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It was a great mistake, my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a seagull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must be a little in love with death!
- Eugene O’Neill
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Viktor is a stranger, but he is a little more in love with this town than he was yesterday. Hasetsu is peaceful. Unassuming, even. Nearly a paradise in its quiet, though that is broken now and again by the crash of the surf and the piercing cry of gulls. But what is perfection? wonders the man as he bunches hands into pockets and strolls along Hasetsu’s coast.
It may be beloved Makkachin, running ahead. It may be the glitter of sun on the ocean, or the dance of the birds wheeling above. Those birds are a different species of gull than what he has known from St. Petersburg. Their gliding is the same. Their rise and hang and pinwheeling, bits of flashing white and shadow, make them far more elegant in the updrafts than they are while grounded. He ponders if they are happy.
Or, do gulls only look beautiful as a consequence of their hungry, desperate scavenging? Their whining the only way to communicate their plight of infested wings and bellies contorted by scraps best left unconsumed?
Viktor grins self-deprecatingly. How cynical his thoughts. He figures the lone fisherman upon the road would associate the surroundings in a more pleasant way. Makkachin, too, has found the man. Barking and bounding up towards the fellow who laughs at the arrival.
The Japanese man’s tone changes, though, as the pup turns his nose to the tackle box settled at the man’s feet. Viktor’s grasp on the language has improved since his arrival just over a week ago. He understands every word.
“No dog! That box is not for you. Stop!”
The man’s hands are full and the next logical step in driving the creature away would involve using his feet. Fortunately for him, the fisherman notes the single seeming witness and the impulse for violence is not yet sought.
Viktor smiles, the same grin he had worn a moment before. He sounds much more genuine when he calls, “A lovely day for fishing!”
His statement cannot be expressed in the new language without the thick accent of the old. That is fine. The man calls back, “Is this your dog?”
Makkachin remains adamantly interested in the tackle box.
The wind tousles Viktor’s hair as he closes the distance to the pair. The Japanese man is now trying to insert his foot between the canine and the case. That will prove to be a gesture in vain. As a last reasonable resort, the man pleads with the pet to leave his things be. “There is only bait , and you don’t want to eat that...”
Emphasis is put on the word ‘bait’.
Viktor claps his hands and Makkachin peeks up, tail wagging. “Is that how we behave?” This is lovingly crooned in Russian, Viktor only switching back to Japanese to tell the man, “I am sure my dog would eat anything, whether it is for dogs or not.”
“Yes, well...I need it for my fish,” the flustered man explains. His clutches his rod awkwardly. He does not meet Viktor’s gaze, but does glare daggers at the pooch.
“Catching much?” Viktor sings.
“Not much, yet, ah...but...but you are new, yes?”
“That is so,” agrees the Russian, helping the nervous man change the subject. He braces on the metal barrier and takes in the sea. “I am on vacation. Hasetsu is very peaceful.”
Makkachin huffs, dropping his head to snuffle at the box anew. As the fisherman tenses, Viktor says, “I like the gulls. They remind me so much of home.”
“The…” stammers the man.
“The gulls ,” Viktor repeats. He is patient. Perhaps he is saying it wrong?
“Oh! Oh yes. The gulls . I...hear they can live everywhere.” The Japanese man exhales, and then he steps gingerly over the intrusive dog to take up his original post. His shoulders droop. He is a changed man when he looks Viktor over. “Are you on a vacation from work?”
“I’m unfortunately working while on vacation,” Viktor laughs. He surveys the horizon, his gaze landing on the castle overlooking Hasetsu and all of the buildings bundled beneath. There are a few individuals in sight, but no one is close to the two men. Maybe that car will pass in a few moments, if it does not turn the other way first. “Perhaps your bait is not working?”
The other nods. “The fish are not happy with it today. Perhaps it is better for dogs.”
“My dog does not need encouraging,” chuckles the Russian.
“Do you have bad knees?” asks the man kindly.
“I can’t say that I do.”
“I have bad knees, and I can only afford the energy to walk out here in the morning and then home at the end of the day. I try to choose the best bait but what can I do? You are young. A very handsome man. If you are going back into town, could I trouble you into taking my box to the tackle shop? It is just up the road. The clerk would know what to do. I would be grateful, but if it is too much to ask…”
Viktor pats the man on the shoulder. “It is no trouble. My dog needs the walk and I will be back before the fish miss you. It would be the least I can do for someone who lets me practice my Japanese.”
Above, the gulls squawk and squeal. They are hungry. Deprived. The box is heavy, and Viktor swings it as if it were not.
It is not to the tackle shop that the fair-haired foreigner attends to, but rather the wooden stairwell behind it. The building’s upper level boasts cheap, unfurnished studio space for rent and no one thinks twice about tourists taking advantage of the accommodations. Viktor lets himself into the middle room, Makkachin on his heel.
One wall is stacked with boxes. Here his pup settles on the futon rolled out under the shadow of Viktor’s things. His master directs his attention to the lone table occupying the opposite corner. It is on this work surface that Viktor deposits the fisherman’s box, unlatching the white tabs that seal the lid. The contents make him whistle.
Crammed inside are wads of plastic-sealed Japanese banknotes. He must be doing well to be trusted with a tempting sum this early on. Viktor does not know the exact amount, but his guess would be an equivalent of a million rubles. It is not his place, though, to be counting it. He removes each package, needing three trips to transfer them to the nightstand where he charges his phone.
That fixture is built solidly into the floor, but its drawer can be withdrawn with a bit of fidgeting. Viktor removes the piece that holds his essential papers and this reveals a hole in the wall. His room connects to the next.
The Russian sprawls on his hands and knees, contorting to reach into the secret tunnel. His fingers find a fabric bag and he fishes it free before filling in the space with a neat stack of yen notes. Viktor replaces the drawer and takes the bag to the tackle box. A glance inside confirms six blocks of brown paper wrapped in more plastic. Someone has also slipped a bento box in. Viktor smirks, less and less bemused by the little gestures the organization does to placate their footmen.
“Perhaps we should have run away long before, Makkachin. Nothing is free in the world, but here it at least seems that the exchange rate is kinder. Do you think we have their attention, yet?” he asks in Russian. The question spurs the pup to meet him at the door, tail wagging. Viktor packs up the tackle box. “It’s ironic if not, having a skater handling the Ice.”
---
Ice is a drug. It looks like cocaine mixed with glitter. It differs in the effect, too. Users claim they can feel art. Sight and sound shimmer as colours bleed into an environment increasingly full of symphonic marvels. Pulse points turn to piano-key choruses. And then slowly, slowly, the magic fades. Softer tones replace the vivid shades. The world mutes. Turns white. The whole picture is lost, but Viktor’s heard that even the come-down of the high is an experience. An addict will cling to the little things that linger. The tinges of their session helps them centralize on the simple lines and silences that close in. A world of every possibility diminished to a single point. Secret meaning found in a speck. A stain. A blister.
Then, after all of that, one cannot be creative without the help of the drug.
It is new, but gaining ground. The world’s stock is issued from Hasetsu, though that is a secret Viktor’s previous life had given him. It is naturally a matter of months before the authorities move in and the trade will be forced to change. For now, though, things are kept refreshingly simple despite the ludicrousness of the drug’s demand.
Viktor wishes the fisherman luck with his fishing, even though the man confesses that he has to compete sometimes with other lines in the water. A few times a day some boats putter up along the shore, their owners thinking the lone caster has a sweet spot up his sleeve. When they learn it is not so, they leave. The man will only need to put up with the competition a few more times before he gives up. He laughs when Viktor asks what time that generally is, for the Russian thinks the man might appreciate some company for the stroll after dark.
“There are joggers to watch out for me,” the other assures.
The sun is creeping lower in the sky. The gulls continue to protest their fate. And Viktor comments on the community, the old man agreeing that Hasetsu is unlike any other town.
“You should check out the hot springs,” he is told in parting. “That is where you will see the best of Hasetsu.”
--
Viktor has no plans yet to indulge the services of the hot springs. Even if they are free for “runners”. In fact, it might be best for him to tell you what he knows about this town. This quick exposition comes from the Russian’s hasty research, his personal contacts, and the astute attention to detail that he had employed on his first days.
Hasetsu found itself in trouble in the last few decades, as the industry that once supported it began to move to more urban parts of the country. The town’s population dwindled as the young moved out seeking work. Tourism died in larger and larger percentages with each passing year. The Nishigori family suffered especially, on the verge of losing their properties (which included the town’s Ice Castle skating rink) and to prevent that, old man Nishigori turned to alternative income. It was felonious. It also worked, and when he died of old age his only son took over. Takeshi Nishigori was a bully and his reign should have been short-lived had he not married his current wife, Yuko. It was she who reshaped operations, soothing the dissenting voices in town by keeping things clean and inclusive. Under her direction, the illegal activities became a town effort. Things were kept subtle. Clean. Obstacles were removed naturally or quietly with the most moral of members having the freedom to look the other way. Everyone felt financially secure, yet everyone had hands that were dirty to some degree. Like dominos, the people of Hasetsu built around the Nishigoris, always aware that one moment of weakness could create a mess. After many years, though, it became clear that the game pieces are sturdy.
Their first real test came when Yuko bore the family triplets. The Nishigoris did something completely unexpected. They invited the nearby Katsuki family to take over the authority and direction of the town. This the Katsukis did, with the Nishigoris volunteering to serve under them.
Viktor Nikiforov will assure you that he has never heard of such a bloodless transition before. The precarious domino game representing the players would have been subject to an earthquake had any other crime family attempted a similar change. And Viktor is a bit of an expert on the habits of other mafia heads.
Viktor knows you know about his skating career. What you may not know is that the mob in St. Petersburg took on his sponsorship when he began to win, utilizing the opportunities he had to travel the world for their international “work”. It helped that the man who would one day inherit the mob was also an excellent coach. As the years progressed, Viktor grew older and expanded his talents for the family. He became an invaluable asset until very recently, when, bored, he decided to abandon his contract.
He followed a rumour here, where a world class rink would allow him to indulge in the sport he had mastered. Yakov had no trade dealings with the Katsukis and the growing popularity of Ice meant that there might be expansion and a willingness to hire someone like Viktor. It is a big change, going from the luxury he had earned from over a decade of loyalty, to starting from scratch.
One does not begin a routine, Viktor believes, without cutting a blade into ice.
That is why he is here, he would have you know.
Hasetsu is interesting. A community unlike any other, starting to evolve under the influence of something new and powerful. No one knows where Ice came from, or how quickly it will inspire the black market. Viktor’s sure that even the ones manipulating the domino-people have no idea of its potential. Put anything on Ice, though, and things risk slipping.
How quickly until the law crashes down? How fast before desire, greed and guilt consume the once-willing pawns of the town? Viktor’s seen some dangerous corners of the world, and he thrills at the mystery. He craves to surprise, and to be surprised.
That is why he is here, he repeats, just in case you haven’t figured it out.
--
How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been?
- Mark Strand “No Words Can Describe It”
His assignment accomplished, Viktor takes up the task he had done for two days before. The mail boxes he slips his fingers into are empty, though. Nothing to run to anywhere else. Still, it gives him an opportunity to pass by the train station. It is where the only poster of a Katsuki resides. Yuuri Katsuki. The poster’s plastic covering is scratched and protecting its prize from all elements but the sun. The image has faded, the blue of a costume washing out to a sickly aquamarine. Viktor can manage a smattering of kanji announcing that Hasetsu is proud of its Ace.
It is only natural for a locality to support its own. Viktor’s first bit of homework on Hasetsu had centered around the skater. Naturally. Yuuri had been good. Very good. He could have easily qualified for the Grand Prix, only to quit at the prime of a burgeoning career.
Perhaps it had been his family forcing him to stop, as athletes of his calibre do draw attention to themselves. Fame is a danger to illegal schemes. But then, why would the Nishigoris be the ones supplying all of the videos Viktor had found on the internet?
The puzzle takes more of the Russian’s time, him standing on the street while Makkachin reinforces his territory from other canines. They have come here so frequently that there is no doubt which dog owns the other side of the sign. The pair only move on when Viktor’s stomach growls.
Perhaps a bento box awaits him in his room.
As they return, the sun burns gold into high clouds. Between the buildings, for a moment, Viktor can compare the colour with that of his many medals. Then, like the memory of them, every second that follows is less vivid. The gleam fades, still pretty but no longer perfect. A mockery of what had come before. The spectrum tries to be as beautiful.
Of course, things get dark after a bright burst of glory. Once upon a time, someone had put that poster in the frame. Once upon a time, every star was a pearl in a night that promised Viktor something exciting. Once upon a time is the start of a fairy tale.
There are no gifts of food awaiting Viktor. No magic apples. Nor stashes of treasure so recently buried. The wads of cash are gone. Instead, the Russian finds a note.
The white cardstock had been left in the hole with a polite scrawl asking if he would be inconvenienced by a task tonight. Lilac sparkling gel ink. No demands or commands, just directions to an address if he is so inclined.
His correspondences have always been this way, though this one feels different. Perhaps there is more thickness to certain words, reiterating the promise that this is a choice. An option. How strange this crime world. How long until they believe he’s made the decision to stay?
Viktor puts his navigation to the test as Makkachin happily snuffles after the waking nocturnal wildlife. The stars are fully out by the time Viktor stops before an apartment that rises a dozen stories up. He’ll need the fourth floor, which is accessible by a looping stairwell along the building’s side. Makkachin climbs the steps with far more stamina than his owner, the Russian understanding why when he reaches the necessary floor.
The most prominent doorway is crowded by children’s shoes. Okukawa Studios, which is written in both English and Japanese over a stencil logo of ballet dancers. Voices filter through the wall, and if this is where he should not be, he is sure the one managing the pealing cacophony will at least set him on his way.
He orders his pet to sit and then knocks.
“It’s open!” calls a woman.
Viktor lets himself in, the entrance crowded with even more of the shoes. A gauzy lace curtain provides only the barest of barrier between Viktor and the studio. Mirror walls, polished floor, and almost two dozen children ranging from two to fifteen cluster around in near-chaos.
The lone instructor seems unphased, her hand rising and falling in a count that the older dancers follow. The middling children copy their elders with some semblance of timing. The youngest are beyond hope, though only one is bawling. It is to this tot that the teacher is devoted, removed from her arm that keeps bobbing.
“I can’t make you a swan until I know what we’re dancing, and I can’t know what we’re dancing until I know you’ve practiced your positions, Kamo-kun .”
The young boy clutches at her skirt, pleading over her reasoning with a shrilly wail. “A pink swan, Sensei. I hafta be pink even if I’m a boy. I wanna be pink.”
Viktor braces on the wall, the mirrors showing him her eyebrows shooting up. “Who told you you couldn’t be a pink swan?”
“Mamoru.”
“Mamoru isn’t deciding the costumes,” she sighs. “And please know that I have to be careful, Kamo-kun. If I make you the pink swan, you’ll be prettier than me.”
The boy rubs his nose against her leg, eyes still watery. “I am prettier than you.”
“That’s exactly what I needed to hear today,” she mutters, wryly scooping the child up and turning around to regard their guest. Her pinched brow tightens. “Aoi, could you take Kamo-kun?”
One of her students relieves the woman of the boy. Freed, she scans Viktor up and down. It takes a moment for the Russian to realize he is grinning, which may not be appropriate considering the affairs he is up to. He holds up the address he had copied to his phone. “I’m looking for a place.”
“Stop slouching,” she responds.
Viktor is surprised by how quickly he corrects his spine. His stance used to be impeccable. “Sorry. Ah, is this close to the place?”
“Hardly,” she snaps. Whatever patience she had shown to the toddler has evaporated. Viktor keeps from flinching, certain he must have come to the wrong location and met someone not a fan of the Katsukis. “Let’s step outside, please.”
“Of course.”
Makkachin has sprawled across the path, a red shoe under his chin. A moth hovers around the light as the adults step into the pool of it. Once there, the woman folds her arms. “I’m Minako.”
“Oh. I’m Junichi,” Viktor introduces.
“Of course you are,” she drawls. Her tongue mulls on some further comment left unsaid as she appraises him and his dog.
“I apologize for interrupting,” Viktor bows. “I will be on my way if you would just direct me to where I should be.”
“The hot springs,” she instantly says.
“The…”
“You have yet to report to the hot springs.”
“It…” the Russian assesses her anew. “I thought that was an invitation, not a requirement.”
“Yeah, well it’s a requirement now. Orders from on high.”
“Have I done something wrong?” he carefully inquires.
“ Junichi ,” she tsks, saying the name as if it were bitter. “It is fortunate for you that I am not the one in charge, or I would answer that question and you would be stuck here all night. You’ve come for directions? I’m directing you to the hot springs. And if you need any more help from this lowly teacher, it is to stand with your chin up and to stop slouching.”
Viktor stares.
She glares.
Oh, the Russian realises after a shamefully long time. The gig is up. Though he knew all along that it would eventually be. He relaxes his shoulders, weight settling on his heels and his head hovering like it were pulled by a string. A marionette. Like her, a puppet. But they are also both dancers. “Were you his teacher?”
“Once upon a time,” she drawls. “But I have other students now. I’ve high hopes for them.”
“What does that mean?” Viktor asks.
She ignores the question, saying instead, “You should go. Either back across the sea, or to the hot springs. It would be rude to keep him waiting.”
“Him being Yuuri Katsuki? His father?”
“I suggest you take your dog,” she deflects. “Good luck, ‘Junichi’ .”
--
He should not assume that the head of the family is Yuuri. There are more Katsukis. Parents. A sister. Viktor climbs the slope that takes him to the upper part of town, hands in his pockets and Makkachin close to him. The dog senses the start of Viktor’s unease. He had wanted more time to prove himself. A negotiation is imminent. He’s going to an interview, or an interrogation. He’ll have to sell himself, he knows. This has always been coming.
He brings no recommendations. He has a connection to a rival organization that could work against him. But like any challenge, Viktor knows it is within himself to succeed. He’s stepped into unknown territory before. There’s no indication that this unusual organization would be any more dangerous.
And then, as he passes through the gates, Viktor sheds the nervous energy that is uncharacteristic of him. He lets himself transform into whatever he needs to be to win. Like lacing on his skates. Like being in a spotlight; reflective surface below that would topple others, he shines. There is no more hiding. There is no point.
A half dozen men and women sprawl upon the floor of the room inside the hot spring. Their eyes draw away from the television as if they know someone has arrived. Chopsticks stand still in the humid air. The newcomers study them, as much as they are studied.
A woman wearing a bandana leans over the bar, no longer in conversation with a patron to her left. “Looks like Viktor,” she quips.
Her words cause the Russian to stiffen, not expecting to be outed so publically. Others nod, the the skater fears a set-up. But then, their eyes are not on him. An older man in a house coat coaxes his arm out. “If Viktor was allowed to eat what he wanted, he’d have grown this big.”
“What’s his name?” asks a woman Viktor’s seen once or twice in town. She smiles at him with crinkled eyes.
“My name?”
“No, the handsome one,” corrects another, causing his peers to chortle.
“Oh, you mean my dog?” Viktor realizes. “This is Makkachin. Are pets allowed?”
The girl at the desk shrugs. “If I don’t have to clean up after him, yeah. Are you the new guy?”
“I am,” Viktor confirms, carefully.
“Then you’ll want a tour. Dad’s out and I’m not up for tromping around the men’s side of the springs. If you go down the hall, you can find my brother. It’s not like he’s doing anything important.” She directs him by throwing a thumb out. “He’ll tell you what you can and can’t do here.”
That could double as a warning, but the woman is no longer paying any attention to her guest. The televised game seems more important and the rest of the patrons agree. Viktor’s assessment of the Katsukis adjusts again as he crosses the room. Makkachin whines, but only because the kind woman wants to offer him food.
“Not now,” Viktor murmurs, passing the rack of gift ware. To the right, the humidity changes indicating the presence of water. To his left, a hall ends with a narrow stairwell. He almost turns back to ask which of the few rooms his hostess had meant when Makkachin assigns himself the lead.
He bounds to the stairwell. It would be just like the dog to barrel over a crime boss, so the Russian hisses and follows after. He reaches the first step as the pup places his paws past the last. A sliding door is tucked in the corner of the upstairs and Makkachin begins to pry his nose into the crack.
“This room is off--oh! Oh, hello.”
Viktor hesitates, midways up in his ascent. Makkachin has squeezed himself into the opening he has created, bottom wriggling excitedly and upper half missing inside the invaded room.
The figure that has been disturbed must be regarding the dog. Something is said but it is too low for the Russian to hear. Viktor wills his feet to take the last few steps and he reaches for the wood frame of the door. His fingers find purchase on more than just the door.
Fingers touch fingers.
Hands retract.
Then the man inside prys the door the rest of the way open and Viktor is staring at the ghost of the Yuuri Katsuki he knows from the poster. A ghost because Yuuri is somehow paler than the sun-bleached photo. He is shorter than Viktor figured, too. More aged, with longer hair framing a rounder face. His sweater hangs off of him, with matching navy blue sweats over white runners. Thick glasses reflect Viktor’s outline.
Behind is a storage room in the midst of being reorganized. It is clear that some of the items are clearly meant to be stored behind more mundane, expected inventory. Despite that, the Katsuki son says, “You should come in. Please shut the door behind you.”
It is an emotionless command. Viktor daresay even a defeated demand, as if the other man is loathe to have this talk now. Many bosses are conscious of how their environment portrays them. The room inside would have plenty of space for the two of them were it tidy.
Yuuri has turned away, assessing the mess. Pushing things aside.
“You don’t mind if my dog comes in?” Viktor asks. Makkachin has already invited himself into a corner. He snuffles at something in a box.
“It’s fine,” murmurs the other.
“Can I help?”
“I’ve got it.”
Viktor straightens, putting his back to the only place that would keep him out of the way. The door. “What can I do for--?”
“Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri cuts him off. He drops a container into the corner with a force that compliments his heavy tone.
Viktor nods. There is no point in denying it. “Yuuri Katsuki.”
A brow crests over the blue rim of Yuuri’s glasses. “You didn’t bother to properly introduce yourself. We’ve never advertised for outside help, so it is unusual enough for a foreigner to come along seeking it. Moreso unusual that it would be you .”
Viktor notes the differences in their height. He should diminish his advantage if he wants to be subservient. He is aware of the way Yuuri sets up the space with distance created through the obstacles. Viktor should choose not to threaten that space. To the side, Makkachin paws at a box. This is ignored entirely by the one asking the questions. It is interesting how Viktor feels the weight of Yuuri’s hidden eyes. He wants to both grow and to shrink. This is happening too fast to get a proper read of the situation. “I’m looking for new opportunities,” he says. “It helps that there’s a world class rink that most other skaters don’t know about here…”
An attempt to bond over a shared hobby. An ice-breaker, yet Yuuri either does not care to bond or takes the mention of the ice in another way.
He frowns. “Yakov Feltsmen has sent you to learn about where and how Ice is made.”
The accusation hangs between them. Viktor entwines his fingers in front, hoping to appear as earnest as the truth he delivers. “Yakov has not sent me.”
“No?”
Viktor shifts, finally allowing his dog to be an excuse to pull him from one spot. He keeps to the border of the room, moving as casually as he can. A touch has the pup reluctantly surrendering his attention. Viktor says, “I came on my own. I no longer represent that group. I may have also departed without the proper blessings, which explains the pseudonym I used. I humbly apologize for the rudeness of that subterfuge. I did not mean to mislead you.”
“I see,” Yuuri hums. “You’ve put yourself in a position where Yakov could not easily follow you.” When Viktor nods, he continues. “He risks future relations with our family by bringing trouble to our town. And he would not ask for our help to return one of his agents as that would reveal his inability to control them. But if you are forced back, you’ve got the excuse of attempted espionage to save you from the brunt of their punishment.”
“I hope to avoid resorting to that,” Viktor admits.
Yuuri considers what he’s heard, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You didn’t think to come forward offering information about Yakov, though? It would make you look far less suspicious, and could have fast-tracked you through the little jobs.”
“From my experience, no one trusts a whistleblower. And I don’t want to take short cuts. I missed a lot of the basics growing up, so I enjoy this chance to see what I can do, and to appreciate how your people operate. I find the politics in Hasetsu refreshing.”
“That’s all then?” Yuuri murmurs, not reflecting the fond smile that Viktor has taken on. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Viktor loses his expression. “You expected something else?”
Yuuri folds his arms. “You’ve a reputation, Viktor. It precedes you.”
Bemusement turns into a frown. That frown grows teeth, sinking into the Russian’s lower lip with each second of silence. He finally breaks it, asking the stupid question. “You’re not referring to the skating.”
“No. No I am not.”
Viktor probably deserves this. He can admit that, after everything that’s come before. He regards Makkachin, who sits faithfully against his leg and offers Viktor no judgement. He does not look at Yuuri. “Is that what you think I am here for?”
“I’m not stupid,” snaps the other man, a touch defensive. “I would not be capable of managing this family without eyes and ears and connections. It’s all so precarious, if you haven’t noticed, so I have to look for threats both inside and out. We’re expanding. It attracts trouble. So when Viktor Nikiforov, one of the most successful honey traps of modern times chooses to come to my doorstep looking for work during the start of--”
“I’m not here to seduce you,” Viktor interrupts. He does not raise his voice, sinking instead to sit at Makkachin’s level. Faithful, forgiving Makkachin.The flat of Viktor’s tone still has the effect of a blunt instrument.
“Yes?” Yuuri asks, his energy faltering. He seems to wilt, sinking into the shelter of his clothes. It is certainly unbecoming of a man of his power. He may realize as much, sputtering, “If our positions were reversed, would you assume otherwise?”
“I suppose not,” Viktor murmurs, devoting all of his words to the head he scratches. “How silly of me.” Makkachin nuzzles him. Yuuri flounders. And Viktor considers his disappointment at finding how this person is exactly like other people. Other bosses. Or, even how Yuuri is not. A real mafia-head would not second guess himself, but move in for the kill. It would almost be comically unbearable if the other man apologized, so Viktor ends the suffocating awkwardness first by saying, “How incredibly silly of me. I had a good life, you know. Anything I wanted. Anything I desired. I loved skating. I was a adored for it. Have you any idea how easy it is to force someone who doesn’t know any better into being a commodity? Once you start, it just goes on and on. It’s shockingly easy to play men and women who are drawn to pretty things. It’s really nice to know you yourself are considered a pretty thing. Then, even those who keep the biggest secrets give them up for a kiss. People would overturn their very lives to sate my whims. You’re right about my reputation. I gained Yakov access to many things. I created black-mail and broken hearts. If they handed out medals, gold gold gold gold gold gold gold.” Viktor counts each lover on his hands before looking directly at his host. “Ask me why I stopped.”
Yuuri winces, finding Viktor’s gaze hard to match. “Why?” he complies.
“Because it was all eros, and no agape. Are you familiar with those concepts? I haven’t thought of anything better to describe my unhappiness since I came across them. I was used as much as I was using others. Love is a lie. It is a vulnerability that people cannot afford. And the younger me had always been a romantic. I knew that if I did not leave, I would be incapable of appreciating kindness. That I would doubt sincerity and distrust even my friends. It is impossible to recognize love when you’re always abusing it. Relationships lose their meaning, so I’ve only got Makkachin now. I only deserve Makkachin. That’s why I’ve left that world behind and I want to start new.”
Yuuri stares at his feet, face red.
Viktor continues to thread lithe fingers through warm fur, the anger in his voice only subsiding to drop pity. “I understand if you assumed otherwise. It’s hard to relate when you’ve got nothing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look at you,” Viktor indicates. “Hiding in a closet. Shrinking under those layers. You used to skate. You used to hold yourself differently. When was the last time you were proud of anything?”
The observation should trigger anger, but the Japanese man folds into himself at the criticism. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not stupid either,” Viktor warns. “When I wasn’t busy seducing the world like a slut--”
“--I didn’t say that,” Yuuri protests.
Viktor continues, “I was loving the sport. I looked you up. You stood out. You promised to be brilliant.”
Yuuri turns to consider the boxes, looking for a suitable distraction though moving one to another spot is likely a pointless gesture. “Was I?” he asks in false non-committance.
His ears are pink.
His hands shake.
A queer thought comes into Viktor’s head. Suddenly, with the brightness of a revelation. Yuuri Katsuki had accused Viktor of coming to the Katsuki family to woo someone. What if the skater had been hoping for it? That would explain the shame that Yuuri had displayed. It would explain the flush now, if Yuuri had wished himself the target. Would he be that desperate?
“Why did you stop skating?” Viktor asks, watching the other man closely. “Are you on Ice?”
Yuuri appears to remember his position when he straightens, brows narrowing. “That’s not a wise thing to ask of me.”
“And yet I’m asking,” challenges the Russian. “If I’m to work for you, I should know if the boss is addicted to the product.”
“You think I quit skating over a drug?”
Viktor shrugs. “People are weak.”
Yuuri stares, before pulling his glasses off with a snort. He uses the hem of his sweater to clean them and Viktor notes the shadows under the other’s eyes. Those eyes have a slightly wild look to them. “It’s funny, but the answer to that is yes and no. I didn’t quit because I’m addicted to Ice. But by quitting, I was able to invent it.”
“You created Ice?”
Yuuri stops polishing the lens of his glasses for an instant. Perhaps long enough to realize he may have said more than he should. No one knows anything about the drug. Then, the Katsuki son reapplies the cover to his face, shrugging off the regret as Viktor’s seen some skaters get over falls. Self-depreciation never helps, but one can always add in extra material to earn back the points lost from the error. That was always the magic about mistakes on the rink. In real life, those errors were more costly. In the mob, often deadly. “Yeah, Ice is mine. And you can take that back to Yakov if you need an out. Consider it restitution for my improper accusation a moment ago.”
Viktor squints at the other man, trying to see where the skater is. Where the mob boss ends and the nervous wreck with the tired eyes begins. “You created Ice,” he repeats.
Yuuri shrugs. “I went and got a degree. Decided to do something for the organization that my family was inheriting.”
“And that’s why you stopped?”
There . The twinge of some emotion. Pushing buttons should be more dangerous, Viktor decides. But he is drawn in by the way Yuuri Katsuki allows himself to be strung along emotionally. Yuuri plays with his fingers when he’s anxious.
“No,” huffs the other, fidgeting. “No, I gave up skating for school when I realized that I couldn’t keep up with you. That I could never present what you presented. Did you know? You were the reason I started the sport in the first place, Viktor Nikiforov.”
“Was I?” Viktor prompts.
“You were art to me. My inspiration. And when my family took over, I was told you were something more. Someone else. A spy to watch out for. Takeshi warned me personally about you, because I was such a fan. And your skating was...it was a cover. You were using it as a cover, but you were still so damn good. How could I even dream to compete, Viktor? How could I express myself in some comparable way with all of my soul when you were doing it as a means to some end?”
“I wasn’t. I do love skating.”
“And I believe you. Now. But…”
“Yes?”
Yuuri swallows, jaw clenching. “How could I even play on the same stage if I would be a target for your bosses? So I left. I made Ice instead because it was impossible. Because it was a way to express what I couldn’t express. It took a Chemistry degree. An extra year for Pharmacy. Networking with the right friends in the right fields. My roommate studied brains. The parts that light up when we’re creative. When we’re moved. I strapped diodes to my head and watched videos of you. We made a patent of the machine that let me skate around a rink with the equipment monitoring what my head did while I was doing your routines. And yes, I have taken Ice so that I know it does what it is supposed to do, but we worked hard on keeping the drug effective in doses low enough to avoid overdosing. So it’s under control. I want to see people feeling what you made me feel, but the plan was never to kill them. Production is complicated and slow, but we’re getting more efficient.”
“Are you telling me all this because you expect me to leave?” Viktor queries.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this at all,” Yuuri fumes.
From any other boss, Viktor would fear the cost of keeping secrets secret. It is nice to feel secure enough to quip, “Yet you spilled all over, and I didn’t even have to undress.”
Yuuri’s face flashes anew. “I didn’t quit because of an addiction,” he sputters in defence.
“No,” Viktor coos, pulling his knees in. Still on the floor. “You quit because of me. And you assumed right away that I would only come to fuck you for your secrets. It was likely very wise of your friends to warn you about me.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Yuuri protests. He straightens and tries to acquire back the authority that should rightfully be his in this room. It is a good attempt. Cute even.
Viktor extracts his arms from his dog, stretching. Standing. He is taller, aware that he had given the other a long chance to feel bigger. But leaders must earn their right to loom and Yuuri Katsuki had missed far too many opportunities to wield confidence. “I’m quick at reading others, and you’re an easy mark,” the Russian assesses. “You lack trust in yourself. You’ve gained weight.” He steps forward, as if drawn by the gravity of those pounds. That the other man shrinks back, even slightly, proves Viktor’s point. He crowds in. “And for all of your intelligence on me and what I am, you have no idea how other mafias work.”
“What are you--”
The knife seems to materialize between them, transferring from Viktor’s hip to his hand as if the blade itself were a dancer. The tip gleams gold, much like the other blades that Viktor’s mastered. A gift from Yakov, who would have never allowed such a thing close to an unguarded mob boss.
“Nobody searched me. You’ve got no security. Such a big secret in your head, too,” Viktor tsks. “I’m sure if I found a way to bring you home, my former friends could make you sing. Ice would make more sense as a Russian drug, don’t you think? When was the last time it snowed here?”
Yuuri chokes in a breath. Up close, Viktor can see wide eyes through the glasses. Big eyes that almost beg for the kiss of steel. Viktor’s seen that look many times. Too many. He knows what power he holds on those who love him for some reason.
When he betrays someone, they hate themselves. They never hate him.
And Viktor…
He can’t…
The knife turns. One of Viktor’s wrists finds Yuuri’s clammy palms, and he presses the handle into them. He leans closer until they both can tell that the point has connected. A heavy weight where the medals once covered Viktor’s sternum.
It is a crueller thing, perhaps, to offer the Japanese skater.
“I am not here to seduce you,” Viktor whispers. “I’m here to work. I’m here to live and die under your orders. And I have told you how I feel about being used. So if that is what you want from me, if that is how you see my worth, please kill me. I only ask that you look after my dog.”
Perhaps he knows on some level that he will not be impaled on his own knife. The slap across his face is a small shock, though. Not as much of one as Yuuri’s expression.
The Japanese man pushes Viktor away. His face is pale. Twisted. His eyes are damp. “Get out.”
For a moment, neither moves further. Even Makkachin sits uncomfortably still, his tail tucked beneath his legs. Viktor slowly touches the heat of his cheek, lightheaded by what he sees.
Yuuri is terrified. Yuuri is broken. He is addicted. And Viktor is certain now that the other had expected and even needed to be seduced. To be wanted. He is instead overwhelmed by responsibility. By expectations. The end of his skating had been a mistake and he knows it. It is one regret that feeds his successes to his failures which grow and grow and grow until the man is a stranger in his own town.
And somehow, Viktor wants to serve Yuuri Katsuki even more now.
He nods, a short bow. “Very well. I’ll go.”
Yuuri breathes in, a shaky breath. The knife is still in his hand, and he does not hold it out for the other to take.
Viktor decides to clarify his intentions further so the weapon is not ill-used immediately after. “If you wish to discuss my future duties to your family, you can find me at the rink tonight. If not, I’ll resume each of the small jobs I have done thus far.”
“The rink is not open right now,” Yuuri murmurs. “Nobody skates after hours.”
“I imagine that’s because that is where the Ice is made?” Viktor assumes. “A little obvious, but I like the irony of it. But, as I am the inspiration for your drug, that entitles me to the building. I only want the skating part, though. Tell me, how difficult will it be to talk my way past the Nishigoris?”
“They…” Yuuri waffles. He fidgets.
“I’ll take that as a sign it will not be difficult at all. Lovely,” lilts the Russian. “You are welcome to join me. I’ve no interest in stealing your heart, Yuuri Katsuki. But if you’re willing to let me earn it, I do my best work on ice.”
Viktor leaves a speechless Yuuri behind. He takes the stairs and crosses the room full of future accomplices. Viktor is a stranger, but he is a little more in love with this town than he was yesterday.
And if he can, he will make Yuuri Katsuki a little less in love with death.
---
Yuuri fidgets.
The screen changes.
“Ah, Mister Katsuki.”
Yuuri sits straighter, cross-legged on his bed. He bows when the sound syncs up with the picture. “I hope this is not a bad time?”
“If you call, it is important to me. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Yuuri feels a momentary sense of regret at his attire, though the man on the other end appears to be fighting back a wince at someone shouting in the background of his office.
Yuri pretends that everything is normal for both of their sakes. “We are new to this arrangement, but it is vital to me to keep things honest between us. So for that reason, I would like to tell you that the girls have gone over the payment that came in today. Parts of the packed currency were replaced with paper.”
The other man swears. “How much?”
“113,700 yen. The triplets are very thorough, and they’ve got a theory on where the theft took place. It’s in Vladivostok.”
“I’ll have the amount wired to you immediately.”
Yuuri shakes his head. “Yakov, I tell you this only so you may catch those who may also be stealing from you in other ways. The girls outlined their investigation in an email, which I make freely available to you. I will also insist that you do not feel obligated to pay out twice for this inconvenience.”
“One moment please,” Yakov folds his hands, before leaning back. In Russian, he barks a few orders out. Yuuri thinks he hears the word Tiger and Vladivostok, though his Russian is not good. Then the man returns, giving a pinched but appreciative look. “I am thankful your willingness to work with us, Yuuri. I have someone who will make an example of these troublemakers, though I do think it is important to see you paid for the product.”
“Again, it is not necessary. We all suffer from those who do not know their place. But I feel that I owe you a debt worth more than a fraction of a shipment, Yakov.”
The Russian glances to the side, perhaps to be sure that he is finally alone, before folding his hands and leaning into the camera. “New help can be trying. How are things with you?”
Yuuri chews a lip. “Trying.”
“I warned you not to let him push you around,” Yakov sighs. He shakes his head and then reaches for a glass and a bottle.
“We spoke for the first time this evening,” Yuuri admits. “He has no idea you sent him.”
“I’m not new to the game.” Yakov drawls proudly. “I brought him into this sport but I didn’t teach him all of my tricks. It was really very simple. A well-placed rumour he thinks he chanced upon and one very long lecture where I tell him to stay here and to stay loyal. When a person thinks it is their idea to do a thing, they will never suspect they have strings. Is he really being a trying problem?”
Yuuri glances away, eying the knife that sits on his desk. He should probably not turn his focus away from the older, wiser man. Especially one he might like less, considering what he’s learned. Yakov is dangerous. “He’s not. I mean, he’s not what I expected.”
“Oh?”
“But I’m happy with the transaction, Yakov. Please, keep the missing money. I’ll send along the email and tomorrow we’ll know the quantities of Ice we can ship in the following month.”
“Don’t let him push you around,” toasts Yakov.
He’s taken over the rink where I make Ice and he says he wants to earn my heart, not steal it. These are not things Yuuri Katsuki tells Hasetsu’s exclusive partner. “Everything is under control.”
“God, I wish I could say as much about my remaining assets,” snorts the other man as he drains his glass. “Good luck to you, Yuuri.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Yakov.”