Work Text:
Yuuri Kastuki sits on the train as it carries him home. Viktor Nikiforov could have been sitting across from him, but the Russian had promised to skate for the triplets. It would be no good for a boss like Yuuri to deny the girls their due after they had surpassed the goals set before them by such a large margin.
Besides, Yuuri does not need Viktor shadowing him in everything. It is nice to have some time to himself, which is why he opted for the train to take him back to Hasetsu rather than being couriered. It is a holiday and his people want to be with their families.
Yuuri loves his own family, but misses the quiet times he more frequently possessed in the years before Ice. He is okay with being alone on a train car tonight, and the former skater can say it is not because of self-pity. Not anymore.
As the hollow car rattles closer to home, the lone passenger uses the privacy to practice his pout. Another reason why he is glad he had talked Viktor out of joining him on this trip. This is homework, and meant to be a surprise. He flips through pictures of simpers on his phone, trying them out in the reflection of the window beside him.
Countryside passes in the dark. Lights shine and twinkle, and in those of distant homes are men and women who would stop and note the Russian should he choose to give them a smile. Now Viktor tells Yuuri he could also command those kinds of reactions from strangers.
Until today, the kingpin had not taken the concept seriously. His afternoon had been full of shaking hands, making introductions, and looking for weak links in new partners while being scrutinized by the other side for those same vulnerabilities. It is always exhausting, yet over dinner, Yuuri had found an unexpected ally after deliberately brushing fingers with the former matron of his hosts. She soon took his side in all negotiations and all Yuuri had to do was to maintain their secret conversation -- one of eyes, accidental proximity, and entendres. Hasetsu’s kingpin is certain that he and she parted understanding the game as one of fond, innocent playfulness. But still, it had been completely unlike Yuuri at all. And it had served him well.
Viktor could be right.
But in the whole world, Yuuri only wants to own Viktor’s attention. He wants to throw a look that Viktor can’t misunderstand, encapsulating all that Yuuri is, all he desires, and all he demands. He had brought the Russian here to be his seducer. But if the former-honey trap doesn’t want to give that, Yuuri will find a way to make him want to change his mind.
He sighs against the finger-stained glass. His ghostly reflection is not nearly as attractive as what he hopes. Maybe it is the glasses, though if he takes them off he cannot see. Yuuri reaches for a second phone. It is one he devotes for his northern contracts but it has a good camera. He snags a few selfies without the blue lenses on his face.
He deletes those upon first inspection. One eyelid is lazier than the other, and without the glasses he cannot hide the shadows burned under his eyes. Maybe if he slicks his hair back it could help with his look. The mafia guys in the movies do that. Would Viktor laugh?
The train slows at it approaches the last stop before his own. Yuuri slips both phones away as one passenger joins him. The figure is wrapped in a hooded sweater and burdened by bags. He scowls at the route map before dumping his things onto a seat as if he were alone on the car.
It would be rude on a crowded train, but the behaviour Yuuri can ignore. He is many seats away and close to home. Also, the other is clearly not Japanese.
Russian, based on the grumbling.
The kid doesn’t sit, though if he did it would be a sprawl. Yuuri’s sure of it. He’s seen a posture similar in--oh.
No. It couldn’t be.
Yuuri stares, dissecting the profile of the stranger. Then he shuts his eyes when the other feels the inspection and starts to turn. Yuri Plisetsky. The Russian skater Yuuko talks fondly about.
Why on earth would the Russian skater be going to Hasetsu?
“Hey!” comes a bark that would be impossible to ignore. “Is this going to Ice Castle?”
Yuuri opens an eye. World-class skater or not, who shouts on a train? In English? He gives a simple, “Ice Castle is closed. It is a holiday week.”
A foot kicks a seat. “Dammit! Well, I’m going to go there anyway!”
As abruptly as it started, their interaction ends. Yuri Plisetsky drags a phone free and silences a call. Yuuri sinks deeper into his seat for the final five minutes of his trip, pondering what he should do, if anything. It is no good to have people wandering around the Ice Castle.
He slips his phone out to send Viktor a text. ‘Is Yuri P. a fan of yours?’
When there is no immediate reply, he sits back as the other paces. Yuri is the first off, hauling his horde as if it were debris swept up in a hurricane. As he storms off, Yuuri follows more casually. The familiar station is nearly abandoned, as this is one of the last trains.
Yuuri’s pocket vibrates. Before he can withdraw his phone, a clerk waves at him. Before the kingpin can indicate that he would much desire some obscurity, the man greets, “Yuuri! You’re travelling late tonight!”
The Russian skater stops and the former-Japanese skater internally winces.
“How the hell do you know me!” Yuri shouts at the confused clerk.
“I...ah...I’m sorry?”
“ Kōki-san ?” Yuuri asks in Japanese. “Could you call me a ride?”
Kōki had never been bright, but he tries to be nice. And he could usually follow directions. “Sure thing, Mr. Katsuki.”
Yuuri clenches his jaw, exhaling slowly.
His annoyance at Kōki’s mistake is justified the moment the Russian punk levels Yuuri with a finger. “You!”
“Yes. Me. What?” sighs the mob head.
“You’re the reason Viktor defected!”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri drawls.
“You moron! You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”
“A lost skater?” Yuuri tries, dropping his hands into his pockets. He does not have a gun, as travelling with one to a good-will meeting is bad form.
“I’m a Russian Tiger!”
“Ah, Yakov’s then? You’ll want to stand down.”
“Not without Viktor Nikiforov.”
“Non-negotiable.”
“Then you die, pig!”
Yuuri’s momentary concern that he might be outgunned vanishes as the kid charges. Yuuri can handle himself in a physical bout, having been the unwilling student of Takeshi’s rough-housing for years. He braces, fingers closing around the knife Viktor had never asked him to return.
The knife goes everywhere with Yuuri, now.
The other Yuri throws a kick that arcs around. Yuuri meets the limb with the butt of the knife, though the Russian retracts faster than expected and returns with an elbow. This cracks against Yuuri’s face, his guard down only because he had been flicking the blade open. Freed, the gold edge slices into the arm of the sweater as it pulls back, taking fabric and flesh with it.
Yuri swears, bounding an additional step to assess the damage. Yuuri himself appreciates the space, dragging a wrist under his nose. His formal wear comes away soaked.
“I will kill you,” the Russian punk promises. “That knife is not yours. It does not belong to you.”
Yuuri grins, despite his watering eyes. “Viktor belongs to me. And so, too, do his possessions.”
“You--”
The loud-mouthed Yuri is cut off by yet another of the new things Yuuri owns by extension. Makkachin has pounced -- and then continues to pounce -- on the noisy foreigner. The pup gives licks and wet snuffles as needed.
Behind him, Viktor is standing just slightly out of breath. Eyebrows raise and phone in hand. “Oh dear, has my dark past caught up with me?”
“You fucker!” Yuri screams, trying to extract himself from the very welcoming dog. “Don’t you dare make light of this!”
Viktor's attention is beyond the tangling cat and dog, though. “Yuuri, are you okay?”
Yuuri turns away, swiping at his face to clear what he can of the bloody smear. It stings. His head swirls, either from Plisetsky’s elbow or the stress of confrontation, or both. But one thing is clear and it is to this lucidity that Yuuri rallies. When he throws his head to the cautiously approaching Viktor, he wears his intention on a blood-stained face. “You are mine.”
Fuck.
He almost loses the whole pose when Viktor stumbles. He nearly breaks into a grin when Viktor’s fingers find his chest. Then, the Russian bows. “I most certainly am. It seems I needn't have worried about you, today.”
“Viktor!!!”
Makkachin has remained an excellent jailer.
“Shall we drown this trouble-maker?” Yuuri hums, sucking on his pleased expression. He bumps shoulders with his favourite agent.
“I think I know a waterfall,” Viktor muses.
“Mmm, no good. I was referring to the hot springs. I can’t just go killing Yakov’s disobedient pets.”
“I am not a pet!” screams the small Russian. “Makkachin, get off!”
“There is nothing shameful in being a pet, Yurio,” scolds Viktor. “Really, Yuuri, a temple and a waterfall. You’d be doing Yakov a favour…”
--
“Do you want to keep him?” Yakov asks, later that night as they talk through ‘Yurio’’s phone.
“Absolutely not,” Yuuri drones.
“I will give you money, Katsuki.”
“You don’t have enough, Feltsmen...”