victor ignores them, used to this. “Yeah, weird eyes, I know.” He barks for someone to get Yuuri water, praying that whatever happened to Yuuri hasn’t sent him into delirium from either drugs or torture.

“No,” Yuuri struggles to sit on his own, Victor still keeping his arms braced on his back to support him. “The man that brought me here had strange eyes too,” he explains. “They were blue and brown.”

“Oh?” Anzwei brings their attention to Yuuri, and the corner of their mouth turning up in mockery of a smile for a moment.

Victor’s thought process grinds to a halt as Yuuri forges on. “He said I was here to help him prepare a gift.”

Anzwei’s head turns to Victor, a sort of mechanical-looking swivel, their ponytail sliding off their shoulder with the movement. “A gift indeed.”

The first time Victor met Anzwei, his hair was long and theirs was short.

“You’re a monster,” the man on the ground spat at Victor’s feet, defiant even with a gun inches away from his forehead. “I have a family-”

Victor pulls the trigger, and the traitor’s brains became intimately familiar with the concrete, his voice falling silent and his skull cracking against the ground in a manner he no longer thinks sickening. He remains cool even as he toes the corpse to roll him over, checking for vital signs. “Good job, Vitya,” Yakov says gruffly. “You don’t even flinch anymore. Let’s go, we have other places to be.”

He follows after Yakov obediently as they leave the basement, signalling the cleaners to get to work with the body. No words pass between them even as they get in a car and the driver heads out towards the city center.

“New authority has come to town,” Yakov begins abruptly, “I got a tip-off that the police chief is being replaced. It was out of our hands.”

“So we’re meeting them to bribe them like we did the old one?” it’s easy to figure out.

A heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, yes. And if negotiations don’t go well, we’ll have them... replaced.” Yakov looks at Victor from under the brim of his hat, and his frown becomes more prominent. “You’re thinking about something. Out with it, boy.”

Victor is twenty, the next in line for boss once Yakov passes, but Yakov never fails to make him feel like a chastised child on occasion. “Are we monsters, Yakov?” he blurts, the dying words of the traitor earlier echoing in his mind.

“You foolish boy.” The older man shakes his head. “We’re not monsters, we’re human. Don’t let the words of a dead man haunt you, or you won’t last long.”

Victor winces at that, because Yakov has a point, but still— “What would a monster be, then?”

Yakov peers at him, letting the noise of the car engine fill the air between them for a moment. “A monster is something that doesn’t care about its actions.” Victor is filled with slight surprise at actually getting an answer. “A real monster, Vitya, would not care about its actions or the repercussions of its actions. Don’t forget that.”

“We’re here, Boss,” the driver cuts in before Victor can say anything, and Yakov grunts in acknowledgement as he and Victor get out of the car, the back entrance of the police station in front of them. Yakov takes out a key and gains entrance easily.

The central police station is in a frenzy, papers flying and harried workers running everywhere as they organize things under the new management. People avert their eyes when they see Yakov and Victor, and no one dares to try to stop them as they head for the chief’s office. The door is slightly ajar, but Yakov stops just outside it for a moment. “Do you remember the last time we came here?” he asks Victor.

“Yes, of course,” Victor answers. The last time they had done this was only three years ago, after all.

Yakov grunts and steps to the side. “I’ll be waiting right here,” he says, the words sounding more like an order than reassurance of any sort.

Oh. Victor swallows. “You want me to-”

“Yes.” And with that Yakov opens the door and unceremoniously shoves Victor inside.

His first impression of the new chief is that he’s young. He sits in a chair behind the desk like it’s too big for him — the previous one had been a much fatter man, and his chair sized to accommodate such. His second impression as the chief looks up at him from signing papers is He has weird eyes. Black in the right, a strange silver in the left, it’s almost jarring to look at. “Who are you?” The voice is flat, bored-sounding, and dreadfully at odds with his delicate appearance.

“I’m a representative of certain special interests in the City,” Victor replies, tilting his head for a cheery disarming smile. “And you are the new police chief, Mister-?”

“Not a mister,” he- she(?) says immediately. If Victor squints, it’s hard to tell, honestly. “I know what you’re thinking. Not a woman either.” It’s hard to decipher anything from their voice as well, as it’s neither high nor low and there’s not a single change in pitch or inflection at all.

“I- ah,” he winces, mentally berating himself for being caught off-guard like this. “Well, that doesn’t matter-”

“My name is Anzwei Naiyin, and you’re from one of the many organized crime groups that exist in the City.” Naiyin doesn’t give him a chance to speak, setting down the pen they’d been signing with, folding their hands together, looking Victor dead in the eye. “You’re here to bribe me like you did my predecessor.”

“... Yes.” This is not how the last negotiation had went. Victor mentally winces, and gauges Naiyin.

They’re blank. Relaxed rather than wary, mouth in a flat line, hands folded, posture straight and entire body still. It’s a little like... looking at a marble statue, Victor realizes, except their hair is black and their shirt a dreadful yellow color. He can’t read any sort of emotion from them.

Naiyin stares back, obviously trying to get a read on Victor as well. “Leave this place,” they say suddenly, leaning back in the oversized chair. “There is no logical reason for me to take your money.”

Victor opens his mouth to persuade them, but they continue speaking. “I will not arrest you for trying to bribe a member of the police force as the office is still undergoing severe re-organizing efforts.” Every word is flat. Flat like their expression, like the papers scattered around them. “As you are trying to bribe me in order to turn a blind eye to your activities, it is best advised that you refrain, as giving me money will not hold me back from upholding the law.”

“We can give things other than money,” Victor counters.

“And I have no need for any of it.” When they speak, their body remains still and only their mouth moves. It’s a little horrifying to watch. “I intend to live life decently, and remain on the right side of the law. Taking bribes would be against that.”

They’ve gone off-script completely now, and Victor is at a loss on what to say. He flounders a little, considers going back outside to tell Yakov that negotiations failed, but — there’s something... strange about those words. “What do you mean by that?” Victor asks quietly, trying to fight the urge to look away from Naiyin and their uncanny manner of speech and uncanny eyes.

Naiyin stares at him long and hard. “I don’t see the harm in explaining,” they muse. And then they smile.

Victor fights the urge to balk, because that is not how smiles work. Their lips are spread to show too much teeth, and they lean forward just the slightest, cheeks dimpling too much. It’s all teeth and sharp edges, like smiling is an awkward, unnatural action for them.

Their eyes, now that Victor looks more closely, aren’t flat and bored-looking. They’re dead.

Victor was twenty when he met an actual monster. Now, his hair is short and theirs is long, but their feelings are still the same.

“What do you mean!?” Victor roars, Anzwei’s words registering to his ears finally. “This was a plot to-”

“Nikiforov, please.” The police chief pulls away from the door to approach them, not batting an eyelash when Yurio gets in their way, knives in hand and looking ready to kill. “I’m not going to do anything,” they say. “Logically speaking, if you are suspicious of me due to possible associations with the instigator of this incident, you should leave me unharmed or I may not be forthcoming with information.”

“Stand down, Yura.” Victor grit his teeth as Yuri sidesteps, keeping his eyes on Anzwei as they come closer. They crouch in front of Yuuri, and Victor can only be glad that they haven’t tried smiling yet. “What do you know?”

“Did you get his name?” they ignore him, zeroing in on Yuuri. “Did he had light brown hair?”

Yuuri purses his lips. “Someone called him... it ended with -nim. And yes.”

Anzwei nods. “Hyungnim probably. A form of respectful address from where he’s from. Did you get anyone’s names?”

“He called one man Seung-gil.”

Another nod, and Anzwei gets to their feet, going over to one of the bodies on the ground instead, the one Yuri had knifed. “Seung-gil Lee, I’m guessing. The one who set this up in the first is a... friend of mine.”

“You have friends?” Victor can’t help the words that slip out of his mouth.

That gets them to pause, cocking their head to the side. “I don’t,” they amend. “But Yonghwa calls me his friend anyways. Aha.” They turn the body so it’s facing up, and yank down the collar. “It was Yonghwa.”

Mila comes over and looks down at the corpse. “Is that a fan?” she asks. Victor frowns and reaches for the closest body, the one that he had shot himself. Yuuri flinches at the sightless eyes, turning away and fixing his gaze to the ground instead while Victor pulls down the man’s shirt-collar.

At the base of his neck, on his right side, is a tattooed folding fan, spread wide. It’s small, only the size of a quarter. “I don’t know any groups that have tattooed fans,” he murmurs.

“Yonghwa would be very bad at his job if you did,” Anzwei says. They stand up again, and fix Victor a look. “He meant for you to be my gift, I suppose. Kidnap your...” Anzwei’s lips quirk downwards approximately ten degrees, which is their version of a frown. “Your... lover?” Yuuri twitches at the word, but says nothing in protest. “... Someone that he thought that would be good to lure you in and set up a situation which I would walk on the scene with ample evidence to arrest you.”

Arrest. Victor’s heart sinks, and he’s filled with an urge to damn the consequences- kill Anzwei and take Yuuri and run. He’s been in prison before, and it was certainly not a pleasant experience. If word got out that he was in prison, people would take it as a signal of his weakness; to kill him behind bars, or start testing the strength of his clan. But it’s just not that.

Prison is not kind to men like Victor, but it would be close to hell for a man like Yuuri. He squares his shoulders and looks directly at Anzwei, remaining firm no matter how uncanny the monster is. “You can’t arrest Yu-”

“I wasn’t planning on arresting anyone,” Anzwei interrupts.

Behind their back, Mila and Yuri and the rest of Victor’s people exchange Looks that are dubious, confused, and most likely questioning the validity of the police chief’s words, which is very much how Victor himself is feeling right now. “... You’re not?”

They shrug. “For one, I’m not on shift. For two, this was a set-up. For three, I see no logical reason to arrest you, as doing so would increase crime by approximately thirty percent due to criminal groups scrambling to undermine your power.”

“What the fuck,” Yuri says, unwittingly expressing the feelings of everyone in the room. “Are you for real?”

“Well, I’m certainly not imagined.”

“You-”

“Yura, everyone, let’s go,” Victor orders. He’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Yuri bites his words down, giving Anzwei a deeply suspicious look. They all obey though, filtering out of the warehouse, a few men picking up the bodies for examination. “Yuuri, are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle. “Do you want to come back to my place, or your home?”

“I-” Yuuri flinches a little, and it makes a part of Victor die a swift and sudden death. “I’d like to go home,” he whispers.

Victor reaches for him slowly, offering his hand for Yuuri to take. Yuuri hesitates for a moment before allowing Victor to pull him up, and he moves so that Victor is between him and Anzwei, who is regarding Victor in a way that might be puzzled on another person. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?” they ask, following Victor out of the warehouse.

“Would you even tell me?” Victor retorts. Anzwei’s lips peel back, the beginnings of a smile, and he’s forced to look away. “Why then, did this Yonghwa person you mention, kidnap Yuuri and try to get me arrested. Who is he?” he asks anyway. “And how did you know to come here?”

Anzwei hums, a tuneless little thing. “I received a call to my office as I was preparing to leave for the day, to go to this warehouse at precisely seven. As for Yonghwa... he is a... former associate of mine. We don’t talk much these days. He runs an assassination group.”

“A what?” Victor’s heart stops for a momentary second, and his grip on Yuuri’s hand tightens.

“He runs an assassination squad,” Anzwei repeats. “It’s called the Color Fans. Very secretive, he recruits Korean immigrants to work under him. I’m sure there’s a cover business somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.” Victor can only gape. Looking back, the movements of the hooded figures earlier made sense with the knowledge that they were assassins. “As for why he set you up to be arrested by me, I can only guess.”

Victor swallows and bites the bullet. “Guess?”

“He said, a long time ago, that he loves me.” They amble along the rows of warehouses to where Victor’s cars are.

“Aren’t you incapable of love?” Victor snaps. He remembers a conversation long ago, with a person that has no emotions and became a police officer to stay on the right side of the law. It had scarred him, back then, to meet a monster. It’s been seven years, and Anzwei still scares him a little, but most times they run into each other, Victor can focus on the polite mask rather than the blankness underneath.

(There’s a one-letter difference between a monster and mobster, but that one letter means a lot between Anzwei and Victor.)

“I am,” Anzwei says like it’s the simplest thing. To them, it probably is. “He said that he loves me anyway. I don’t know how love works, so I can only assume that that is his motive. I don’t see any other reason for him to have set up the situation as he did.”

“He did this because he loves you?” Yuuri’s voice breaks into the conversation, filled with incredulity. “That’s not love.”

Victor looks at him in alarm, and Anzwei turns to him with their head tilted in a facsimile of curiousity. “If it’s not love, what is it?” they ask.

Yuuri bites his lip, and he grasps Victor’s hand tighter for a second. “It’s obsession,” he murmurs, ducking his head. “Doing things like... kidnapping other people — hurting other people because of love — that’s obsession.”

“What’s the difference between love and obsession?” Anzwei stares at Yuuri like they think he’s fascinating, and while Victor agrees with the sentiment, he wants nothing more than to get Yuuri away from them.

“If you love someone you do what you can to make them happy,” Yuuri explains, his eyes fixed on the path. “You don’t do something that could hurt them directly or indirectly. If you really love someone, you’d only hurt other people to protect them, not...” he swallows nervously, “Not do something like this. Scheme a setup like a gift, like people are things. He’s obsessed with you.”

Anzwei stops walking as the cars come into sight, the rest of Victor’s family staring at the three of them. “I don’t know of love, or obsession, so I shall take your word for it, Yuuri Katsuki.” Victor must have slipped his poker face, because they look at him with a carefully arched brow. “What? Of course I know his name. Three informants came to us last night and this morning saying that you have a weakness that could be exploited.”

This close to Yuuri, and Victor can feel the tremor in his arms. He feels like falling a little, darkness gnawing at the back of his mind that he fucked up. “I see,” Victor says. And then, “Have a good night, Anzwei.”

Yuuri’s quiet plea to go to his home weighs on his shoulders as he ushers Yuuri towards his car. Yuuri is reluctant to let go of him, hand lingering in the air as Victor takes a moment to wipe his face with a handkerchief in the glove compartment, but it drops as he closes the door. He turns to signal everyone to head back, but the figure of the police chief drifts next to him, left eye like a moon on water, any emotion in it merely an illusion like the reflection.

“Do you love him?” Anzwei asks.

Victor doesn’t even think twice before answering, “Yes.”

They blink owlishly. “Is it love, or is it obsession?”

Everything grinds to a halt, his hands clenching into fists, nearly grabbing the person by the collar of their hideous green shirt instead. “I would never,” Victor hisses, words slow and deliberate. “I would never hurt Yuuri like that. I would never do anything that could indirectly or directly hurt him under some misguided perception of love.” He steps closer to Anzwei, rage the only thing in him now. “Don’t you dare question my emotions.”

Anzwei only blinks where most people would wilt in fear. “I see,” they say. “I hope your love goes well for you, then.” They turn on their heel and make to walk away, but stops mid-step. “By the way, don’t try to deal with Yonghwa.”

“Why not?” Victor fires back. “He hurt Yuuri, and it’s not like you care about him.”

“I am fully aware that you think I’m distasteful, Nikiforov,” Anzwei drawls, not bothering to turn around. “I see it in your eyes every time. But I am capable of care, to a limited extent. I care about you enough to tell you that trying to get to Yonghwa would be a fruitless endeavor.”

“What?” Victor asks, thrown for a loop.

Anzwei smiles. It’s the same as the one seven years ago, too much teeth and ill-fitting on their face. “You’re scared of me,” Anzwei says, “But you don’t run like most people do.” A split second later and their features smooth over like there hadn’t been a single forced change of expression. “Have a good night, Nikiforov.”

They walk off into the darkness, ponytail swinging behind them like a hangman’s noose waiting to be used.

The space between them in the car is only six inches, but it feels like the gaping maw of an abyss is there instead, and Victor will fall in if he does anything to try to bridge it.

Yuuri is withdrawn like a hermit crab into its shell, his eyes unfocused and his shoulders hunched just the slightest. As much as Victor wants to fold Yuuri in his arms right now and ask him if he’s okay, he knows better. Right now, he doesn’t know if Yuuri would accept it.

Last night everything had been wonderful, but too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours for things to be the same between them, surely. Victor wants to ask Yuuri what happened, exactly, so he knows what to say — if this Yonghwa person Yuuri met really is someone that would claim to love the police chief, then Victor can only imagine what sort of monster he must be. He can only imagine what sort of conversation they had.

He doesn’t want to know, but because it’s Yuuri he wants to, so he can help him. Victor might have saved him, physically, but he knows how Yuuri’s mind works, and his anxieties, from lying together on hotel beds together for so many nights on end. He wets his lips. “Yuuri,”  Victor says, “Would you like to go back to my place instead? You’ll be safe there.”

Yuuri doesn’t respond for a moment. “I want to go home, Victor.”

Victor tries not to flinch at those last two syllables, at Victor instead of Yuuri’s constant fond Vitya. But he’s already accidentally led to Yuuri being hurt once tonight; Victor knows that he’s walking on eggshells. “Of course,” he demurs, “I was just making sure.”

The rest of the drive is in silence, Victor switching between gauging Yuuri’s body language and his uncanny encounter with Anzwei. Their question of Is it love, or is it obsession? haunts Victor like their not-smile.

He knows the answer though, knows it perfectly as they come to a stop in front of Yuuri’s apartment and he tears out of the car to hug his friend, a sob audible in the air before he muffles it in Phichit’s shoulders. Victor wants to be that person Yuuri can turn to, but he can’t force Yuuri to do that, because Yuuri is his own person.

As they walk back into their apartment, things slowly click for Victor. He has so much power and authority in the City, could cover up the murder of most people that cross him, is feared by all, but — he’ll never use that influence in a way to hurt Yuuri, directly or indirectly. “I could have forced him to come home with me, because it’s safer,” Victor whispers.

The driver looks back in the mirror. “Why didn’t you, boss?”

Victor’s fingers twitch for a cigarette to start smoking on, to calm his heartbeat. “Because I love him too much to ever use my power against him like that,” he answers.

He would never.

Victor loves Yuuri too much to disrespect his boundaries like that.

Remembering now Yuuri’s silence and the way he had reached for someone other than Victor, he can only hope — hope that if this is what breaks their relationship, Yuuri will at least remember him fondly.