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Chapter Text

"Gloves," Viktor said coldly, flicking a wrist.

The wind howled wistfully, echoing through the alleyway on this particularly cold and snowy night. A henchman from the side approached the platinum-haired man, slowly handing him a small pouch.

Viktor swiped it from the man, dragging out a pair of black gloves, seemingly velvet. He slid them on with graceful ease, as if he'd done it many times before. A glint of thrill ran through his ice-cold eyes; almost rhythmically, he swung a revolver from his coat pocket, its metal glinting viciously under the moonlight. A soft, yet eerie chuckle drifted into the air.

He aimed the gun down.

"Mmph!" A large, burly man begged through his gag, limbs tied and secured as he lay on the unforgiving asphalt. His skin was littered with clotting wounds, gashes and purple bruises, he looked like a dead man, much contrast to the frightfully lively glint his eyes carried, fueled by raw terror. He twisted in agony, screaming all kinds of pleads through his face as he shook his head furiously, an endless stream of tears rushing down his face. Still attempting to wriggle out of his binds, a wallet dropped out of his pocket, flipping open to display a family picture.

Viktor shifted his gaze to the photo. 'A wife and two kids,' he thought. 'Shame.' He stared condescendingly at the man below him. "Do you want to see them again?" He asked, refering to the photo. The man nodded furiously, whimpering pitifully. "Beg," Viktor said in an authorative tone. The pudgy man nodded fervently whilst his body trembled, feeling his heart thump as he slowly bent his neck, craning down towards Viktor's feet. Tears and snot dripped as he began to roll his tongue out, his pitiful plea for freedom. Viktor's eyes narrowed into slits.

"Disgusting," the russian spat.

"Apparantly, all it takes is a shimmer of hope in a time of need to strip what used to be a proud and renowned gang leader of all his pride as a man." Hatred oozed out of Viktor's pores as he scowled at him. Where did all his ego dissapear to? Does he have no shame, drooping so low as to the level of a ragged mutt, willing to actually lick his feet? Viktor regretted every moment he thought that this man could've been a worthy opponent.

"You're a coward."

He gave the already bloody and scabbed face a feisty kick, afterwards pinning the man's head on the ground with his heel. Reduced to incomprehensible whimpers, he lay helplessly below Viktor's dominance. "You should've thought about your family before you messed with the Russian Mafia, Luego." He spoke the thug's name with venom dripping. "I lost many men and money due to your incompetent try at sabotage, and I'm here to collect my dues." The corners of Viktor's mouth twitched into a smile as devious delight ran rampant through the man; he loaded the gun, eyes lowly ablaze with excitement.

The revolver fired once. Twice.

"Tch," the russian frowned as a drop of blood stained his shoe. He fired his gun thrice at the limp body in annoyance, feeling the adrenaline slowly trickle out of his fingertips.

Huffing, he turned around, shoving the gloves back in their pouch as he threw it back to one of the henchmen, who looked pale with fright at the show they had just witnessed. They had known that Viktor Nikiforov, the head of Russian Mafia was a force to be reckoned with, but he... he was downright terrifying.
The boss stepping out of office to do the trivial dirty work himself instead of sending his men was unbeknownst to Mafia, yet Nikiforov didn't give a single fuck as he seemed to hold a penchant for getting mixed between crossfire and took a liking to delivering the final blow. Despite it all, the slightest hint of blood or death on him seemed to displease him to the ends of hell.

'What a petty man Nikiforov was,' the henchman shivered. 'Dangerous too,' he thought, flicking an eye to the lump of bloodied meat that lay on the road.

~

Now, Viktor was out of the alley, strutting about with that confident persona of his, a charming and handsome smile plastered onto his face. Unbeknownst to him, heads turned as he walked by, enraptured by the man's exquisite beauty and ostensible refinement; silky, platinum locks with piercing cerulean eyes and glistening skin, accentuated by that bewitching aura he commanded. A cunning front indeed, considering the fact that he had just brutally murdered a man a few minutes ago.

He veered towards the right, stepping into a quaint little street. He frequented this area as it had several interesting restaurants and cafés, and he had yet to try them all. Settling on what seemed to be an uninhabited 24-hour café, Viktor swung the door open, letting the scent of coffee seep in his system for a moment before closing the door shut behind him.

It turns out that there was a reason this café was empty, and that was because their food tasted like shit. The coffee was decent, but the mashed potatoes tasted like glue for fuck's sake. Well, at least he would be able to add this café to his list of "Places to never fucking eat at again unless the mission is to kill a target through food poisoning." Viktor shut his eyes as he leaned into the plush chairs, "If only the food was as good as the atmosphere," he muttered to himself. Tranquil and serene, soft background music, and the captivating smell of freshly brewed joe. Quite nice, don't you think? Then, faint clicking sounds gently wafted toward Viktor's ears, an almost staccato tapping. It was coming from the other side of the café, the side which wasn't all that viewable from the outside. 'Strange, there were more people actually dining in this crappy food café?', Viktor thought to himself.

He leaned to the side, narrowing his eyes as he searched as to where the sounds originated from. At the very back of the cafe sat a man, presumably asian, typing away at his laptop with complete focus, and... a pastel-pink blanket wrapped around him. Viktor stifled a laugh, hoping not to grab the man's attention as he observed some more.

He lifted his hand in the air to call for a waitress. Soon enough, a meek looking girl approached him. "How long has that man been here?" he asked as he flashed a smile, waving a 1000 Ruble bill in the air. Her eyes widened into saucers, scrambling to grab it and stuff it into her apron pocket. "S-since yesterday afternoon," the girl spluttered. "We let guests stay over for as long as they like, but we require them to order at least one item every couple of hours. That man has been ordering coffee non-stop since he arrived here, I doubt he even got a wink of sleep last night," she said. Viktor nodded, "I'll order another set of chicken and coffee with a side of mash, just have it sent to his table, if you get what I mean," he winked as he handed her his credit card. The girl flushed a bit before scurrying back to the register.

Noncholantly, Viktor picked up his cup of coffee and relocated to a table right beside the man's, flipping out his phone as he feigned innocence, swiping up and down his IG, as if he hadn't changed tables in order to get a better view of a stranger he had just met-- seen.

He wore blue-framed glasses above his-- rather warm-looking,-- chestnut hued orbs, his messy raven strands flew all over the place, clearly showing signs of being ruffled in frustration frequently. He wore a thick black, woolen sweater with some sweatpants, a red scarf lay on his lap. Viktor chuckled slightly at the clearly visible coffee stains underneath the scarf, whilst taking a sip off his own cup.His gaze shifted back onto the man's face, taking note of every detail, big or small. It was strange for him to hold this much curiosity for a man he had never met before, but there was just something about him that simply called out to Viktor.

He had smooth, pale skin, looking so pure and untainted, basking in the glow of his laptop screen. At the moment, he looked dead-ass tired, dark circles beggining to make their ascent from hell, his sweet, doe eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as he clung onto his cute blanket for dear life. He stared at the laptop as if staring at an abyss, with utter dedication, typing furiously at intervals. But, somehow, Viktor thought he seemed so alert, as if he was ready to slip a gun out of his pocket, load it and fire in such a speed, even with relying simply on his instinct-- if the situation called for it, of course. He was like a vulture ready to take flight and claw, like a hyena eyeing its prey. Like he was used to being active in the night, prowling around. There was a sense of danger and thrill residing in this man and his fluffy pastel blanket, though Viktor couldn't exactly name why.

Viktor cut off his own thoughts, chuckling in a bitter-sweet manner. He was being rather judgemental, wasn't he? It was just his gut speaking after all. Back to what he was doing, he noted that the man seemed to be writing up some kind of essay, perhaps he was still in college? He seemed like he was in his early-twenties, with that lean stature of his. Damn, he couldn't tell what his body structure looked like with all his layers of clothing. Practically the only skin that showed was his face, his (rather well-defined) neck, and his hands. His hands were... interesting, if Viktor could say so himself. Littered with calluses, oddly familar calluses at that. Also, there were a few scars here and there, and a small bruise just before his wrist got cut off by his long-sleeved sweater. Strange.

But god, why were his knuckles so seductive, flexing all over the place as his fingers tapped the keyboard? Wasn't this illegal? This man was bringing out sides of Viktor that he, himself didn't even know. Oh god, and fuck, his collarbones wer-

All of a sudden, the mystery man abruptly clapped his hands to his face, groaning wearily. He followed his previous action by slamming his face onto the keyboard, with great force, repeatedly. Viktor was tempted to reach out and stop him, but before he could do so, he stopped by his own regards, lifting his face off the laptop, staring blankly into the screen. Viktor couldn't help but laugh as the man's frustrated expression shifted into one of panic, hastily hitting the backspace button, presumably deleting the shit he had typed up using his face. After a while, he let out a mixed sigh of exasperation and relief, and slouched back onto the chair as he snuggled even deeper into his blanket as he let out a small, adorable sound, crossing his arms whilst furrowing his brows.

It was then that Viktor decided, that this man was cute. Terribly so.

Soon enough, the food Viktor had ordered for him arrived at his table, and luckily, he was close enough to hear his conversation with the waiter who had served it.

"N-no, I didn't order this," the man was quick to decline, shaking his head at the waiter. "Yeah, you didn't. Another customer ordered it for you. He took the bill as well," the waiter explained as he proceeded to lay out the meal on his table. "A-ah?" the customer stammered, "Wh-who?" he asked, a faint tinge of pink creeping up onto his face. "Um," the waiter straightened his back, glossing his eyes around the café before spotting Viktor, right behind him. He sighed, leaning towards the bespectacled customer. "The guy behind me," he muttered in a low voice before strutting his way back to the kitchen.

Confused, the customer turned his head to the side, blinking at Viktor.

The russian grinned as he turned to face the man, resting his chin on his palm. "Hi!" he winked.

"H-hello," replied the man, drumming his fingers on the table. Viktor stood up, relocating for the second time. "Would you mind if I sat with you?" he asked, gesturing to the seat on the other end of his table. "No! N-not at all!" the man exclaimed, "Please, take a seat. I-I'm Yuuri, you are?" he asked, looking at Viktor timidly. "Viktor Nikiforov, nice to meet you," he shoots back, resting his chin on a downturned hand. Yuuri nods, thinning his lips awkwardly.

"....."

"I really like your blanket," the russian interjected, eyeing the cloth which he was swaddled in. Yuuri flushed, hastily trying to hide it under the seat. "No- uh.. I- um.." "Don't be shy now," Viktor laughed. "It's the middle of winter after all. It's alright to keep warm, " he told him reassuringly. Yuuri smiled in relief, quickly slinging the cloth around him once again. "I can't tolerate the cold that well, you see. Plus, Russia is really cold compared to Japan." He said as he rubbed his hands together, reaching out for his cup of coffee.

"Ah! Thank you for the food by the way, uh.. V-Viktor, if it's o-okay to call you that," he stammered, grasping the coffee mug tightly. "Viktor is fine," he replies, "And the meal was nothing, honestly." Yuuri stared at the meal hesitantly, as if he had been presented something of great value and was too humble to accept it. "Are you sure it's okay? I could pay you back, t-though I don't have the money with me at the moment." "No, no. It's oka-" Viktor freezes, his mind calculating all the possibilities. "Wait. You mean, you'd contact me to pay me back? Like, ring me up or something? Then we'd meet up someplace?"

"Well.. that's how paying back works, right?" Yuuri said, smiling at him. "Then yes, I would very much like you to pay me back sometime." Viktor hummed as he fished his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Yuuri. "Here, dial it in." The man nods, though taking out his own cellphone and handing it to Viktor. "Please, do the same." Viktor grins happily.

After the exchange, both seemed to be in a pleasant mood, smiling at each other like idiots. Yuuri could now eat his meal without any guilt, and Viktor landed this cutie's cellphone number. "So, you were saying something about Japan?" the platinum-haired man inquired, swirling what was left of his joe. "Ah yeah," Yuuri mumbled through mashed potatoes, "I live in Kyushu, it's just that I came to Russia for some.. business." Weird. Viktor noted that Yuuri's face seemed to darken at the word 'business', though only for a slight moment. Brushing it off, Viktor continued to question the man. "Business? So you aren't in college then?" Yuuri spluttered on his mash. "Damn, do I look that young? This is why no one takes me seriously!" he groaned. "I'm 24, very much adult, very much legal and very much working," he emphasized. "Sorry, did I strike a nerve?" Viktor bit his lip, quite worried he had offended the man across him.

Yuuri sighed, "No, no. It isn't your fault. It's just that... Y'know what? Nevermind. What about you?" he asked, attempting to change the conversation. "Me?" Viktor hummed, "I'm 28, and I live here, in St. Petersburg. I own a dog and I'm single. That's pretty much everything to me," he laughs. "Single?" Yuuri clarifies. "There's nothing strange about that, I presume?" Viktor arched a brow as the younger man blushed furiously."No- I didn't mean- it's just that I was a bit shocked, y'know? A g-good-looking person like you? Single? If you get my gist," he laughed nervously, twiddling his fingers. Viktor beamed at the comment. "It's not that remarkable, y'know," he chuckled. "Besides, what's more remarkable is your capability to eat those mashed potatoes without gagging." Yuuri raised his spoon to the side, waving it around. "I've been living on caffeine since yesterday, I'm not being picky now," he shot back. Viktor snickered, "Why don't you just go back to wherever you're living in Russia? I mean, can't you do your work there? Plus, you won't be obligated to buy a cup of coffee every two hours." Yuuri's face stiffened, letting out a sigh. "Home..." he muttered weakly, almost like a whisper, barely audible. Viktor hummed awkwardly, it had seemed he had unwittingly delved into deeper issues. He tried shifting the topic. "S-so, back to what we were discussing, what business brought you all the way to russi-" the elder was cut off by the hum of his phone, vibrating on the tabletop.

It was Yakov. He screamed internally, letting a small groan escape past his lips. 'What did he want now?' Viktor thought, picking his phone up disdainfully. "I'll have to take this," he told Yuuri, "Excuse me for a moment." Yuuri nodded, "Take your time."

Viktor quickly walked outside the shop, shifting the phone onto his ear. "Yes, Yakov? What is it?" A grumble was made audible from the other end. "Vitya, it's 11 in the evening, you have a fuck ton of contracts to see to, and you haven't even stepped into your office once today! You've been seated as the Boss for less than 2 months, don't you dare disgrace the Russian Mafi-" Viktor scoffed, "Yakov please, I've gotten almost all the rivalry at our feet in those two months, something your reign of 10 years couldn't even scratch."

"Exactly!" Yakov exclaimed, "For fuck's sake Vitya, I'm not denying what you've accomplished, but you have to decide strategically who you're going to befriend and who you're going to demolish to let our group grow, expand. That's what contracts are for, dammit! Ever since you've started shutting up those rival groups, your contracts and opportunities have doubled, but your enemies have tripled. Don't be so hasty! And for once could you do your job in the office, and leave the fieldwork to the grunts?"

Viktor grit his teeth, "You know I love action, Yakov." "I'm not telling you to stop doing fieldwork, Jesus Christ. But just get your ass over here and review all these proposals, PLEASE. The papers are collecting dust, Vitya!" Responsibility and guilt tugged on Viktor's heart, feelings he thought he had locked away. "Fiiiine," he groaned, ending the call as he dropped his phone back into his breast pocket.

He walked back into the store, heading towards his previous companion, only to find Yuuri asleep on the table, resting his head on the cold marble. Viktor didn't have the heart to wake him from his desperately needed slumber, though the curiosity still bit at him like a bitch. What business did he mean? Why didn't he want to go home? Relationship status? What brand was his blanket? More and more questions swirled around Viktor's head, leaving him with the feeling that his encounter with Yuuri had been way too brief. He pursed his lips. Oh well, at least he had his number. He'd be free to meet up with him later on, right? Ah. Speaking of number, Viktor switched his phone open, deciding to leave Yuuri a message to explain his absence for him to see once he had woken.

'I didn't have it in me to wake you up, so I went on ahead. Call me soon, okay? '

Aaaand sent.

Viktor smiled softly before reaching down to pull Yuuri's warm, pink blanket higher over his shoulders, hopefully granting him more warmth. But god fuck damn he was cute as hnggggg, cheeks pressed onto the table, a pink hue settled on his face. Breathing in and out metrically, small puffs of air being exhaled, fogging up his lopsided glasses. The way his hair effortlessly framed his face in such a warm manner as his wet lips glistened under the lights had Viktor's heart in a twist of extreme longing and restraint. The russian felt a violent urge to squeeze something because how the fuck could a single person be this adorable? Slowly, he ruffled the other man's hair affectionately, heating up when Yuuri unconciously tried to nuzzle into Viktor's hand, whimpering softly. 'His hair was so soooft,' Viktor whined wantonly, biting his lip before finally shoving his hand back into his coat pocket. One last look back at the sleeping beauty, and Viktor was gone.

Well, after he took one or two pictures. Or 56.

Fine.

156.

Chapter Text

The first time Viktor Nikiforov had attended a funeral was when he was an innocent youth, 8 years, give or take. The slight pain he felt as his nails pierced through his palm as his beloved mother slowly dissapated into the earth; stony stare never leaving ground, whilst a searing heat teased at the back of his eyes, threatening to spill out--but he held through. After all he had experienced, he doubted that there was anything that he couldn't hold his way through.

The second time he had gone, his hands were bloodied and his shoulders held a heavier weight. It was rather... bold of him to present himself at the funeral of his first victim, all formal and full of grief-- all phony, mind you. But in this case, it was obligatory for him, y'know, since he was the dead guy's son.

"Poor kid, first his mother, now his father..."

"At such a young age too.."

"He must be traumatized, that poor thing, waking up to find the bloodied mess on the floor."

Viktor scoffed at all of these remarks. In reality, the boy was shaking with either gulit or delight, or maybe both. He really couldn't tell, with his adrenaline running high as a 14-year old's adrenaline could run; memories of how his father's screams pierced the air when he drove the kitchen knife straight into that old drunkard's chest, flowed in his mind, the touch of warm blood still lingering on Viktor's face. He remembered it clear as day, how the remaining morality in him had snapped in half when his father-- if he could even call him that-- had the raw audacity to snatch little Vitya's most valuable possesion, a small picture of his mother that he had been hoarding desperately for the past 5 years. Get this, he didn't just steal it from him, he spat on it, cussed her name and screamed insults at the photo in a degrading tone, a sense of mockery running across his eyes as he tossed the photograph to the crackling hearth.

That was it, he crossed the line. Drunken stupor or not, it didn't matter anymore. Viktor grabbed the knife he had been chopping tomatoes with and did the deed, reveling in his momentary incredulous look; as if he had never expected his frail and petite Vitya to rebel in any way and remain his plaything until the day he died. The man couldn't be wronger--if that was even a word. Beneath the kid's young, pale and quivering exterior, he had a fire that couldn't be doused, a heady determination that could take the boy distances, and a solid gift of talent. Nevertheless, a throbbing sense of guilt twisted his chest, weeping softly for the loss of kindred innocence.

After months of constantly running from those nosy assholes, otherwise known as child services workers, seeking to place Viktor in a stuffy orphanage, he stumbled upon Yakov in one of the alleys, and that was that. After climbing up the Mafia, his sense of reason and morality slowly faded away as all he was left with was the sadistic joy of violence and control, plus his growing experience in the dealings of death and hell.

Then on, Viktor never attended his victim's funerals, I mean-- who would?

And that was it, that was all funerals and Viktor Nikiforov had in their relationship. Though right now, Viktor felt terribly close to the point where he would very much like to shoot a bullet through a specific man's head, and attend their funeral out of spite, most likely pelting pebbles at his coffin as it went down into the soil.

"I stumble upon one of your old contracts, and you mean to tell me you simply forgot about a matter of this importance?! What the fuck do you mean you don't remember about a contract you signed with the Japanese Mafia three months ago when you were still in charge?!" Viktor screeched, slamming his hands on his desk as he glared at a genial Yakov. "How many damn times do you want me to apologize?" Yakov sighed for the upteenth time, "It isn't such a big deal anyways, I-" Viktor let out a low, guttural sound, "Appointing my right hand man without my consent is a big deal to me, Yakov!" Ah, fuck. Well this certainly ruined Viktor's ardor filled memories of the day before. "And from the fucking Japanese Mafia? Why the fuck would you do that?! Whatever happened to the candidates from the Russian Mafia?!"

"You're being too bratty about this, Vitya! You haven't even met him for christ's sake!" Yakov retorted, crossing his arms in an exasperated manner. "Well what do you know about him, Yakov? Huh?! They didn't even supply you his name!" Viktor fumed, hitting a stack of papers he had worked so hard on the previous night. "What I do know, is that he's a very capable and hardworking man. One of the best in this generation. He excels in both active-duty and officework, a guy someone like you could use," Yakov hissed. "The deal's set in stone, Vitya. Unfortunately for you, you're just going to have to learn to like your new consigliere," he deadpanned as he flung two folders towards Viktor, who quickly caught them mid-air. "The red one's a description file I recieved, and the blue one contains his skillset and previous accomplishments, I'm sure you'll find his capabilities more than enough," Yakov said concisely.

"Wait," Viktor cut in, "So you're saying that you traded our assets for one fucking man? Yakov, are you fucking serious?" "Well, that is how a trade works, in case you didn't know," Yakov mused. "But why?! I don't understand why we even need this man in the first place!" Viktor cried in aggravation, extremely close to tearing his hair off his scalp. "Says the man who went around the country, raiding rival clans left and right," Yakov spat.

"You do undertand that because of that you've made even more enemies than you have defeated. Most of the clans you've raided have other goddamn branches, and they're infuriated, Viktor. Infuriated. Did you even stop to think that they had allies who would undoubtably, eventually target us because of your hasty actions?!" he yelled, "We're going to need backup, now more than ever because of your rash ruling." Viktor grit his teeth. As much as he'd like to, there was no denying the facts. Perhaps he had been too quick to judge whether it had been necessary to barge in all the mafia hideouts he could find and kill all their men and take their women. And take everything they owned.

Yakov glared triumphantly at the speechless man. "Also, in case it had slipped your mind, the museum heist is coming up, and frankly, you, Babicheva, Plisetsky and Popovich are goint to need some assistance," he said. Viktor growled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Y'know what? I'm done. I'm going to buy some food in the canteen," he spoke blandly, kicking the door open as he trudged grumpily outside, gripping the folders much harder than he ought to.

"He'll be coming in an hour!" Yakov yelled, "Get your ass fixed by then!"

"I'm buying biscuits and milk and it's going on your tab!"

____________________________________________________________

Damn, were the Japanese trying to fuck with Viktor intentionally?

The blue folder contained the guy's birthday, height, age, blood-type, marital status, hobbies and his favorite meal, but it didn't hold the more important things in life, such as, I don't know, perhaps his goddamn name? Or even how he looked like! None, no trace of either at all!

Viktor rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath. He had to calm down, otherwise he felt like his glass of milk would shatter under his grasp.

"Let's see," he mumbled to himself. Apparantly the man was born on November 29, 1992, he was 173 cm tall, 24 years old, blood type A, and single. He liked to skate and play video games in his free time, and he enjoyed a 900-cal pork cutlet bow- 'Oh, there's a side note,' Viktor thought, eyes shifting to the upper right corner of the paper, where 'Gains weight easily, moody at times.'-- was printed in small font. Viktor narrowed his eyes. He kinda felt like he was getting swindled by a peddler on the streets, paying double the amount for a kilo of rotten fruit. Well, either way, if he didn't find the guy satisfying, it's out of his power to do any more. Viktor groaned, drumming his fingers irritably on the table.

"Now, his skill set.."

Oh man, you've gotta be shitting me.

This kid had his highschool diploma, his college degree, and he apparantly took part in developing several lines of weaponry? Discovered toxins? Taekwando? Karate? Katana? Sniping? What the hell? Was this kid really 24? Oh, and apparantly, he single-handedly raked in 98.6 Billion dollars in cash last year. Haha, no. That was more than half of the Yakuza's annual earning, there was no fucking way a man could eve-- fuck! Viktor was seething, steam practically blowing out of his ears. God, he couldn't even think properly anymore! It was like he was being mocked, like someone was trying to piss him off just for the heck of it. Did they really think that he would fall for this sham?

"I'm done," Viktor spat as he shut the file, slamming it down onto the table. There were still two more pages to go on, but if the first page was bull, pages two and three would be bull too.

He was going to meet with this 'Miracle Consigliere,' beat the truth out of his prissy ass, sneer at him and send him packing back to Japan or wherever the fuck he came from.

Except for the fact that he couldn't do that. After all, the contract's plastered in stone.

Fuck.

Maybe he could treat the guy as a disposable resource, sending him to the frontline to die, Viktor chuckled bitterly.

Viktor picked up the file from the table.

____________________________________________________________

He was here. Well, he was still in the elevator, but still.

Viktor was nervous, hands trembling as he waited in his office, way more nervous than he should be. Yakov was being a bitch and refused to accompany him, under the complete bullshit reason of: "You have to learn how to deal with these situations by yourself." Well damn, if the guy pissed him off the edge, it would be Yakov's fault for not being there to stop Viktor from breaking his arm, right?

Having a consigliere, otherwise known as a right-hand man, was certainly new to Viktor, since he had spent his entire time being in the Mafia doing his craft alone; aside from the times he had needed back-up from either Plisetsky, Babicheva or Popovich, which was very seldom, mind you. He had perfected the art of working alone, all his struggle to polish his solidarity, was now supposedly going down in the drain. 'Thanks, Yakov.' Once a contract had been signed, there was no going back, and Viktor knew that well; he supposed that he would just have to grit his teeth and face the storm, settling for the spoiled fruit. Troubling inqueries relentlessly plagued Viktor's mind, feeding off his well-bred nihilism. Would he be able to adjust to working with someone? Would his partner be an ass? If he was an ass, could he break the contract? Would he be able to succeed in teamwork? Damn, why was the elevator taking so long?

Aha, speak of the devil.

'Ding!' The elevator chimed from outside his office, signaling that his guest had arrived.

His keen senses picked up on the very moment the doorknob turned, causing his breath to hitch in anticipation as the door swung open, rather dramatically in Viktor's point of view. And oh boy, the sight that he saw next was already emblazoned onto his mind for eternity the moment he had seen it.

Viktor wanted to scream. His consigliere was fuckin'-- actually, there were no words able to describe how Viktor felt about this man as he stood in awe.

Slicked raven hair, with a few stray strands here and there. (Which, mind you, only made him look a fuckton better,) Black suit and black tie accentuating his stark-white dress shirt, and sleek black pants paired with handsome dark-brown loafers. A silver watch glistened on his wrist, metallic sheen catching Viktor's eye for a moment, coupled with a pair of dark-hued gloves. He held a computer bag on his left hand, his right hand still resting on the doorknob, quickly turning promtly to close it shut.

If this man was spoiled fruit, Viktor had to admit, he hid his incompetencies excellently behind his coat of stunning appearance.

He then shifted his gaze onto Viktor, locking his bright chestnut eyes with Viktor's cold, cerulean pierce. The man froze in his tracks, eyes widening at the sight of the russian's face; it seemed as if he had been struck by some sort of enlightenment, his orbs glazing through Viktor, up and down. He blinked in disbelief, mouth slightly agape. "You," he breathed out, an incredulous expression stuck on his face, his word slightly toned as an inquiry. Not sure whether it was a question or a statement, Viktor hummed in confusion, cocking his head to the side. "Excuse me?" The man's eyes dimmed all of a sudden, thinning his lips as he shook his head, a pink hue present on his cheeks. "S-sorry, it was nothing," he muttered, straightening himself up, returning to his original poise.

Viktor nodded slowly, gesturing for him to sit on one of the chairs beside his coffee table, occupying the one right across his. "So, you're Vikto- I mean, Mr. Nikiforov, I presume?" The man started, settling in his chair. "Y-yes," Viktor replied, did he almost call him Viktor? "I see."

Something was... off. This man, he seemed... so familiar, it was like déjà vu hit him square in the face, and it he didn't feel it, but it still made his heart swirl into a cesspool of unknowns.The russian felt something in his heart rekindle as he gazed upon him, a feeling that he had experienced not so long ago, but simultaneously felt like an eternity; a feeling of longing and ache, mixed with something he couldn't tap his finger onto.

"So," Viktor smiled politely, "Your name?" The man scrunched his face in bemusement, "Didn't you get a file? Two files, to be precise. Everything's there, isn't it?"

Viktor hummed tauntingly, slightly amused. "Yes. I did recieve a couple of files, and yet both turned out to be exceedingly incredulous." The giddiness and apprehensiveness simmered in Viktor's system and the irritation he had felt in the pantry bubbled up.

"No name, identification visual, background, but, forntunately for you, I now know your hobbies, quirks, trivial matters. Normally, I would've taken this as an insult, y'know, depriving me of the essentials. I would have twisted your arm the moment you stepped through that door if you weren't so easy on the eyes," he smirked. The man looked offended. "What?! No, I-"

"Cut the excuses, see for yourself," he said, pushing the red file onto the table.

Silent moments passed as soon as the man picked the file up, turning it open, slowly running his eyes through it. A frown fell on his face, exhaling a breathy curse. "Y-you're right," he frowned. "I-"

"Tut tut tut, dorogoy mal'chik, there's more."

"More?"

"I refuse to believe a majority of things printed on these three sheets of paper," Viktor feigned a smile, handing the blue file over. The man took it with haste, scanning it's content. In less than a minute, his frustration was evident. Viktor didn't fail to catch the slight crease in his forehead, his small, raspy sigh, much less all the other body signals being thrown out that screamed stress. And being the high-key pompous ass Viktor was, he pressed on with a sickly sweet edge. "Hmm," he hummed, "Did you really single handedly earn 98.6 Billion? Develop lines of weaponry? Poisons? I didn't even bother with the rest of the list because, bluntly put, I don't take interest in the false," he paused.

"Like most, I prefer the truth, so spit it out."

The air turned stale.

The man took a deep breath, setting both files back down onto the table and swung his leg over the other, shifting in his seat ever so slightly. "Close the blinds, lock the door, and turn off the cameras." He spoke with a steely tone, eyes half-lidded, locked on Viktor. "Is it really that importan-"

"Not to be rude, Mr. Nikiforov," he cut in politely, "But just fucking do it."

Viktor raised a brow in speculation. Oddly enough, he felt like he was the lower ranked person in this room, a heavy feeling settling on his chest. It didn't feel nice.

"Alright," he replied, "But first, your name." Whether he was hoping that implementing a condition would spring him back to the superior being in the vicinity or he just couldn't fend off the curiosity, he had no idea which. But hey, it was a win-win situation for him.

"Katsuki. Call me Katsuki," the man shot back, toying absent-mindedly with the rim of his gloves. "Very well."

And so, in less than a minute, Viktor had locked the doorknob, pulling the string to close the blinds as the light suffocated to get through. "Now, you may proceed," he urged him, crossing his arms as he leaned on a wall. "Surveilance cameras? Microphones?" Katsuki pointed out suspiciously, feeling his lips tug slightly downwards. "None in my office room. I don't like being watched doing my stuff," Viktor smirked, letting his head hang to the side. A raised brow and a calcluating look made itself present on Katsuki, a small breath escaping his lips.

"Fair enough."

"Everything in those files are true," he smiled sourly, tapping a foot in a rhythm. Viktor opened his mouth to protest, cut off by Katsuki's addition: "--except for the 'single handedly' part."

"Meaning?"

"I had a team back in Japan."

Viktor leaned into the chair's plush, shifting his gaze to the files that lay on the table. "Though it does seem extremely tough to complete these accomplishments, even with a team, don't you think?"

"Well," Katsuki grinned bitterly, "We were a pretty fucking badass team, eh?"

The russian sighed, tilting his head towards the ceiling. "Fine, I'll buy it."

"After all, those pretty lips are the ones selling it," he grinned a shit-eating grin, snapping his head back to Katsuki, with a quick wink. "Pravil'no?"

Katsuki shifted in his seat, clearing out his throat. "Uh, Mr. Niki-"

"Viktor."

"Right, Viktor. Could you please refrain from dropping side comments or words in Russian?"

Viktor scowled at this, feigning offense. "And why is that?"

Jumping to defense immediately, "Not that it isn't nice- the Russian language is very prett-Not that I specifically like it or anythi- I mean-"

"You're rambling," Viktor grinned. Cute, he's not even close to an echo of the cool, stern persona Viktor had met a few minutes ago. Almost as if he had been with him before. (The fire was starting to burn again.)

It was Katsuki's turn to scowl at Viktor, creasing his forehead. "I don't enjoy being talked about in a language I can't understand."

"Well, what if I explain it to you?" Viktor nudged, rather liking his to ability to flirt indiscreetly with this man in Russian. "That- that's okay, I guess," Katsuki sighed, nervousness dissipating back into the abyss.

"My poluchayem ot temy," Viktor said, a smile ghosting his mouth.

"What?"

He chuckled, "It means that we're getting off topic."

"Right. Sorry about that," Katsuki nodded.

"Anyways," he continued, "You're aware of the Kyushu Dispute, I assume?"

Viktor scoffed, "More like Kyushu War, eh? I'm not familiar with all the details, but I do know enough." The japanese seemed amused at Viktor's claim, resting his chin on a down-turned palm. "Oh? Do tell me your understanding, Viktor."

"The Yakuza got split into two due to internal conflict, therefore throwing almost the whole Kyushu region into chaos. It started small in Fukuoka, but it kept on spreading until the demise of one of the two sides of the clan, I'm just not sure which. If my memory serves correct, it ended last year?" Viktor said a-matter-of-factly, looking pleased with himself, succesfully remembering all this.

On the other hand, Katsuki's side of the room seemed to go dark.

"Ended last year, huh?" Katsuki laughed solemnly, "I wish."

Viktor's smile dropped, feeling a sense of danger float by him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the dispute isn't over yet."

"That's-"

"Shut up and listen, Nikiforov. I'm only explaining this once," Katsuki snapped, thinning his lips.

"I'm the Yakuza's leader. Well, one side of it."

First sentence in the explanation and Viktor's jaw was wide open, about to splutter a comment, but ceased at Katsuki's stony glare.

"The dispute isn't over yet, but we were at the brink of defeat. Scarce supplies due to continually being raided, and more than half of my men were wounded or injured." Katsuki paused, staring right into Viktor's eyes. "The chance we had in winning the dispute was about as big as a snowball's chance in hell."

"Therefore, I sold myself to the Russian Mafia. Ergo, you."

Chapter Text

A water rapid lay beside him, at the heart of thick, dewy greenery. It intimidated him to his wits' end, fear only exacerbated as it roared wildly. Water rammed onto the boulder studded riverbed, hacking spurts onto his face and dragging anything it touches helplessly flailing downstream.

Yuuri dives in headfirst.

---

Two months ago, Hasetsu-Cho

It was dark outside, and the moon shone brightly against the fluttering sakura petals, casting an exquisite silhouette on the cold warehouse floor. The air he breathed out was heavy and stale, while the disgustingly musky scent of his home flooded his senses and scratched the back of his throat, bringing his clock to a standstill. It had been where they all started, this warehouse. A handful of uncouth millennial upstarts, lead by the Yakuza heir, the team was destined to become the Yakuza’s governing party. Their first year of assembly had been a stone in the semi-stagnant river of the Japanese social hierarchy; infamy bled into greatness, upstarts morphed into legends.They moved out to a larger complex four years later, but the warehouse still held great sentimental potency to the team.

A large-enough flat had been supplied to them by Yuuri's father, blandly referred to as (surprise, surprise): "The Warehouse." --which Phichit thought of as boring, though begrudgingly conceded to its pragmatic uses in the field; "The warehouse" being an unassuming (though pretentiously explicit) name that didn't immediately scream “Mafia HQ" at first glance. Yuuri remembers the room painted with vivid colors and strewn with pastel streamers, as per Yuu-chan's request. He remembered all of the times the team had faced problems as if it were nothing, like they were an unstoppable force; all of the times when nobody had anything else to do so they just ran around, laughing and acting as if they were normal people. All that's left now, is a shell of The Warehouse's former glory.

He thought about the paint that was halfway through peeling completely off, and full way to being lethal to anyone with asthma. Anything relatively new hadn't touched the warehouse in a long time— unless you counted new damages. Cobwebs were strung at every nook and cranny, dirt granules creating friction at the sole of his feet. No light fixtures to provide light, save for the natural moonlight. They used to have plastic dividers installed in the room, dividing it into seven major areas. But now, it was just pitifully bare. At the corner of his eyes, light reflected on something plastered on the wall. Ah, the floor plan. Paint had scraped off, dust encrusted like everything else in here.

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. Everything hung on how he would escape from his predicament, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip in a predatory whir. And perhaps it had been the blood dripping down his nose, the cut in his lip, or maybe the steady throbbing of his chest, but he could feel adrenaline throbbing in his bloodstream-- thrill. Stupid, attention-seeking, and self-consuming thrill.

There he stood, in the middle of the room, eyes shining with panic as his gun, stowed away in his belt shone dangerously under the moon, its metal burning through his skin like acid. He flicked his eyes to Phichit, to Minami, then the door that sat between them at the other end of the room. Sure, the warehouse had secret passageways, but he was positive that the keys to them was inside his desk drawer, a mile away from where he was now. Scram for the back door? Not unless he wanted a thorn in his eye, and maybe an extra nostril. Windows? They were barred. Thanks, 17 year old Yuuri.

"You're staying," Phichit clamored, spreading his arms out wide as an attempt to barricade the door. "No," Yuuri bit back, "I'm leaving." He took a step forward, "I need to."

Phichit grabbed Minami by the hand, dragging him beside him, a futile effort to create a wall, Yuuri thought.

"Sit down, Yuuri!" he yells with a tone of finality, voice thundering through the room. "Please," Minami adds, quiet but full of meaning.

"I don't want to use force, guys. Let me go; everything will be okay," Yuuri tries to convince them, taking another step forward. "Try me," Phichit taunted, eyes narrowed into slits. Minami looked conflicted, unsure which way to proceed, yet squeezed Phichit's hand with much fervor. Deep inside, Yuuri was filled with pride, to see his elites face him with little to no fear. He was proud to have helped in bringing them to where they stood now. "I will."

Yuuri lunged forward, a smile ghosting his lips as his shoes tapped on the ground at an allegro. He swerved around Minami at breakneck speed, delivering a clean hit behind his knees, resulting into the youth's inevitable fall. Minami spluttered as his face hit the floor with a whoosh, instinctively scrambling away to regain composure. Meanwhile, Yuuri wasted no time in whirring around in an attempt to deliver a high-kick to Phichit's head, to be stopped by the thai's grip. "Nice try," he smirked, twisting Yuuri's leg over his head, shifting his body weight to slam him down on the floor.

Yuuri's met with cold, rotting wood at his back, and Phichit's arm barring down his throat, his leg pinning down Yuuri's knees. Undeniable weight pressed down on Yuuri's throat, leaving him grappling for whatever air he could intake, wheezing desperately. While pithy was reflected in the thai's face, he showed no indication of stopping until Yuuri had passed out.

Yuuri scrunched up his face as he broke through Phichit's leg barrier, and landed a hit to his groin, leaving the thai reeling and groaning on the floor. Yuuri quickly spluttered to life, chest heaving up and down, jumping up to stance. He ran for the door, before a the small of his back received a solid kick from Phichit's heel, and the floor meets his stomach in a barrage of pain.

Giving him no time to process, his side is met again with a blitz of kicks, ultimately slamming into a pillar. Yuuri feels the slick, coppery taste of blood grapple at the back of his throat, hissing in pain. His hand leaned onto the concrete pillar for support, heaving himself up to sit on the floor, breath broken and rushed. "Are you done?" Phichit says, crouching down to Yuuri's level, inflection filled with amusement.

Yuuri laughs, spitting a wad of crimson straight onto Phichit's face. He yells in disgust, staggering upwards, then backwards, hand instinctively reaching up to wipe it off. Yuuri takes the chance, sending an uppercut to his jaw. Phichit groans, sending his head whipping upwards at lightning speed. Yuuri pants, returning to stance, preparing for the returning attack, when a light at the corner of his eye catches his attention. A pipe.

His eyes widen, scrambling to the corner of the room to snatch the obsolete piece of metal from the floor. Freshly armed, he rammed the tip of the pipe square into Phichit's back, ergo, causing the thai to slam into the very pillar that Yuuri was backed into just a moment ago with a loud thud. Oh, how the tables turn. Yuuri found himself grinning triumphantly for a second, blood smudged at the corner of his lips. Then comes the regret and worry. His eyes flash with panic, thinking about what he had just done unto his best friend, tempted to help the currently concussed and dazed man on the floor. Oh god, is Phichit's forehead bleeding? It is? Oh g--

A sweeping kick from below whisked his feet off the floor, rolling to the ground. Minami looked down at him carefully, unsheathing the dagger he kept for life or death instances. Yuuri sees how his eyes darted towards Phichit's direction worriedly for a moment, then back to Yuuri's face, with a concoction of determination and worry painted on his face.

Yuuri sprang up with his back, skillfully dodging Minami's safety dagger. Methodical slashes are delivered quickly, and Yuuri is impressed, looks like science whiz has been training like he told him to. He parries the blade with his bare hands easily, jabbing the blunt side to deflect it safely. Seconds of the steady rhythm of slash and parry bleeds into minutes, and Yuuri breaks it with a punch aimed at his nose, barely dodged in time, but dodged. Yuuri clicks his tongue, parrying yet another strike, ducking down to hit the Minami's centre with his arm. A hard hit.

Minami's abdomen concaves, tipping over before desperately shifting all his weight upwards to backflip away from Yuuri's grasp. He wipes a drop of red from his mouth, jabbing his blade swiftly into Yuuri's chest, who just sidesteps each one with grace. "I don't want to do this, Yuuri-kun!" he yells, jabbing the weapon quickly towards his shoulder. Thrown off by Minami's sudden wail, Yuuri slides to the side a moment too late, a small graze of blood by his arm. "Me neither," he replies bitterly, grabbing a hold of Minami's wrist, who at the moment, seemed dazed at the blood cascading down Yuuri's arm. He twists it harshly, an unpleasant crack filling the room, next comes Minami's tear-wrecked scream and a loud thud to the floor.

Shit.

"Shit!" Yuuri shouts, dropping his knees to Minami's aid. Oh god, no, no, no, no! He didn't mean-- he shouldn't have put that much force into it! The poor boy withered at sight, crumpling into the foetal position. He gently but hurriedly prods his fingers over Minami's arm, a sigh of relief escaping his lips after a few seconds. Dislocated. That's it. Just dislocated. "Minami, Minami," he called desperately, Minami whimpering in response. "It-it's going to be okay, just-just a little pain," he lies through gritted teeth.

"You have to be brave. One last time, for me. Please. I'm so sorry, Minami, please-- you have to be brave." Tears slip through Minami's face and Yuuri's chest tightens in deep, deep regret. "You're a brave boy," Yuuri whispers, taking a deep breath as he grabbed his arm, angling it from his side. "45 degrees, 45 degrees, 45 degrees," Yuuri murmured frantically to himself, "45 degrees, 45 degrees." The chant became more and more of a prayer as time rolled past, a plea to the heavens. "Breathe, Minami, breathe."

He latched his foot onto Minami's side as an anchor, and he pulled downwards, hard. A shiver-inducing crack reverberated through Yuuri's fingertips. Minami screamed a blood-curling scream, eyes rolled over in pain. Yuuri's ears began ringing funnily, skin prickling with heat. Minami's tears never stopped, body half-arched and shaking with his sobs, filling Yuuri with dread that he never knew existed. "Minami, Minami," he called out again, "Can you move your arm?" Yuuri pleaded, eyes still wide with terror.

The youth seemed like he was in hell, clearly screaming his lungs out, except nothing would come out, silent yells of agony wracked him. "Minami, forgive me," Yuuri gripes, resting his hands on Minami's shoulder and arm. He slowly began to move it up and down, to see if the socket was properly in place. "Does it hurt, Minami? Please, please, Minami, talk to me," he begs, pressing his lips onto the boy's forehead. "Thank.. y-you," the boy finally whispered back, tearful eyes gazing up at him.

Yuuri breathes. He exhales. Panic and regret ooze out of his pores, backing away hurriedly from Minami, as he can't look at the boy without his heart twisting in pain. He runs, as fast as his legs can take him, coughing and hacking on the dusty air, and reaches the door. He smiles bitterly. Door, at last. His hands are already twisting the doorknob when a familiar click reaches his ears. "You wouldn't," he says knowingl-- bang. It all happens so fast. Sudden pressure builds up inside Yuuri's right ear, a quick, stentorian explosion letting itself go. Yuuri doesn't even flinch. Years of training taught him that. The door is dented, and the bullet drops to the ground with a soft clink. Ringing, ringing. All he can hear is ringing. His head hurts. More ringing. Yuuri can't hear through his right side.

"Damn," he whispers to himself. Yuuri turns around, hands in the air. Phichit looked terrified, eyes wide at what he had done. Unbelieving, even. "Phich--"

"Wall!" he splutters, voice panicky, using the gun to point the corner of the room. Yuuri opens his mouth to say something, but is cut short. "WALL!" Phichit's voice booms, hand trembling slightly. Yuuri sighs. He does as is ordered, his back touching the concrete. Phichit doesn't drop the gun. "You're staying," he says, emphasizing every vowel with conviction. "I'm not." Yuuri takes in a deep breath, his glare drilling holes into Phichit's skull. He swiftly dips his left hand down, seizing his gun that was stashed away in his belt the whole time, releasing the safety and cocking it into Phichit's direction, all in one breath.

The thai's breath hitches. "I'm- I'm not going to shoot you, Yuuri," he reassures, voice softening. "That didn't seem like the case a while ago," Yuuri snarled, running his hand over his right ear, still ringing relentlessly. "I-I.. That was a mistake, Yuuri. I- I didn't know what else to do, so I--" Phichit cuts his own sentence short with a sigh, face creasing frustratedly. "Okay, look, here," he says, slowly lowering his hand to the ground. Yuuri watches carefully as Phichit's handgun is tossed to the side. "Now, you do the same--"

"No." Yuuri holds his gun up high, aimed straight at Phichit's chest. "Yuuri--"

"No! You're a fool, tossing out your weapon!" he shouts, "Now, let me out, or I shoot!" The air stiffens, both parties waiting to see what the other would do. A stalemate, I suppose. Phichit looked like he's having an internal war, and Yuuri looked lost, doubting whether what he was doing was correct. "Not quite," Phichit finally sighs, slipping a syringe from under his coat sleeve. "Don't, Phichit-kun! Don't do it! It's not safe yet!" Minami suddenly interjects from the other side of the room, still lying on the floor. "It's our only chance!" Phichit replies, pupils dilated in unspoken, unshown fear.

Yuuri's mind flashes, memories flooding through. Tranquilizer. Minami had said three months ago, that he was on the verge of synthesizing a powerful tranquilizer made from natural resources that could be mass produced, only that there had been some complications. The tranq sent you to sleep for three days each dose, and though it had been a success in the rat testing, a month later, 25% of the rats that had been dosed grew unprecedented brain tumors, leading to their doom.

"You're fucking insane," Yuuri exhaled, gripping the gun tighter than ever. "Then drop the gun, and stay!" Phichit cried, walking slowly towards Yuuri, syringe exposed. Yuuri tried to back away, pressing his body into the cold concrete, dust lining his fingertips. “Phichit!” He yells desperately, shaking his head. Needless to say, the thai marched on. Thump, thump, thump, went Yuuri’s heart, beating out of his chest.Thump, thump, thump, it screamed. "Phichit-kun, stop it!" Minami wailed, standing up as fast as he could, legs stiff with fear. “Phichit-kun, no!”

"I-I'm going to shoot," Yuuri warned, his hand was quivering.

"You wouldn't dare."

Phichit took a step forward.

"Phichit, not one more step."

He took two steps forward.

"Phichit!"

Phichit lunged forward.

Let me tell you something, something only few know about. In this moment, Yuuri Katsuki was scared. Horrified. Terrified. Scared for what would happen to him in he got injected, scared for what he did to Minami, scared to leave his team and depart Japan, scared for what would happen to his men, scared of what he could do to Phichit. Yuuri Katsuki was enveloped with fear at this very moment, the same kind of fear that a child experiences when finding that he or she is lost for the very first time, the same kind of fear that one feels when being faced with something new and unknown, the fear that everyone feels from time to time, might it be petty or serious. Pure, unadulterated fear.

Yuuri felt his finger pull the trigger.

"No!" He found himself screaming for time to stop and wait, so that he could take back the bullet that he had just released into the air. Scarlet flooded his peripheral vision, staining his clothes. Anguished screams became fuzzy in his head, and the ringing in his right ear was only getting stronger. Yuuri felt like he was going to throw up. "Oh my god," he said, "I-I did’n- I didn’t--." The bullet had connected at Phichit's lower abdomen, bleeding profusely, while the man himself was unconscious on the ground. Yuuri dropped his gun. "Oh my god." His hands were shaking, his hands were red. His breath accelerated, his head throbbed, and everything just felt so wrong.

Red was the color that his world was tinted with when he looked up, it is the color of Minami's high-pitched wails, of his frantic rush to stagger towards Phichit's limp body, red is the color of Phichit's eyes as they stare blankly above, it is the color of Yuuri's breath as he stands up and runs for the door, the door which is red, stained by red, and red is the color of the sky and of the trees as Yuuri runs, head throbbing and throat choking, heart being wrung by grief and pain. It is not the color of Yuuri's tears as he trips over nothing and wails onto the earth.

~

Yuuri was tired. His clothes reeked of blood and sweat, his hair was damp and matted, his eyes were almost too puffy to see anything out of, his mind was blank.

Yuuri fished his phone out of his pocket, leaning against the sole lamppost of this god forsaken street. Christ, he almost expected tumbleweeds to turn up out of nowhere. He swiped it open, thumbing the dial and placed it by his ear.

"Yuuko."

"Hi, Yuuri." Static could be overheard, lousy signal compromising their call. Judging by the fact that she was still even talking to him, she hasn't heard of Phichit's state yet.

Red flashes through his eyes.

"Send the coordinates to the car, I'm in the clear now." Staccato tapping ensued, and Yuuri closed his eyes. Chilly air blew past his face, a small voice echoing at the nook of his head. You're alone now.

"Done," she spoke with a tone that could make hell freeze over, though it wasn't unexpected. "Thanks, Yuuko."

Silence.

"Have the contract, background, skill set and team accomplishment files sent to Nakamura, have him finalize it and send it to St. Petersburg HQ, and a copy to me."

Nakamura only agreed to help him in exchange for official leader status while he was gone, and oh boy, was he going to be livid once he found out the news.

"Right."

Yuuri hated this. The voice that usually spoke in such an animated way, bright and cheerful now dripped with indifference and steel, it was almost terrifying to think that he had caused this change. Then again, what change hadn't he caused?

"I'm sorry," he murmured quietly, for when she found out about what he had done.

Scarlet splatters over the night sky.

Silence.

"I'll come back, Yuu-chan, I promise." Yuuri clenched his fist, most likely leaving bright red imprints on his palm.

"Don't you dare call me that name ever again," she hissed back, and Yuuri felt his heart twist dreadfully.

"I hate you."

Yuuri took in a sharp breath, a cold shiver running down his spine. He looks at the phone, jotting down the coordinates in his head. Done. He remembered Phichit. Blood pooling at his feet, lifeless eyes staring into the ceiling, gun heavy in his hand. No, no, he can’t. He has to go to the car, he has to catch his flight, he has to.. he has to..

"Boss." A steely voice interrupted his thoughts from behind, "You're really leaving?"

"Seung!" Yuuri says, snapping his head around to reveal a dark-haired man in a hoodie, looking back at him expectantly. "I didn’t- what- how?”

“Your phone,” he says. “I’m not your spy for nothing, geez.”

“Ah. Hahaha,” Yuuri chucks out a painfully forced laugh. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. It hurts. He doesn’t know yet, does he? Minami must be having a hard time dragging Phichit to base.

The sky flashes.

“You won’t stop me?” he fakes composure, pleased at how smooth his voice came out.

"Well," Seung replies, "I don't really mind you leaving."

"Perfect time to steal my spot, right?" It seemed ethical enough, since the youth never stopped trying to score brownie points, even when both sides knew that the fruition of his acts would be bare.

Seung-gil laughed unenthusiastically, rolling a stone beneath the sole of his shoe absent-mindedly, shoving a hand inside his pocket. Yuuri remembered the first time he met Seung-gil, a month after Guang-hong arrived. A special applicant from Korea, they said. It still feels as if it were yesterday, I mean, nothing had changed. The reliable but stubborn and stuck-up kiddo is still the reliable but stubborn and stuck-up kiddo today.

"You're not a wuss, and you're not incompetent," he says a-matter-of-factly, voice never betraying his cool composure.

Yuuri blinked.

"I wouldn't be working with you if you were. You're not leaving because you're ‘not good enough’ as you said you were," he pauses to scoff, "--that's bullshit, by the way, that's like the absolutely shittiest excuse you could've come up with."

"And yet they all believed," Yuuri murmurs under his breath, loud enough for only himself to hear.

"You're leaving because you're stupid."

"Excuse me?"

"Listen," Seung-gil growls uncharacteristically, taking a step towards Yuuri, "I don't know exactly what the hell you're actually planning to do, but right now, you're doing it in the worst way possible." Aggression flooded the air, and any sane person could tell that this wasn't going to end up with friendship bracelets and handshakes.

"First of all, if you're going to hurt someone, instead of doing it to the people who're trying to help you, you might as well inflict the damage upon yourself. But no, being the blithering idiot you are, you're maiming both you, and the people
around you!"

“hurt someone,”

Phichit.

Yuuri’s breath catches, eyes spinning around. "I-I'm not-"

"Yes, you are!" he snarls, "Second, you're being totally irrational here, because, as much as it pains me to admit, we need you here. You're leaving the Yakuza without a leader, you might as well have started three separate civil wars! You-you're leaving a snake headless, a-an eagle wingless, a book spineless, ugh!-- you get what I fucking mean!"

"I-It's not my intention to-"

"You clearly haven't thought this out!"

Yuuri thought he could handle it, thought he wouldn't break, but when everything that he knew but refused to accept was thrown right at him, well, that was a different story.

Phichit.

A small chuckle rolls out of Yuuri's mouth, tilting his head back before whipping it back, with a broken smile. "Of course I've fucking thought this through!"

ahh, it feels good.

"For the past fucking month I-I've been tearing my hair apart over this decision, and you have no fucking right to criticize me on a choice I don't even want to make! I may be an idiot, but I'm an idiot who has thought this through!" he cried out unexpectedly, almost like his mouth moved on it's own, forcing out his thoughts in a flurry to try and mimic a coherent sentence. Several times within his outburst Yuuri's voice had threatened to break and the heat at the back of his eyes finally burst, A month's tragedy and self-hate came barrelling through the door in the span of four seconds, and he fell off the cliff that he'd been holding onto for so long.

(His mind blanks.)

(because it has to blank.)

Seung-gil laughs coldly, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "So now you crack, huh? So now you let out all you've been feeling. After all the damage has been done. You fucking idiot."

(He's calm now.)

Grabbing the cloth of Yuuri's collar, Seung-gil snarled, shooting a look that rivaled the rage of an erupting volcano. "Did you think you could just hurt everyone's feelings to fulfill your own needs?! Do you know how many fucking times I've heard Phichit cry in the past month? You think you have to bear it all alone, you think you have to be a lone wolf, you always, always, always deflect and choose solitude when they-- we're right fucking here!"

Phichit. Phichit.

Red.

(Calm?)

Unable to do anything but breathe in his own misery, Yuuri exhales, his mind clear and emotionless-- painless; a reset.

"I know."

(Why?)

"I know? That-that's it? That's all you've got? Yuuri fucking Katsuki, you are an unbelievable piece of shit," Seung-gil spat, throwing him down to the ground. "I know," he says again, dusting the dirt off his pants, getting up. He picks up his suitcase and walks, away from everything. He's a coward. "Take charge," he says so easily, he wonders how he even did it, throwing an eagle-crusted, gold pin to the ground. He hears Seung-gil's breath catch as he scrambles to grab it, the goal of his lifetime laying in the soil below him. "You're leaving me in charge? Not Phichit? But he's-he's your right-hand man!"

"You are to hand authority to Phichit, when he's not emotionally hindered. For now, it's all up to you."

With that, he walks down the street, never looking back.

Couple of minutes later, Yuuri fishes his phone out of his coat pocket, staring seethingly at the phone as if everything was its fault, digging his nails onto the screen before chucking it as far away as he could. Good riddance. He walks further down the street, and approximately two miles away lay the getaway car with his one-trip ticket to destiny.

Hello, Russia.

He thinks about what Yuuko said.
"I hate you."

Well, he loathes himself.

Chapter Text

Present time, Viktor's office
----

"You... sold... yourself?"

"Yes."

"But Yakov said it was a mutual contract!"

"Eeeh. Sure, you could call it that," Katsuki shrugged, a smile ghosting his lips. The look on his face, his posture, and his actions at the time could only be described as nonchalance, and Viktor would've commented on it, if not for his eyes.

No, no, no.

His eyes... they were brimming with something else entirely, with much contrast to everything else his body suggested. If Viktor knew any better, he would call it panic.

The gateway emotion to a handful of equally negative emotions, a disaster watching itself spiral out of the loop. A subtle, seemingly watered-down version of it, but dangerous all the same. Silent, quiet. Inconspicuously eating away at someone's self-coherency, strumming the fibers of their doubts and self-control like a musician frantically playing a harp with all the finesse a madman commanded, snapping off one by one, due to the pressure. A beautiful, self-destructive tune, resounding within the confines of one's body, and it looks like Katsuki had mastered it.

And then Viktor's head was spinning, flashing with question after question. He couldn't even finish thinking one question inside his head before he had already moved on to another, more interesting one. It was a vicious cycle. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyebrows creasing together. I mean, how should someone feel in this particular position? Viktor felt like a tired businessman who came home after a long, long day, to find out that he had used half his life-savings to unknowingly purchase a troubled prostitute's services. But y'know, for life. And now, he was sitting in his dining table with said prostitute, both as unsure as the other as to which way to proceed.

"But why'd you have to alter the skill files? A-and why was there no name or identification in the folder?"

Katsuki slunk into his seat, fishing a cigarette box from his pocket. "I- I honestly don't know what happened to the skill file. I typed those myself, and they certainly don't match up to what you've received," he drawled with a tone of uncertainty. "Can I smoke? I need to smoke."

Viktor nodded, reaching down to pull an ashtray from the coffee table's bottom drawer. He'd had his own problems with cigars before, and honestly? He still does. Sometimes. Just with a little more self-control. Katsuki flicked a lighter from his breast pocket, and the cigarette sparked to life. He twirled it in his hands, pausing to stare at it with an almost melancholic look on his face. Like he was remembering, taking time to let the memories flash by. Viktor knew that feeling well. Whenever he wasn't occupied with the joy of the battle field and savouring the run from paperwork, he liked to reminisce. It always felt like films clicking across his own eyes, playing and pausing whatever memory he felt like playing. And so, he made the mistake of looking into Katsuki's eyes, trying to see if it really did look like he was playing memory after memory. His eyes seemed to turn a collected hue of rust as they reflected the cigarette's searing glow, and Viktor felt his heart lurch, beating so fast he wondered if Katsuki could hear it. But it was nothing. It was nothing, and yet his heart didn't seem to want to slow down. Katsuki took a long drag, puffing it out with a pleased expression. "You?" He offered. Viktor shook his head.

"Please, continue," he murmured.

"Mmn. So, about the identity thing," Katsuki had begun, much more at ease as to before his smoke, losing all the built-up tension. And Viktor could tell, because his shoulders weren't strung up anymore, and his body slowly fell into a lax position. "The second half of the Katsuki clan, yes, the one we're at an odds with, have certain members who run some nasty spy markets," he paused, sighing in exasperation. "It was a big blow to have them turn traitor. But I promise you, you don't want them intercepting this trade, so I pulled some strings and left some details blank. If I hadn't done so, they'd probably already be here, looking for me."

The grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the room suddenly chimed, all at once making it's jarring 'tick-tock' aware and vivid to both participants. It didn't help. Viktor breathed out shakily, squeezing the armrest of his chair. "Right. Yeah. Okay, that's plausible. But, why did Yakov even sign this in the first place?"

Katsuki took another long breath into his stick of cancer, sighing loudly for the what seemed like upteenth time. "I'm not sure of the specificities. It was a long shot, actually. But, the Feltsman Bratva was one of the biggest suppliers in the Mafia industry, so I tried anyway. It came as a surprise when he actually agreed. Maybe my reputation?"

The russian snorted. "Thing is, I already was going to have a consigliere, a sovietnik in our terms, he's just... still in training. It's not like Yakov to suddenly change his mind and hire you when he's been personally attending to his training for 6 years."

"Oh, and it's the Nikiforov Bratva now," he corrected sharply, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

Katsuki nodded. "Right, Nikiforov. Sorry." He'd ask Viktor about that someday. The Bratva was supposedly family-run, and the Feltsman family had founded it, and headed it for centuries. For someone to succeed in switching the families in reign... that was unheard of. Well, until now. It must have been an absolute hell, he could tell. Gaining majority of the brotherhood's respect, breaking in the rebels, establishing your position, scoring favor with the higher-ups, all the while being a no-name upstart, Katsuki shuddered at the thought. Sure, his team was a group of upstarts, but that was just them, because he already had a name for him from the moment that he was born. Slipping out of his mother's womb, he already had a set destination. The Yakuza heir. And that was why he had so much respect for each and every one of his teammates, because they had sprouted from the concrete, and had managed to join him in the top, despite their humble beginnings, when he had it all fed to him in a silver platter. Gaining fame and respect had already been hard enough as a kid who had his father's name plastered on his forehead, and he couldn't think of how much harder it had been for everyone else.

"Some kind of debt, maybe?" he suggested, licking his chapped lips. Viktor pursed his lips, releasing his glare with a heady sigh. "It's gotta be one hell of a debt then." Katsuki nodded slowly in response.

Debts in the mafia were no joke. They weren't something to be taken lightly. If you crossed the wrong person, the moment your words of rejection and betrayal could waft into the air, a bullet was very likely to come spiraling from a window and into your skull, spilling the red of blood. Hitmen and snipes were efficient like that. Meanwhile, if you ignored requests to fulfill your part in the deal, refusing to make any contact at all, thinking that it'd be smart to cut all ties after you've gotten what you've wanted, you're terribly wrong. You'd find your car exploding into flames as soon as you plugged your key in, or you'd wake up in the middle of the night to your house being nuked. In the mafia, the golden rule of 'treat others the way you want to be treated' is essential in survival, and it was a solid rule when debts came to topic.

Silence ensnared the room.

Blue met brown in an exchange of knowing looks, looks that were both filled with uncertainty, danger, and the burning ache of curiosity. Viktor couldn't help but feel excitement twitching in his veins when he realized that in both eyes, a single question made itself present. 'What debt?'

Viktor let a soft breath of enamour escape.

"So," Katsuki broke the silence, carrying a sharp glint of something pouring into his eyes, "Is that all? or do you have any other questions for me, sir?" Then, Viktor's chest felt lighter. Yes. Yes, he had questions. He probably had enough questions for a whole afternoon of conversation, and he could hardly begin.

"How about the estranged section of the Katsuki clan? Their motive? Who's their leader? Why'd civil war break out in the first place? What team did you have back in Japan? How did you operate? What happened to them?"

(Viktor nearly let the 'Have I met you before?' from slip out of his lips.)

Katsuki seemed the littlest bit fazed at the barrage of queries, corners of his lips upturned ever so slightly. Meanwhile, his eyes, oh, his eyes. His eyes always seemed to relay more information than anything else. They tell what his body didn't, they tell what he tries to hide, and Viktor is somewhat grateful of that, because if they hadn't, then Viktor isn't sure he would've been this invested with Katsuki. His eyes let out the subtlest hints of apprehension, of naive surprise. Almost like he was caught off guard, and Katsuki definitely did not seem like the man to be caught off guard. Viktor quietly wished that his eyes would somehow seep into Katsuki's face, his body, perhaps releasing whatever this man held inside, for better or for worse, Viktor wanted to relish in it.

But the thing that bothered Viktor the most, was that in his big, doe eyes, Viktor could feel a great something clawing up his body, a sweet familiarity that always rested exactly right at the tip of his tongue, refusing to step in the light, but refusing to subside into the abyss. A great, big, something that seemed to make Viktor want to get all casual with this man, that made Viktor spout stupid comments of flattery, that made Viktor think things that were almost never to be thought when it came to strangers and business contracts. It made Viktor's chest thrash and flail, and yet it makes Viktor feel as if he'd sprouted wings, taking him to a high.

Katsuki opened his mouth to speak, to most likely, start answering Viktor's barrage of questions, the soft sound of his lips parting sending little waves of a tingly something straight into Viktor's head. "About that, the sector of the clan tha--"

"WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?! WHERE'S THE FUCKING BALD-ASS BASTARD AND HIS JAPANESE PIG?!"

Viktor's breath stopped, feeling his eyes fall and crinkle in disappointment. "Oh no," he groaned, hanging his head.

"What?"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY, BITCH!" A loud and furious voice clamored from outside, thundering footsteps inching closer by the second.

"I'm terribly sorry about this, Katsuki."

About half a second later, Viktor's office door came slamming open, ricocheting against the wall and slamming back closed, revealing an absolutely livid blonde-haired teenager seething with rage. "You!" He accused as he laid eyes on Katsuki, lunging straight at him, toppling his chair. He wrapped his hands around Katsuki's neck as he tried to strangle the terribly surprised man into asphyxiation.

Katsuki's hands then shot to the boy's shoulders, digging his fingers into a particular spot, squeezing a certain stretch of muscle. It caused the boy to reel down in pain, his shoulder sending searing pangs of pain to his neck and shoulder region. "Fuck!" He yelled, releasing his grip from Katsuki's neck to swat away the hand that lay on his side. Then it was Katsuki's foot connecting with his stomach, and the boy was sent flying backwards and onto the floor. Recovering almost instantly, he shot back up, drawing his gun and sending bullets flying at Katsuki's direction, aka into Viktor's office floor, since Katsuki had already scrambled away.

Katsuki slipped under Viktor's desk, grabbing a letter opener that lay on the surface. Long, sharp metal that made you wonder if this was actually a letter opener or something else more dangerous. But it was blunt, so Katsuki guessed the former. Katsuki assumed a defensive stance, glowering at the youth, who was practically blowing steam off his ears. He growled, preparing to pounce on the japanese man when a thundering voice boomed through the room. "Yuri!" Viktor yelled, eyes shooting daggers at the youth. "What?!" Came two voices in unison, both very disgruntled and aggressed, whipping their heads towards the man's direction. Viktor raised a brow at Katsuki's reaction.

When Katsuki noticed, Viktor swore that a light shade of pink dusted his cheeks as he turned away from Viktor, eyes back on the blond-haired gremlin. "Put the gun down, Yuri." Viktor said, voice laced with regret, disappointment and anger, all hidden behind a veil that was thinner than Viktor thought. The boy-- Yuri, only seemed to get angrier. "And you! You motherfucker! Fucking shithead! Stupid lying bastard!" he screamed, each insult, one hard step nearer Viktor. As he breached proximity, Yuri stared up at Viktor with the most angered, most pained eyes that Viktor had ever seen. "Don't you ever fucking tell me what to do," he spat, sending a feisty punch to Viktor's jaw. "Don't you fucking talk to me ever again, after you replaced me for this bastard!" he cried, jabbing his gun to point at Katsuki. "Fucking traitor!" he bellowed, voice cracking with liquid sorrow. And that seemed to be the final straw for Yuri, because tears started cascading down his flushed cheeks. And for once, Viktor didn't know what to say. He'd never been good at handling someone crying, much less Yuri Plisetsky, the boy who never seems to let any emotion aside from anger or spite show. But Katsuki seemed to understand, somehow. Because, his face softened and the stars in his eyes started to dance a dance of sorrow and melancholy, because Katsuki looked at Plisetsky with eyes that understood, with eyes that knew pain so well that he was a good friend, with eyes that wanted to make things right. Because Katsuki looked at Yuri with his marvelous, unknowingly expressive eyes.

"I presume this is your protegé, then?" he spoke softly, looking at Viktor for confirmation. Viktor nodded wistfully.

Then it was Katsuki lowering his stance with a shaky sigh, proceeding to look at Plisetsky with a look that seemed to rile the boy to greater heights. "I swear to god, if you even think about pitying me, I'm gonna fucking chop your dick off," he snarled, practically clawing the tears off his eyes. But no, Yuri was wrong. It wasn't pity that Katsuki held, it was something that could only be described as regret. Viktor thinks he saw compassion in there too. "I-I'm sorry," Katsuki breathed, slowly walking towards the boy. "I'll talk to Yakov, see if there's anything I can do. Yuri..." Katsuki spoke his name a bit hesitantly, as if the words felt strange rolling off his own mouth. Plisetsky glared. "Don't you fucking use my name, you pig!" he spat angrily, saliva landing on the japanese's shoes, shining with a shade of malevolence Viktor's breath hitched. His protegé just spat on the Yakuza boss. Not that he knew about it. "Fucking die! Just die!" Yuri growled, releasing the safety of his gun and aiming it straight at Katsuki. He hardly seems to register that he's still crying.

Fuck.

Katsuki looked conflicted, gripping the letter opener, knuckles white, and Viktor panicked, cursing his uselessness in this moment of importance. He was such a shit boss sometimes. And then, Katsuki closed his eyes, lips moving wordlessly, silently. He opened his eyes and all the doubts were gone, replaced by a eerily blank look. A long, collected breath from him somehow blew the non-existent, yet thunderingly loud, white noise out of the room. He shrugged off his coat, and rolled up his dress shirt's sleeves until just a little bit above his elbow. Next thing Viktor knew, there was blood on his tiles. And Viktor didn't miss the way Plisetsky's face turned a ghastly pale.

Katsuki had used the letter opener's tip, the sharpest point of the blunt tool, to plunge into his wrist and tear a jagged, horizontal line across. Viktor winced. He could see the sanguine dripping from the knife, his flesh oozing it. He heard Katsuki's breath hitch, followed by a lengthy intake of air. Then he was unreadable again, nothing. Katsuki tossed the tool to his damaged hand, preparing to maim his other. Despite the tip being the sharpest, even that was dreadfully blunt. Using a bread knife would've been less painful. And yet, here was Katsuki, proceeding slice his opposite wrist open, without a single indicator of pain. Viktor glanced at Plisetsky. The boy seemed to be frozen, still and unmoving. His eyes were blown wide, breaths oddly shallow. It wasn't surprising.

Yuri Plisetsky. He was... inspiring. A boy with an eternal fire blazing in his eyes, and a dragon's fiery breath when he spoke. Top-notch combat skills in training, a living terror with a machine gun, and absolutely zilch social skills aside from screaming. He was perhaps one of the most hard-working people Viktor had ever seen, catching glimpses of the boy and Yakov during training from time-to-time, his shirt always damp with sweat, feet and hands littered with scabs and bruises, eyes always aflame. And always, always, always pushing his limits when he'd set his mind to do something, expanding his capacities each time. Dreadfully stubborn, rapid-fire insults always at the ready, and always somewhat hiding under a cage he'd seem to have unknowingly built around himself.

At the age of ten, six years ago, he had suddenly shot up from the lower ranks, coincidentally a few months after his parents failed to return after a raid gone awry. Refused to explain himself to anyone at all. Yuri Plisetsky, who had very little experience out in the field, and yet carried the eyes of a veteran soldier. Yuri Plisetsky, who thinks that Viktor doesn't notice that he turns silent and pale whenever he has to pull the trigger, Yuri Plisetsky, who still struggles to break out of his chains, and Yuri Plisetsky, whom Viktor respects. That, is his protegé.

"S-stop! What the fuck are you d-- hey! I said stop!" the youth yelled, just as Katsuki had inserted the blood-coated letter opener into his other wrist, just a second before he would've tore another jagged cut across it. Katsuki looked like he snapped out of a trance, blank eyes, now sparkling with confusion.

"Why?" he asked, slowly un-impaling his wrist. "What the fuck do you mean, 'Why'?!" Yuri seethed, "Why are you even doing t-that?!" he said, pointing to his wrists. Viktor felt a weight fly off his chest as Yuri asked one of the questions plaguing his own mind.

"Uh... to show repentance?"

Yuri looked dumbstruck. Viktor's pretty sure he does too. Katsuki just sighed. "Since verbal apologies didn't seem to work, I just thought that this would?" Katsuki supplied, twirling the letter opener with his injured hand, his blood already beginning to clot. "I dunno, it's this thing we do back in Japan, we chop off the rebels' pinkies or some other finger as payment for misdeeds, it's called Yubitsume, by the way, and since I kind of need my fingers, I thought maybe my wrists would suffice?" he said, horrifyingly nonchalant about it, as if talking about the weather. "I mean, is that enough? Or do you really want my pinky? Can I negotiate for a toe or something, because I kind of need all my fingers to work in top condition," he laughed.

He laughed.

He fucking laughed, a pink dusting his cheeks for the world to see. If Viktor hadn't witnessed what he had just done to himself, Viktor would've thought that this was an innocent angel, blushing at an embarrassing joke or something. But no, this man was mangling his own wrists apart with a the bluntest thing he could've used, with no signs of being hurt or feeling any pain at all, no less than fifty seconds ago, and now, he's laughing and blushing about cutting off his own toe.

To be honest, Viktor felt a bit scared. Just a bit. It was like a darkness had crept up inside of his chest, silently dripping fear and doubt into his heart, and he was just starting to feel it. Katsuki was scary. To have the ability to do something so gruesome and torturous, and come back out of the cesspool looking like a saint that had just been canonized, that was scary. Why? Because suddenly, you feel like you've forgotten exactly what deed this person had just done, and suddenly, you're just walking alongside them like it was nothing. And if you didn't witness the deed in the first place, then you wouldn't have the slightest idea of what this pure, innocent human being had done. Your pool boy could've drowned a happily married couple from a neighboring village, and you let him in your house, well, because he's your innocent, responsible pool boy, cleaning your backyard lap pool for fifty bucks a week. You'd never know. And that was scary.

The thing was, Katsuki had actually transcended that stage. He didn't only look immaculate, clean and holy, but he looked beautiful. Hair slicked back and starting to puff up, and out of place, cheeks flushed a delicate shade of rose, smile curved into the most perfect shape possible, and his eyes sparkling and shining as if they held the whole universe in them. Katsuki had managed to look absolutely stunning, despite what he'd done. So actually, Viktor wasn't a bit scared. Viktor was terrified, and oh, so attracted.

Viktor felt himself needing to lean on the wall for support, so he did. And he thinks Yuri may have felt the need to sit down, because he collapsed on his knees, staring up at Katsuki. "You're an actual idiot, aren't you?" he murmured quietly. Katsuki smiled nervously, yet another small laugh bubbling up his throat. "Right. Okay. I can't deal with this. I'm just gonna leave. I'm leaving. Do whatever you want with your body parts," he said quietly, still very much in shock. "But I'll take you up on your other offer," a quiet voice came, a voice that was filled with shock, incredulity, finality and awe. In all honesty, Viktor would've done the same. If he had been angry at Katsuki like Yuri had, and if Katsuki had just done what he'd done, he's pretty sure that his anger would've been stuck under an avalanche of surprise, and curiosity, leaving it to simmer down. I mean, you don't just casually slit your wrists deep enough to cut vein and brush bone as a normal apology. You say "Sorry", and do your best to fix up your mistakes. You definitely don't offer your severed finger, or toe as well. "Go talk to Yakov, pig." Yuri said as he slammed the door behind him, leaving the Viktor alone with Katsuki.

It didn't take very long before Viktor found his mouth forming the letters of Katsuki's name.

"Katsu-"

Thud.

Katsuki fell to the floor, wheezing out pained breaths one after another. "Katsuki!" Viktor panicked, kneeling beside him. He looked terrible, now that Viktor had cleared his head. The blood from his wrist had reached until his elbows, swirling around his pale, alabaster skin. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and pupils were blown wide. "Hey, boss," he breathed out. "You think we can continue this tomorrow?"

Viktor nodded before taking the time to process what he'd just said. "Okay."

"Great," Katsuki said slowly standing up. "Sorry, I just have to do some blood regaining, I can't really think straight right now. Please don't fire me, I'll have to kill you since I already told you my predicament, and I'm really not in the mood for killing, and you're a nice guy, Viktor, I don't like hurting nice people." He chuckled, grabbing his suitcase and slinging his coat across his shoulders. It was when hr strode to the doorway and turned the knob when Viktor spoke again.

"Then why'd you hurt yourself?" he said stupidly, mouth moving faster than his mind did.

Katsuki smiled, "Because I'm not nice, Viktor." And the door swung shut with a soft click, leaving Viktor alone in his office that had a few bullet holes on it's floor, and a pool of blood smeared around.