Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One cannot capture light, but in a way, that’s exactly what Yūri does. He takes out his camera, adjusts the exposure, and snaps a picture. Upon releasing the shutter, light enters the camera and an image is recorded. Eyesight functions in a similar way, but instead of retinas, one has photo film or software. From there the image is converted, but unlike with what one sees, there is no interference; in other words, a camera has no experience, but Yūri, a photographer, does. He thinks photographs are durable and less fleeting than what meets the eye, no matter the distortion and the passage of time, if he can get it just right.

He’s not so sure anymore.

This job he’s been given seems to prove that there is light, energy, that he just cannot capture in a photograph, no matter how deep it sinks in his skin, warming him to the marrow of his bones.

So he tries adjusting the level values in a program he uses to edit his work. It makes no difference. He tries to take even more pictures, but that just makes his difficulty all more apparent. It’s not that he's doing something wrong – though Yūri may be in want of sponsors, he’s still a professional – it’s the radiant nature of his model.

He hadn't been originally hired to take pictures.

Yūri had been working two part-time jobs until he was offered a gardening gig he just couldn't refuse. Growing and taking care of plants was in fact a passion of his, passed down from his parents, but he had chosen to pursue a career in photography, not horticulture. This turn in path occurred while training in the art of bonsai under a close friend of his father, Vladimir Nikiforov. It may be hard to imagine a Japanese training under a Russian bonsai master, but Nikiforov-sensei wasn’t merely an expert on bonsai cultivation – he was an artist. Yūri had spent a good amount of time taking photographs of his collection, before and after styling, fascinated by the dedication and knowledge required to create such masterpieces. By the time he finished several rolls of film, Yūri realized he had more than a passing taste for capturing beautiful, jaw-dropping things with his camera.

Taking pictures of frost-hardy bonsai may have done that. In winter the outdoor species would be covered in clumps of snow that often looked like small white cherry blossoms, a spectacle Yūri couldn't wait to share with his friends and family back in Hasetsu, a sea town in southern Japan. There, his parents owned a landscape plant nursery and it never saw much snowy weather, so it had been a delightful surprise – especially one cold February morning, when he saw the snow in Saint Petersburg, the city where Nikiforov-sensei lived and his apprentices trained, turn light blue and violet.

It had been caused by food coloring for Easter eggs, which got caught in the ventilation system of a nearby factory and dispersed into the atmosphere. No one knew that at first, which led to overwhelmingly negative conclusions. Yet, Yūri didn't miss the chance. Armed with a face mask, he roamed the old capital to take pictures of the colored snow with his new digital SLR camera, a gift from his family for his birthday.

Though he started off with landscapes, miniature and not so miniature, soon he moved on to photographing other things – people, animals – until a year later he returned to Japan, eager to see the familiar light and colors through the lens of his camera. It wouldn't have been for long, however, because his family was set on leaving for the United States to put down new roots. It probably would have worried Yūri more, had he not thought of bonsai. Cutting off a percentage of the trees’ roots and repotting them not only kept them alive, but allowed them to keep growing.

Years after having moved to the States, his master died, and the latter’s bonsai collection was left to his grandson – Viktor – a wealthy art investor Yūri had occasionally heard of by the nickname “Vitya.” Thanks to intel from his art friends in college, he learned that Viktor Nikiforov had founded his own company, Stammi Vicino Fine Arts Studio, before the age of twenty-five. Yūri, instead, was working his way through college, desperately searching the means to build a portfolio he could be proud of without the financial support of his family.

The fact that he, of all the people that could have been, was called on to salvage his late master’s collection and redesign the garden of his rich grandson left Yūri incredulous. It felt like too big a commitment, one he barely had the credentials for, yet he couldn't bring himself to refuse immediately. After all, his master had been a major influence on him despite the fact he had often been away on business, leaving everything in the hands of his employees, with whom Yūri had a language barrier. Yūri learned a lot however, even by just watching, and mastered the basics in order to develop his own style.

He found it enjoyable, needless to say – bonsai was a captivating art, but it took years for the trees to reach the desired form with mechanical means such as wiring and he disliked, admittedly, bending the branches with brute force, a common requirement to meet one’s artistic vision. It was a plastic art form such as sculpture, except the material to model and carve was a living organism; for years, a lifetime even, the artist would see over its progression to create a landscape of great natural and artistic beauty.

Taking the perfect photograph can also take great patience and commitment, but Yūri could find ways to capture his subjects at their most natural, without interfering directly. In this case, he’s noting a change, such that his job is becoming more like a study. The garden Yūri had been tasked to maintain is now bursting with colors and shapes, as if paralleling the shift he sees occurring.

In truth, the focus of Yūri’s pictures were supposed to be the garden and Makkachin, his employer’s dog, but Yūri accepted on the condition he’d show up in them as well. In exchange, Yūri could use all the camera equipment the other decided to buy out sudden “interest,” inviting him to use it. Yūri was speechless, overwhelmed, but he recovered quickly, not wanting to miss the chance to make that light, a source of dazzling inspiration, his.

That's not to say such generosity wasn't unbearably flattering. Viktor had a sixth sense when it came to art, his every discovery a story the world hasn't been told, a star breaking into the scene like a supernova. Even when their value on the market wasn't high, his acquisitions were never a waste, tastefully adorning the walls and corridors of his mansion. Whether it went by artist or theme, each room of Viktor’s home-turned-gallery was a corner of the world to explore. The more Yūri saw, the more he wondered what was going on inside the man’s mind, the smile he often wore as blue as his eyes, though they shone brighter every day.

To capture the beauty of something meant to capture a part of its essence, drawing and guiding the viewer through the composition within the frame. Often it was luck, but other times, it was a calculated move based on attentive observation of the subject. But there’s something always missing from the pictures Yūri takes no matter how hard he tries.

He starts taking them even on his phone, be it Viktor inside his home or out, but it’s as if the camera were always on the wrong scene mode. Whether his photographs needed to be edited, retouched, or manipulated, he’d never worried so much about conveying his vision before. Just how many will he have to take before being satisfied? Yet, he's not so sure he wants to stop.

Viktor’s smile quickly becomes Yūri’s favorite subject. He can see it’s different now, the way Viktor’s skin crinkles around his lips, bowed mouth widening. It makes Yūri’s heart beat faster and expand twice in size, and he wonders if the vulnerability there is just his imagination whenever he happens to catch Viktor’s gaze. It’s a different kind of blue, the type the sky takes before the sun rises. The sight is disarming, and Yūri smiles back, his nervousness no longer able to conceal how he feels.

As time goes by, Yūri tries to understand the meaning behind each smile, whether it’s open or hidden, azure or midnight blue. He finds himself making more eye contact than he’s usually comfortable with. Viktor’s eyes are framed by thick eyelashes, a western sea under soft clouds of grey and white. The light catches there and never seems to leave, and Yūri is immersed in something he knows he shouldn't feel, despite the gratification it gives him.

Chasing the light is what a photographer does.

It’s as though he’s become autotrophic, light more vital to him than anything else. It’s not enough anymore, but it has to be, because there is no way Yūri can have his muse. He continues taking pictures. Whether it’s dark once this job is over, Yūri will have to come to terms with that, so he tries not to think about light conditions, about Viktor.

But when the portfolio is completed, Viktor’s albums done, where will it go?

From that day at the café near Viktor’s office, where Yūri also used to work months ago, he has been increasingly amazed, riveted, and swept off his feet by this man, whose contemplative expressions clash with the beaming smile that so often betrays his face. Everything about Viktor seems to predilect the choreographed manners of a ballet dancer, his culture and refinement unsurprisingly great. What Yūri mostly sees is a free spirited, deeply sensitive man, who monologues to any living entity and hugs his dog, a standard poodle that is very lively for her age, like it was always the last time.

(Yūri is thinking of getting a dog too, now that he can afford one.)

The thematic photoshoots they've been doing have bought Yūri time, which he fears is running out despite the close friendship that has grown between them, but it’s only making his breath catch more and his chest squeeze tighter. The visit to the aquarium with Makkachin, dressed in a small sailor shirt and cap, had him almost thinking he was on a date with Viktor, who looked positively stunning in the hues of green and blue. The walk-through underwater tunnel had been mostly deserted, not counting the marine life, and they lingered at every display. He realized by the time they were half way through that they had mostly talked and exchanged glances with each other instead of taking and posing for pictures. How could Yūri be surrounded by an ocean tank full of tropical fish and coral reef animals and be that distracted by Viktor?

He doesn't want to admit it, but he’s got it bad.

And it only gets worse, when a few days later they go to a pet-friendly spa together over three-hundred miles from Detroit, on Mackinac Island, called Lilac Tree. The five-hour trip, not counting the ferryboat ride, somehow flies by in Viktor’s hot pink Cadillac to French Chansons and American rock and roll. With all the country landscapes and views by the lake shore, it’s the perfect opportunity for Yūri to take pictures, even portfolio-worthy ones, Viktor donning his $6K “they’re Porsche” sunglasses and deep navy blue V-neck.

But it’s at the spa where Yūri feels like he’s getting the full (and fully exposed) Viktor experience, because they’re sharing a suite and getting back massages like some dumb rich couple. Though, being that Viktor is rich while Yūri isn't, it’s more like… Yūri stops his mind right there. There’s certainly nothing like that going on.

It’s just an impression. Viktor is generous, and they happen to get along well. In no universe could he be interested in going out with Yūri. Yet, hope has been planted in his heart, and it won't stop growing. Flashes of Viktor’s half-naked body, more frequent thanks to their getaway setting, come to Yūri at night with a commercial-like insistence he didn't know was possible. He resists, but after the third day, he gives in to his fantasies of Viktor, always so warm and affectionate, and it’s the best orgasm he’s ever had.

He’s done for, and might as well embrace it.

When Yūri returns home, he begins planning a new photobook, one solely dedicated to Viktor. Maybe this way, their time together will always shine back on him, becoming a happy memory and not a melancholy testimony of the love he could never have. Viktor’s eyes, smile, soul…he could at least glimpse at them whenever he wanted. If the pictures faded or he could no longer see, Yūri would remember Viktor’s laughter and see his face again.

If light is never obstructed, it will travel endlessly.

One day they go on a picnic, at a park far away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. While loading the car, Yūri manages to slip his specially prepared lunchboxes into the satchel with the tableware, unbeknownst to Viktor. Later at the park, when Yūri takes them out, he can already see the surprise on Viktor’s face, eyes drawn to the mother-of-pearl lilies that are inlaid in the lacquer and outlined in gold maki-e. When Viktor asks "Mr. Photographer” what he has brought, Yūri cannot help from smiling, the faint Russian lilt in Viktor’s voice only adding to his excitement. He sits next to him on the plaid picnic blanket, tapping Viktor on his head instead of responding.

While Viktor pouts cutely in reaction to the gesture, Yūri gives him a placating smile and opens one of the containers. Using a napkin, he takes out a hot bowl, food still steaming once he removes the lid. He made them hurry to make sure none of it got cold by the time they got there, a fact Viktor doesn't fail to pick up on as Yūri passes the bowl to him. Their hands meet and press against each other for what feels like too long, and Yūri averts his eyes, trying to stay casual. It’s a feat not thinking about how strong Viktor’s hands are or how soft his lips look before he reaches into the satchel again. From a set of flatware he takes a wooden fork and hands it to Viktor, telling him it’s a dish prepared by his mother, as well as his favorite food – katsudon, pork cutlet over rice.

As he watches Viktor bring a piece of the egg-covered tonkatsu to his mouth, he instinctively reaches for his camera, even if he doesn't know what Viktor’s reaction will be. The man often complained about never finding food to his taste, eating mostly things prepared by himself or Lilia, his godfather’s ex-wife, whose cooking he grew up with.

Viktor chews his bite slowly, his excited expression quickly shifting into one of pure wonder. Before the man’s hand can come to his lips, Yūri holds up his camera, leaning back and adjusting the lens until he’s ready to capture the look on Viktor’s face. As soon as Viktor exclaims “it’s delicious!”, his eyes completely wide, the camera shutter goes off.

Yūri barely registers the moment Viktor looks up at him in shock, as if he’s going to drop the pork cutlet bowl in embarrassment. By the time he lowers his camera, an awkward silence settles between them, and he struggles to find something to say. Makkachin sneezes, and before Yūri can come up with a neutral response that justifies his lack of discretion, he blurts out a frank apology.

“Sorry, it’s just,” he begins, keeping his eyes on Viktor as he sets down his camera, “you – looked so beautiful. A-As you do! but, ah, I mean…nevermind.”

Nervous as he is, Yūri cannot ignore the way Viktor’s cheeks are flushed red, almost crimson, there under the shade of the trees. It’s as if Yūri has taken Viktor completely off guard and rendered him vulnerable. The thought of provoking such reaction is almost intoxicating, and he nearly flinches when his thoughts take a more salacious turn.

“…Thank you.”

That’s the response Viktor gives him, and Yūri can only make a small head bow as he looks back up at the man in front of him. Viktor smiles and prompts Yūri to start eating too, because he cannot wait any longer to devour the rest of his katsudon. Something aches inside him, but he reaches for his lunchbox, lifting it away from Makkachin’s curious nose.

At least a glimpse, a memory; more isn't necessary…

They don't see each other for another entire week.

Viktor hasn't, apparently, bothered to show up at his office as of late, and needs to sort out a number of matters in that regard, maybe by hiring extra personnel. Yūri knows Viktor’s personal assistant (Christophe?) is excellent at running things, but there’s only so much the latter can do without getting an assistant himself.

Meanwhile, Yūri develops the recent pictures he’s taken, adding to those for the collection he’s putting together. By the end of the week his printer has a prototype ready, and he puts it with his folders to look through later. Today Viktor won't be as busy, and will come back home before dinner, so Yūri wants to get ready to see him after so long.

It takes him a while to choose what to wear. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but Viktor’s the one who said a shirt with low neck look would good on him, outside of the tank tops he uses while jogging and working in the garden. The top he’s chosen shows a lot more chest than he’s used to displaying in the evening, but in the end he goes with it, having run out of time to waste.

Yūri finds Viktor on the patio, scrolling on his phone with his finger. He seems tired, but otherwise alright, sipping on a drink with a lemon slice. Yūri guesses it’s tea from the pitcher next to it. There’s already a glass set out, so he hangs his bag on the chair adjacent to Viktor, the latter just noticing his presence.

It’s as if Viktor’s about to sprint out of his chair at the sight of him, the tiredness on his face nearly disappearing as he breaks into a bright grin. He quickly stands to his feet, free hand automatically coming to his shoulder, and Yūri feels the urge to hug him. Fortunately he doesn’t have to make any move to do so, because Viktor’s arms come around him, and for a moment Yūri feels like he’s floating. When Viktor seems on the verge of pulling back, Yūri’s hands come to his shoulders, not wanting it to end. Viktor smells like the floral scent of his shampoo and the musk, vanilla, and amber of his eau de toilette. Breathing suddenly feels like experiencing heaven itself, if he’s not already there.

“We’re acting as if we haven't seen each other in a year.” Viktor laughs and lets him go, Yūri having no choice but to follow suit. A pale hand circles around his wrist, bringing him to his side as Viktor sits back down. “I have to admit; we've been spending so much time together for the last few weeks, that not being out somewhere with you was harder than I anticipated.”

The fact Viktor seems to be in the same boat as him leaves Yūri feeling a little less of a fool, but if the way his chest constricts almost painfully at this man’s every move tells him anything, it’s that this could be very well be a lost battle. Yet, he persists. Focusing his mind back to reality, Yūri realizes Viktor has been staring at him. His eyes are smouldering and overly appreciative, bleeding into some other emotion he can’t quite put a finger on – either way, he’s certain it must be a trick of the light, doing his best not to squirm under his gaze.

“May I ask why the wardrobe change?”

It all comes crumbling down in a second.

Although he’d put the outfit together specifically to look good in front of him, he was half expecting Viktor not to notice, much less to actually comment on it. Yūri tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, but in the end finds that he cannot.

“No reason,” he provides, voice holding on by a thread.

“Well, it suits you,” Viktor responds, his words seeming to lean on deeper meanings.

Yūri’s positive his face must be on fire, and thus avoids Viktor’s eyes at all costs; because as much as Yūri adores the way he breathes and glows, forever smitten with the warmth emanated by his soft skin, maintaining his own sanity is beyond crucial at this point. He ducks his head downwards, mumbling words that not even he can understand.

This can only buy him so much time, however, and when Yūri hears the electronic shuttering sound he knows all too well, his world is overtaken by sheer horror.

When he looks up, surely, Viktor is holding the phone in his direction. Not like one would position it to message someone or check for business emails, but certainly framed perfectly for a picture. He offers a smile that sports a fake, wicked innocence, but his eyes swim in contrary emotions: raw honesty, and liquid fire.

“You didn’t,” Yūri half asks and half threatens, tone accusatory but bearing no bite. He even manages to blush further – a feat that seems much appreciated by the man sitting beside him.

“What can I say?” he says, finally setting his phone down in amusement, body language open and shoulders relaxed in a silent invitation. “You looked beautiful. As you do.”

The obvious echo from so many days ago leaves Yūri absolutely mortified, and he can only hope the blood rushing to his face doesn’t spread to his chest, as well. This isn't the type of banter he shares with his friends from college or even Phichit, and their closeness is both suffocating and not nearly enough.

He wants to be upfront and ask Viktor the reason why, which could concern just so many things; why did he keep the bonsai upon the death of his grandfather and reach out for Yūri’s family, of all things? Why would he buy him all his equipment and humor his senseless requests? Is it truly an interest as someone with an eye for art, or is it only a ploy to keep him at the mansion as the gardener? Not that he isn’t grateful for it all the same, for all the right and wrong reasons. But why?

Why does Viktor reach for him, and why does his touch linger?

“Yūri?” he calls, voice gone soft. And if the crestfallen look in his eyes is of any indication, he likely mistook Yūri’s silence for distress. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you first.”

Yūri shakes his head, brought out of his thoughts not by the apprehension in his words, but because of the way Viktor’s body angles further into his personal bubble. In retrospect, it almost looks like he’s going to kiss him.

He doesn’t, of course. But the stage set by how the quiet light of the moon befalls them both, surrounding Viktor in a luminous and gracious energy, is enough to soothe any momentary disappointment threatening to make a home out of his heart. Yūri holds the blue of his eyes too dear to let go, and on a whim he wonders what life lived alongside such a captivating person would be like. Because even though he cannot bring himself to profess his crushing emotions to him, inserting himself into Viktor’s routine as someone more than an employee or a friend is somehow alarmingly easy.

Since he doesn’t put an effort in order to fight off that trail of thought, it seems almost natural to find himself thinking about family – a topic Viktor mentions only when absolutely necessary, despite Yūri holding memories with vivid clarity concerning the pride in his mentor’s eyes any time he’d speak about his grandson in America.

The admiration doesn’t seem to be the same the other way around, but Yūri can never be sure; as much as Viktor wears positive sentiments on his sleeve, the man remains a never-ending mystery to him, more so on regards of such a sensitive matter.

“What do you think about family?” he blurts, eyes going wide as saucers as soon as he finishes the question. Once the expression is fatally reflected in Viktor’s face, his own hand flies up to slap against his mouth, and Yūri can’t help but let out a muffled, “Sorry! I’m sorry. Please pretend I didn’t say that.”

Viktor frowns, his beautiful face scrunching up in fleeting puzzlement before a sad smile tugs at the corner of his lips, tension leaving his body at once. He raises a hand to brush off the apology, but averts his eyes all the same.

“It’s fine, really,” he provides, apparently finding great interest in the glass of tea he’d been occupying himself with before Yūri arrived. “I loved them, I think.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

And he desperately wants to ask, too. But Yūri looks at him and Viktor seems to be in a trance, eyes coated in longing as if trying to reach out for something that never existed. His silence is taken as a sign to continue, which he is immensely grateful for; Yūri isn’t sure he could find his voice, even if he tried.

“They passed away when I was young – a car accident. They didn’t survive the impact, but thankfully I don't remember much of it,” he says, breathing out a fading laughter that sounds genuine, but painful. “Or much of anything, to be honest.”

Oh…

Yūri can feel the cogs turning inside his head as he tries to make sense of everything, and suddenly, scattered details of Viktor’s personality are finally arranged together in a picture that falls perfectly into place.

It explains his short span of memory and the difficulty to hold onto ephemeral things with any of his characteristic energy, as well as the sometimes unusual way he deals with strong emotions. Yūri can unquestionably see how someone raised with presumably sparse affection after such a trauma could easily develop those traits. But still waters run deep, and as cruel as it might’ve been, it made Viktor into the person he is today: flawed, of course, but bearing an achingly stunning soul like no other.

It makes him feel more human, if anything.

And for the second time in the same night, Yūri feels daring enough for a hug, propping himself on his knees on top of his seat as his arms come to circle around Viktor’s neck. He can feel his breath hitch against the collarbone exposed by the infamous low cut shirt, stone-cold lips accidentally pressing into his skin – and yet, the scorching fire doesn’t reach him, body overtaken by a soothing and wholesome kind of warmth instead.

Yūri can feel Viktor smiling against him, strong arms wrapping around his waist in a heavenly repetition, except the emotions behind this feel way heavier than before.

“I’m okay,” he reassures, and it only serves Yūri to tighten the grip he has on him. Viktor laughs, delighted.

He huddles closer to him, and Yūri refuses to acknowledge how they fit almost too well.

As a photographer, he has always favored sunlight to the best of his ability; it fit better with the common elements often brought to the center of the stage by his artistic eye, although pieces in which he’d explore the depths of the night weren’t exactly unheard of. In this moment, however, feeling Viktor go pliant against his own frame, bathing entrancingly in the echo of a singing moon, Yūri has never found the wintry hues of the Blue Hour to be so magnificent.

This man holds his heart captive, and although the approach of Yūri’s last weeks in university marks itself as the beginning of their end, he cannot bring himself to let go.

Chapter Text

Something changes between them after that night.

Yūri isn't sure what it is, but the feeling persists in his mind. Viktor’s words suddenly hold meanings he didn't dare consider before, like a reinforcement of something more than friendship exists between them.

It becomes hard to handle. Viktor is always so close, free with compliments and praise. Any moment now, Yūri feels like he’ll tip over and spill everything he feels. So he promises himself not to drink any alcohol at the upcoming party at Viktor’s mansion, because not only would it risk the other man seeing right through him, the whole world would, too.

Phichit, his close friend, always called him a chaotic drunk, too sincere for his own good. Yūri remembers very little of the parties where he supposedly wreaked havoc, but at one he apparently told off an ill-tempered colleague, who then glared at him for the rest of semester. Yūri had invited a certain Sara to dance after she complimented his moves on the dancefloor, whereupon her twin brother started yelling at him, despite she had accepted enthusiastically. Another guy named named Emil stepped in, offering to dance with “Mickey” if he was so jealous of his sister having someone to dance with. Said man only got angrier at the implication, and Yūri asked loudly who made the mistake of inviting this killjoy, who needed to stop acting like his sister’s bodyguard. Silence fell on the room and Phichit nearly burst out in laughter as Michele stomped towards the exit, followed by his sister. Later Phichit tagged Yūri on Twitter with the text in vino veritas.

So yes, alcohol was too dangerous, so he resolved to avoid it and deal with any pent-up frustration before going to the party that would celebrate the promotion of Viktor’s personal assistant, Christophe Giacometti, to director. It takes just a glance at the photobook open by his bedside to finish.

Embarrassed that he could do such a thing, he quickly washes off and puts the photobook back in its folder. Yūri’s not sure when he’ll have the courage to look at it again, and puts it with the rest. He then remembers that Viktor invited him and his friends to bring their portfolios along to the party. Before he forgets, he scrambles for a few folders, choosing a couple with those Viktor hired him to take. To the stack he also adds his finished portfolio, which he’ll have to be careful doesn't get seen by Viktor; Yūri plans to gift him a copy in private. In the dedication, written in Japanese and English, he even mentions him, so he’ll have to warn anyone to not tell the aforementioned about that, too.

When he’s nearly ready his cellphone rings and, for once, he answers without looking at who it is. That turns out to be a mistake, because soon his ear is full of the voice he hadn't mentally prepared himself to hear yet.

“Wow. You picked up really quickly,” the voice remarks.

Yūri mentally swears to himself in Japanese, knowing his mouth will betray him if he tries to explain he hadn't checked who it was. He usually takes a moment to think about what he'll say if it’s Viktor, and now his mind is blank.

Viktor speaks instead. “Will you be coming soon?”

It sounds almost like a plea, and Yūri cannot help but smile.

“Yes, once Phichit gets here. Do you need anything?”

There’s a pause, but then Viktor breathes out his response.

“Yes.”

At that Yūri feels the tone of the conversation shift, and carefully considers his next words.

“Is everything okay? You sound down.” Yūri begins to clench at the hems of his shirt with his free hand, trying to keep any tension from creeping into his voice.

“It’s just…Chris is a great employee.”

“And he’s getting transferred, right?

“Yeah…”

He doesn't elaborate, but from what Yūri can tell, Viktor has few friends; he usually mentions Christophe and Georgi, both from work, where he was used to spend most of his time.

“And how do you…feel about that?” Yūri cannot help but ask.

“I’m happy for him! he’ll get to be close to his boyfriend and…”

Yūri waits for Viktor to finish, but something on the other end tells him it’s hard to continue, so he starts talking again, hoping it will help.

“I don't know but…I think he’ll always have your back, no matter where he is – and you won't be alone, you know?”

Christophe would still be in close contact with Viktor, and Viktor had–

“V-Viktor?”

The other still hadn't replied, and Yūri didn't know what to make of it. Maybe he’d said too much? Yūri had yet to meet Christophe, but the way Viktor spoke of him made the Swiss man sound like a very close friend, and if Viktor ever needed company or someone to talk to he…

“If possible,” Viktor says at last, voice sounding a bit shaky, “would you stay? I…I don't want to be alone tonight. I can prepare the guest room for you.”

Yūri blinks, face blank as if he hadn't heard, before thinking, “Of course. Anything for you.”

Blood then rushes to his face at the realization he just said that aloud. He covers his mouth with his hand, desperately hoping the statement didn't sound grossly out of place; he was truly concerned and glad the other trusted him.

“Спасибо. до скорой встречи, мой долгожданный.”

Viktor’s words roll off his tongue like fingers down silk, smooth and rich with promise. Then with a beep, the call ends. Yūri stands there in the silence of his room, mouth agape, not believing what he just heard.

It’s been years since he’s held a decent conversation in Russian, but the affirmation is simple enough for him to understand (though his mind wants him to believe the contrary).

Heart beating furiously in his chest, he drops onto his bed and goes over the words in his head.

Thank you. See you soon, then, my long-awaited.

Everything burns, and he’s going to have get it out of his system all over again.

An hour later, Phichit arrives, sporting a haughty grin on his face.

“You ready now? You're acting like you gotta go on a date with someone.”

Yūri doesn't even bat an eye at that, and looks one last time in the mirror before taking his key and joining his friend outside the door.

“I needed to pack to sleep over.”

“Riiight.”

They walk down the stairs and outside the gate, where a familiar blue car is waiting across the street. Leo is in the front with his boyfriend Guanghong, listening to some rap music on the radio. Yūri met the two in his second year of college, though admittedly they see each other mostly through Phichit, who can befriend just about anyone.

Yūri nods his head in acknowledgment when Leo sees him, and Phichit opens the back seat door to get in.

“Hey, Yūri!” Guanghong exclaims, turning excitedly in his seat. “How did you manage to get us all invited to this party?”

Yūri climbs in after Phichit, grinning a little at the younger man’s question.

“Nothing, really,” he says as he sits down, “Viktor thought that it would be a nice to meet you all and learn more about fine art photography. A lot of people that work at his studio will be there too.”

He puts his bag in the middle rear seat with Phichit’s and shifts to put on his seat belt. Guanghong smiles, the freckles on his cheeks just visible under the map light.

“I was looking forward to it so much, I almost left my portfolio at home,” he admits.

Yūri cannot help the wry grin that comes to his face. The young Chinese man was probably eager to meet the big names that would be there and to promote his work. Meanwhile, all Yūri wanted to do was keep a low profile, meet Christophe, and be alone with Viktor.

“By the way, where’s Seung-gil?” Yūri turned to Phichit, whose eyes were fixed on his phone.

“He’s actually in Seoul right now, but I have his portfolio. Need him for anything?”

“Oh, no worries. I just wanted to ask him something. When is he coming back?”

Seung-gil knew everything about dogs, and if Yūri wanted to get one, he was the first to ask.

“I think next week, but I’ll call you when I see him.”

Yūri knows Phichit would see right through his decision to get a dog based on a number of pictures he has seen of Viktor and Makkachin and is therefore glad to postpone such conversation with a mere thanks.

Leo drives them somewhere near Viktor’s home to park the car, Yūri too distracted by his thoughts to notice until the vehicle turns off. Phichit tucks his phone away and gives him a look.

“You drinking tonight?”

Yūri shakes his head and exhales sharply. “No.”

“Too bad.”

Yūri lets out a non-committal sound in response and moves to climb out of the car. As much as he'd like to let loose a bit, drinking is the last thing he can do at his employer’s house, let alone around the man of his dreams.

They reach the rose-covered gate of Viktor’s wondrous abode, and Yūri doesn't even need to ring or take out his copy of the key, because it’s already open. They walk a good distance before approaching the building, the stone pathway an easy lead.

“Yūri!!!”

Thrown off by the sudden call of his name, he barely recollects himself before making out a waving figure by the veranda.

Viktor.

He immediately walks over to him followed by his friends, his lack of glasses making the ordeal of having Viktor’s eyes fixed on him a bit easier. The playing of a pianoforte can be heard from inside the house, and the temperature is very pleasant despite the heat rising to his face.

Viktor stretches out his hand to introduce himself and ask the name of each of Yūri’s friends, indicating not far off the new director at his company. “Please show off your work; Chris and I will be delighted!” Yūri can tell the three are impressed by how jovial Viktor seems, and they soon relax despite all the luxury they're surrounded with, starting from the five acres of highly manicured ground of the mansion, the grass, trees, and bushes all perfectly trimmed. After briefly explaining how to get around, he presents them to some of his work colleagues and house staff, inviting everyone to join the banquet.

While Viktor goes to fetch a drink, Phichit elbows Yūri mischievously, thick eyebrows quirking in amusement. “No wonder you've been so busy,” he whispers.

Flustered by Phichit’s innuendos, Yūri clears his voice and heads straight to the table Viktor said had Eastern European food, taking a napkin and reaching for what looks like some kind of roll. Meanwhile, Phichit stays behind, whipping out his cellphone to take a few pictures, getting Leo and Guanghong to pose in some.

“Do you want to try this mango juice, Yūri?”

Viktor appears behind him just as he finishes another of the assorted zakuski, holding two drinks. “It’s really refreshing.”

Yūri nods and takes the offered glass, eyes lingering briefly on Viktor’s cuffs, pulled back and revealing his taut forearms. Outside of training in his personal gym, Viktor swam in his backyard pool, not rarely adding to the beauty of the mansion’s landscape in his tight swimwear.

“Oh, I just remembered – I need to introduce you to Chris!”

Shaken from his thoughts, Yūri sees Viktor look around, scanning the groups of people gathered around the tables.

“Hmm, maybe he’s inside,” Viktor concludes after failing to locate his friend.

The sun is setting, giving an orange hue to Viktor as he stands with his wine glass against the horizon, a small smile on his face. Yūri usually comes around this time for his evening shift, catching Viktor while he was reading, swimming, or playing with Makkachin. As he’d proceed to tend to the plants and maybe style a bonsai, Viktor would drop whatever he was doing to watch, question, or even help Yūri. Eventually, they would end up conversing and doing everything together. Viktor always wrapped him in his presence, in warmth.

I love you.

Gripping his glass, a wave of panic courses through him; just being around Viktor makes him happy, but keeping this feeling inside is becoming impossible.

He’s dying to be closer.

Needing some kind of distraction, be brings the drink that was given to him to his lips, its sweet taste exploding on his tongue. Viktor turns back towards him, smiling with his eyes, and Yūri’s mind drifts back to their talk over phone earlier. The invitation to sleep over is not something he reads into due to the situation, but Viktor calling Yūri his “long-awaited” has his heart beating like a love-struck fool who’d do anything for more.

So he does.

“I’ve been really inspired lately…”

Viktor looks at Yūri with renewed interest, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s hard to put into words, but I see something new coming out of my photographs, even when they don't perfectly match my vision.”

Yūri shifts on his feet, a sense of self-consciousness coming over him as he cups his neck with his free hand. Viktor’s gaze traces the movement, still listening intently to his words.

“I don't think I've ever tried so hard to photograph–”

“Viktor!”

A voice with what sounds like a French accent interrupts him mid-sentence. Yūri turns to look where it came from, meeting a pair of hazel eyes.

“Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt.” He smirks, polishing off his flute of champagne. “Viktor seemed so enraptured I thought he was looking at the food.”

The man descends the step at the edge of the veranda, leaving the lavish dining hall behind him. Viktor stifles a laugh, murmuring “tipsy already?” as he leads Yūri towards him, the lightheartedness of it all an instant tip-off in regard to whom it is. Christophe is taller than Viktor and has an undercut, the longer hair at the top of his head dyed blond. He’s remarkably fit and has a lascivious look to him, enhanced by his bold eyebrows and the sparse stubble along his upper lip and chin.

“Could this be the one and only bonsai curator? I’ve heard so much about you.”

Yūri feels his face warm and swallows thickly, unsure what to say to that.

“It is,” Viktor quickly says, making a gesture to introduce him, “Yūri. This is my dear friend, Christophe. He’s been wanting to meet you after I told him all about your amazing work.”

Viktor punctuates the last words, sounding vaguely minatory. There’s a twinkle of humor in Christophe’s eyes, and he offers his hand to Yūri to shake.

“It’s true. I’d much like to see your work, Mr. Katsuki.”

Yūri nods, reaching to shake Christophe’s hand. “Of course. Ah, and just Yūri is fine.”

“Then call me Chris, too,” he adds casually, punctuating his reply with a squeeze of hand.

Once they're done introducing themselves, Yūri looks over his shoulder to see where the others are and spots Phichit chatting with Guanghong and Leo busy with a plate of food. With a wave he gets their attention, turning to speak to Viktor before they arrive.

“I’m gonna go inside to set our bags down and show Chris some things, then. Meanwhile, you can take care of the guests.”

Viktor doesn't have the time to object before they head inside, his friend immediately going along with the idea and flashing him a haughty smile.

“Oh, I can't wait to see,” he quips merrily.

After crossing the banquet hall they reach the foyer, dominated by a dual staircase and an exquisite crystal chandelier hanging high from the ceiling. Yūri heads for a closet to leave his bag in for the time being, removing the folders to show Christophe and taking anything his friends wish to leave. Eventually, they make their way back to the banquet hall, the carrara marble floor reflecting their figures along the way.

Impressed by the house, Phichit insists that Yūri show them around, claiming they can talk about work later. Christophe agrees, and gets them drinks for while they tour. Yūri leaves his folders on one of the dining tables in the banquet hall and, as they walk through the empty parlor, converses with the new director. The latter seems to know a lot about decor, pointing out some of the antiques in Viktor’s home when he notices something new hanging on the wall of the living room. Christophe doesn't seem to realize what it is at first, so Yūri says it’s an obi, or Japanese sash, fancy and colorful because it’s the type young unmarried women wear for their kimono. Christophe observes the silk brocade for a moment, as though searching for something, but doesn't say anything.

Once they reach the patio, Leo accompanies Guanghong to get more food while Christophe sits down to chat with Phichit by the garden. Yūri busies himself with some bonsai, the sheer number making any occasion to prune them a good one (especially when a lot of the topics that come up with Christophe and Phichit make Yūri wish he wasn't sober). Viktor eventually shows up with a few of his co-workers, proudly showing off some of the trees Yūri has styled and maintained for him, as well as the rest of the garden.

As the evening drifts by, Yūri catches Viktor and Christophe with watery eyes, noting that with each toast of congratulations they are getting closer to cry, until they finally do. It’s hard to notice with everything else going on, but the resulting catharsis shows on their faces when they join the rest again.

If he couldn't feel more for Viktor already, Yūri starts reminiscing about his own past separations. When he said goodbye to his childhood friends in Japan, it was like a postponed ending that he tried not to acknowledge. Thankfully, Viktor and Christophe would have kept in close contact due to their work and nature…

From there on, the party just gets livelier: the interns drink enough to start falling over, eventually dozing off on the classic white sofas in the living room. Glasses are strewn all over the place, and when someone passes out over the pianoforte, the piano player finally calls it a night. In the commotion Yūri meets Viktor’s gaze a few times, failing to suppress a smile as his insides twist in excitement.

Viktor, though not avoiding alcohol, seems intent on staying sober. He indulges only a few glasses of wine throughout the evening, busy chatting or listening quietly, depending on whom he’s with. He often brings up business matters, but Yūri’s friends don't seem to have work on their minds at all.

Only once a lament about student loans leaves one of the photographers’ mouths do they seem to remember, hustling to get their portfolios. Not in the mood to sell himself, Yūri leaves his folders with Christophe and goes looking for Viktor, who seems to have momentarily slipped away.

Unable to find him on the patio or in the banquet hall, Yūri returns to the living room, catching sight of Viktor’s unmistakable ash blond hair.

“Ah, there you are! I was looking for you.”

Across the room, Viktor is standing by Christophe and looking down at an open book, fulfilling the exact contingency Yūri was trying to avoid. Smiling to himself at the curiosity of the other man, Yūri makes a beeline for where he left his folders.

Viktor barely tears his eyes away from the pages, and Yūri is about to say something until, suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks. The book open on the table is nothing like that of his portfolio or commissioned albums; it’s taller and more thick. There's no doubt in his mind it's the book he dedicated solely to Viktor, and yet…

“I-Is that–”

The rest of the question dies on his tongue when a scream pitches itself through the room, followed by the sound of something shattering against the marble floor.

“This pain is too great to bear!”

They all turn to the noise coming from the center of the room and see Mr. Popovich, a head employee at Viktor’s studio, on the floor in a puddle of wine, tears, and broken glass. Despite the dramatics, he’s unscathed, sobbing vocally about a woman named Anya. His laments echo like a premonition in Yūri’s head, comically late now that his feelings for Viktor have been thrust into the open, without any possible mitigation. He could have confessed on his own terms, handled the rejection, preserved their friendship–

Christophe, after eyeing the display of his older colleague pitifully, turns to look at Viktor and Yūri. Shock is still fresh on their faces, and he knows better than to say anything. With an apologetic nod, he takes advantage of the moment to withdraw, leaving Viktor and Yūri to work it out among themselves.

Yūri knows he has to say something, to apologize, but the sight of Viktor so visibly shaken, like he’s seen something he never should have, takes its full toll. The unmistakable blush on Viktor’s beautifully distraught face and the slump of his broad shoulders at once disorient Yūri, spreading the ache he feels deep inside. At this point, he has pretty much made fucking up an art form.

Viktor moves, reaching for the book on the table, and shakily turns a few pages. The pictures are unmistakably centered on him, which worsens his tremor and the reddening of his cheeks. Yūri cautiously steps forward to curl a hand around Viktor’s elbow, hoping to convey his unadulterated sincerity; he never wanted to make the man he loved uncomfortable with his unabashed admiration.

“V-Viktor, I–”

“Come with me, please,” he asks, with only a sliver of his voice.

As if not expecting an answer, he immediately turns on his heels and makes a straight line to the grand door at the back of the room, and Yūri has ventured around this place enough times to know that it leads to a more private area of the house. Viktor doesn’t look back nor spares him any other word, not even to ensure he’s actually following him, which serves as further confirmation this isn’t going to end well. A series of possible outcomes cross through his mind, growing more horrid at each step they take down the corridor. Once the door to the living room closes behind him, shutting away all the ruckus of the party, Yūri is positive he’s going to pass out.

What if Viktor feels betrayed?

He hardly believes the man would be one to dismiss him entirely, especially after the moments they’ve shared in the course of their vaguely business-like arrangement, but it’s plausible, Yūri reasons.

Viktor’s hesitancy at being the center of even a few pictures had been crystal clear back when the photography equipment arrived, and although he’d warmed up for a couple of pictures along the way, a few months later has Viktor finding an entire folder filled with captures of moments he didn’t allow for. In retrospect, despite being only by omission, it’s as if Yūri had been lying to him this whole time.

When he looks up, vaguely coming to realize how much he fell behind, the long staircase up ahead does nothing to appease his heavy consciousness. Viktor seems to be in an awful hurry, and amidst the disarray of thoughts swimming in his head, Yūri wonders if this is how it will end.

With a misunderstanding, feelings shut deep within.

But then he remembers their trust, the laughter and the whispered words in Russian; of how being pressed against Viktor’s side on the previous night felt comforting and warm, almost dream-like. The distance between their private worlds never really stopped casting a shadow over Yūri’s heart, but the effort to introduce each other to their own personal bubbles hadn’t been a lie. The expected course of his existence was turned upside down the moment Viktor came barging in, serving as the needed push to embark on an untold number of ventures for the first time in his life, all out of the goodness of his heart and his faith in Yūri’s skills.

(Not a lie.)

So he won’t betray that faith; not again, not in any capacity.

And if it has to end at all then it will, but not in silence. If admitting his feelings is the only way the man will understand the reason he hid in the shadows, afraid of what his feelings could become or what it could cause, then that's exactly what Yūri will do – even if it costs him Viktor himself. He rushes up the stairs, refusing to think twice on it.

Another door closes behind him, sealing the resolve around his crumbling heart. They’re alone in the middle of a room, and when Viktor turns to face him, the air decidedly leaves Yūri's lungs for good. But the words remain.

'Let's end this,' his mind unravels bitterly underneath the thought.

As for the strings that fold him into a vaguely contradictory cusp of melancholy and tenacity, they bend and hurt, squeezing around what remains of his courage in a futile attempt to keep his confession from slipping out. A profound sadness settles, grows and bleeds through the cracks in his soul, and Yūri is ultimately allowed for just about the last thing he wants to do:

Letting go.

Chapter Text

Yūri may just as well be dreaming that ample upstairs room in Viktor’s mansion.

Not only has he never been in that part of the house before, full of fanciful furniture and painted ceramic ware, the ambience is otherworldly, the giant bay window letting in just enough light to bathe the vintage decor in tones of Prussian blue. Viktor’s silhouette stands stark against a wall of gilded sunburst mirrors, and the wish to take pictures comes over Yūri again despite it all. Viktor seems so out of reach, hair gleaming like starlight in the monthly blue moon.

The variegated colors of moments before are gone, leaving Yūri’s memories as blue as cyanotype prints.

Yūri stands in the center of the room, half-hugging his arms and half-biting his lip while waiting, waiting for something. Viktor is still turned away from him, and for some moments Yūri lets himself stare longingly at his back. Being brought there is better than being brought to Viktor’s office, he supposes, but hope is dwindling as quickly as it comes, like a pleasant breeze on a scorching hot day.

There’s a feeble light shining on Viktor’s face when he turns, eyes glinting with something unknown and achingly beautiful. His next words will set the course of the entire conversation, and Yūri dreads them like sailors dread tall clouds whilst traveling by sea.

“Did you mean it?”

The crack of Viktor’s voice, though hardly the signal of an imminent storm, sends a jolt of panic through Yūri, feeling more raw and exposed than he had ever anticipated, because Viktor wants to know, wants confirmation of how he feels.

“Viktor, listen, I’m really, really sorry I did that. I–”

“Please. Just...tell me?” Viktor interrupts, shifting frantically on his feet. “Did you mean it?”

Looking at Viktor while he speaks is too much, so Yūri’s eyes wander around the room, to a painting and a vase, to the heavy Rolex watch on Viktor’s wrist. There’s no time left.

“Yes,” he lets out in one breath, voice surprisingly firm and resolute despite himself. “I’m so–”

Viktor steps forward, and Yūri winces before lifting his head to meet the other man’s gaze. Instead of a dark tumultuous ocean, all Yūri can see is a soft cyan sea, and he cannot bring himself to break the spell that has him frozen to the spot as Viktor slowly enters his space. The closeness sets his skin ablaze and his eyes go wide, a quiet “oh” slipping from his lips as Viktor rests his forehead against his.

Time dilates, and everything winds down to that moment.

Viktor straightens and gives a small, seemingly shy smile before cupping Yūri’s face, his touch loving and definitely too much for Yūri to handle. Yet, Yūri’s body disregards what his mind tells him and leans into it, as if it were a natural response. When Viktor’s thumb rests on the corner of his mouth, he can feel Viktor’s gaze boring through him, making him melt on the spot. Almost shaking, his hand comes to Viktor’s chest, the mere contact enough to make the last of his reason capsize and sink.

“Viktor.”

Yūri looks up and Viktor's breath catches as his hand moves to find his heartbeat, fabric brushing audibly against his palm. The thrumming of his own heart fills his ears when he feels the pulsation, unable to make out the difference between the two in his reverie. He then trails his hand up Viktor’s neck, warm skin clinging to his reverent fingertips.

Viktor seems as if he’s in a daze, his expression hard to place. Yūri’s fingers feel at the soft hair at his nape, beginning to scratch softly.

Viktor’s eyes flutter closed as he turns his face, lips grazing the skin below Yūri’s wrist.

The touch fuels the eager, hungry side of Yūri, so when Viktor doesn't go further, Yūri tugs at the silk strands of his hair.

Being this close without having kissed yet is not something he wants to endure any longer.

And like every other invitation he’s made, Viktor takes it.

But he’s not ready, he never could be.

Viktor’s lips lightly press into his, and it makes him tremble and shake from within. It’s soft and undemanding, and so very, very hard to believe. The man he loves is kissing him. Viktor, whose touch is so kind, whose smile is everything…

Viktor lifts his chin after changing angle, causing Yūri to almost squeak when he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, as if Yūri were something to feast on. Eventually, an ecstatic sound escapes his mouth, and he stands up on his toes to wrap his arms around Viktor’s neck.

A pleasant hum sounds against his mouth, and Viktor pulls back to whisper against his lips.

“You’re too much.”

A soft laugh leaves him, and he cannot help the tease the creeps into his voice when he replies.

“Am I, now?”

Yūri leans back in to kiss Viktor, unable to hold back from expressing his desire, because after all, this all could be a dream.

He presses insistently against Viktor’s body, feeling as much of him as he can. If Viktor’s utter compliance is any indication, his actions are not unwelcome, so he goes for more, licking the swell of Viktor’s lips. In reward for his boldness, Viktor opens his mouth, the kiss becoming downright intoxicating after a few light brushes of their tongues. The pleasure begins to sound in the silence of the room, and Viktor slides a hand up his shirt, the warmth and reverence with which he touches Yūri’s stomach nothing short of an attack on his sanity.

Viktor’s calm, collected manner quickly dissolves, and the change submerges Yūri suddenly, like a tidal wave. Desire racks his body, the brush of Viktor’s thigh between his legs only promising to make it grow.

Yūri moves back, left of the window, path thankfully free of any furniture to bump into. Head spinning, Yūri barely notices the hand sliding down to the space between their bodies until it stops and rubs over the bulge in his pants.

“Oh, yes!”

He finally slams back against the wall, bringing Viktor with him in what can only be described as a wave of uncontrollable passion. Time bends, their activities prolonging for what feels like hours due to the urgency for more. In the exchange of fervent touches and kisses Viktor’s desperation feels equal in measure, Yūri’s lips beginning to throb as he reaches to grab Viktor’s hair. He pulls lightly when Viktor stops palming him and removes his hand to press his leg flush against Yūri’s front. Both of Viktor’s hands then slide to the end of his back, and the need for further stimulation becomes impossible to bear.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes out heavily, helplessly frotting against Viktor. The latter’s mouth trails a path down his throat as Yūri turns his head, stopping to suck harshly at his pulse until he cannot help but curse again. “Fuck.”

Viktor bucks his hips, the movement sending a thrill through Yūri’s body as the sounds being made against his neck get louder. Having left to indulgently wander, Yūri’s hands return to Viktor’s head, caressing and grasping at the soft locks of his hair until, finally, they tug to pull Viktor away from the crook of his neck. Using the wall as leverage, he then shifts to roll his hips against Viktor’s crotch, relishing in the friction between them.

It’s a lot hotter while looking Viktor straight in the eyes.

“You,” Viktor says, letting out a strangled groan. His hands finally slip down to Yūri’s rear, hoisting him into the air. Quickly and easily Yūri wraps both legs around him, wanting nothing more than for the distance between them to disappear.

“You’re really enjoying making this hard, aren’t you?”

Viktor’s grip on his bottom and the want in his voice make Yūri nearly shiver, anticipation building in his gut at the thought of what it would be like if they embraced in the Japanese, euphemistic sense of the word. Yūri can see it in Viktor’s eyes, feel it in his touch: Viktor wants him just as much as he wants Viktor, in more ways than one.

“Maybe.”

Yūri’s already winded, overwhelmed by the fervent gaze and touches of his belovėd, yet a carnivorous hunger spurs him on, the surprise he can rouse on the older man’s face just so satisfying to see. If he didn't want so badly for Viktor to lead him right now, to fill him to the brim, he would have gladly tried to pin the latter to the wall instead.

The strength exerted by Viktor’s body as he starts to slowly thrust against him quickly extinguishes that thought, the heat in Yūri’s lower abdomen risking to overflow. Viktor’s eyes mirror his emotion as he struggles to not cry out. It’s in the air, in the electricity between them, so much that it rocks their bodies and cracks opens their souls.

Yūri shuts his eyes as Viktor braces him against the wall, the possibility of being taken with the speed of his accelerating heart rate so tempting to imagine. Viktor’s grip on his backside keeps tightening, his long fingers so tortuously close to where Yūri wants them. He kisses Yūri’s neck and continues to thrust his hips in tauntingly slow motions. Yūri is only breaths away from begging.

“Yūri,” Viktor calls suddenly, causing Yūri to gasp as he bites softly down his neck. “Oh, Yūri, can we–”

“Yes.” The word slips effortlessly from his lips, and Viktor’s meet his again in response.

They stagger to Viktor’s bedroom, clothes hurriedly being discarded along the way. The intent with which Viktor kisses him is distracting, the sweet words Viktor throws between pauses making him stumble over his feet.

Soon Yūri is clad in nothing but his boxer briefs, barely holding still on Viktor’s bed as warm hands glide over his stomach. Viktor bends down to leave a single kiss on Yūri’s collarbone before asking Yūri to tell him when to stop.

Yūri limits to nodding frantically, too taken by Viktor’s touch to even consider the possibility of ever needing to realistic. In return, an adorable sound escapes from Viktor, and Yūri thinks they're probably both going to burst from the intensity of their emotions. Viktor slips away to quickly fetch something from the nightstand drawer, and Yūri cannot help watching him wistfully as he goes.

This is better than any dream.

When Viktor comes back to him, slowly setting a bottle of lube and some condoms next to him on the mattress, Yūri can feel his insides twist at Viktor’s expression, loving and wreaked with a desire as fathomless as his own. Before meeting Viktor it was easier for Yūri to not think about love, waters too shallow to wonder what lay at the bottom of them. Yet, he wants to dive in now, to explore the ocean deep for as long as possible after everything, dark or bright, he’s seen rise to the surface. All he wanted was to stand alongside Viktor, to be connected to him.

Smiling and extending an arm, he finally knows what binds them.

“Come here?”

In a beat Viktor is by his side on the bed, sighing contentedly as soon as their lips meet. Without saying a word, they slip out of their underwear, heavily caressing until Viktor moves into the space between Yūri’s legs. The way the flushed tip of Viktor’s erection stands out against his pale skin is impossible to ignore, and Yūri finds it hard to breathe at the prospect of what’s coming next, hips squirming on the mattress with the last of his patience.

Viktor leans in towards Yūri’s chest, pressing a light kiss over the rapid beat of his heart before making his way down, the heat of his tongue intermixing with that of each kiss branded onto his skin. It’s sweet, unadulterated torture watching Viktor until he reaches Yūri’s thighs, teeth catching on the softer flesh there. Yūri bites down on his lip as he helplessly closes his eyes, somehow managing to not moan as the bottle of lube is uncapped.

The feel of breath fanning against wet skin brings him to open eyes and look down at Viktor, who meets his gaze before pressing a cheek below his waist adoringly.

“Oh, my God,” he whines after his hands shoot down to caress Viktor’s hair, Who was too much again?

Before Yūri can recover from the view of Viktor nuzzled intimately against him, he feels the pad of a finger at his entrance and the slide of tongue along his cock. Panting loudly, Yūri makes sure to not clench down at the contact, allowing Viktor to insert the first digit until, upon reaching the second knuckle, he pauses and looks up at Yūri with wide eyes.

“Yūri, did you…?”

Despite his mind being clouded by lust, he understands immediately what Viktor is referring to, the memory of what he did after their phone call triggered by the touch.

Usually Yūri didn't finger there when he pleasured himself, but so much had been going on in his mind that he just…caved.

“D-Don’t make fun of me…”

Under the dim room light Yūri sees the rosy color rising to Viktor’s cheeks, his mouth half open, and wonders if it could look like anything else. His taking hundreds of pictures of Viktor only favored that conclusion, after all. Perhaps he should apologize–

But then Viktor bows his head and lets out a sound akin to a strained moan, his body sliding against the mattress in a decidedly wanton manner. He adjusts his fingers, gathering his breath before bracing his left hand below Yūri’s shaft.

If Yūri was going to say anything, he forgets what it was, because Viktor’s lips finally wrap around the head of his cock, giving it a meaningful suck. A second finger quickly goes in with the first, and Yūri is positively at the gates of heaven, carding his hands through Viktor’s hair. It starts with a single sob at first, but then Viktor takes him completely in his mouth, head bobbing with such speed and purpose Yūri can only call out mantras of yes, please, and Viktor.

Viktor’s fingers work quickly in and out of him, adequate amounts of lube being added in the process. Images of Viktor on top of him, taking him fast and hard, would be natural if Yūri didn't want Viktor so badly right now; he’s thinking of turning them over and taking what he needs himself. Viktor hollows his cheeks and gives Yūri a harsh suck, as if he knows Yūri cannot take it any longer and wishes to push him over the edge. Yūri closes his legs and traps Viktor’s head before that can happen, because there’s no way he’s going to come during his first time without Viktor inside him, moving until they’re both spent.

Meanwhile, Viktor adds a third finger to the rest, pushing nearly all of them in to the rim.

“Okay?” Viktor asks in a raspy voice, wet lips brushing against the tip of his dripping arousal. Feeling Viktor’s fingers curl up inside him, Yūri has no other option but to beg.

“Please, just–”

Yūri lets out a scream and swears, swears he feels a wicked smile forming against his skin as he writhes on the mattress, Viktor showing no signs of letting up while he mercilessly presses against the sweet spot he’s found in Yūri.

He tries to sit up on his elbows, chest heaving as he watches Viktor finally let go of his length, red and gleaming like Viktor’s lips that God he so wants to kiss right now. He sets the thought aside for later, however, when Viktor reaches for one of the condoms on the bed. There are other things he can do to Viktor with his mouth.

“Let me?”

Viktor arches his eyebrows in surprise, but nods. Sitting up, with Viktor kneeling between his legs, Yūri removes the condom from the wrapper and reaches forward, taking the opportunity to stare. It’s perfect like the rest of him, thick and long enough to make Yūri’s hands shake as he slides down the condom. He strokes the length a couple times, feeling it pulse in his hand, and doesn't wait to bend down on his knees and flick the top with his tongue. He teases along the length until Viktor’s hands move to thread in his hair in plea for more.

Without hesitation, he bobs his head a couple of times, the feel of the rounded head sliding between his lips before he goes down again nothing short of addicting. Viktor’s reaction is immediate, and Yūri’s only regret is not being able to taste Viktor in his mouth as his lips squeeze tightly around the neck. When the tip finally hits the back of his throat he starts moaning, knowing perfectly well there is ways to go before it’s all the way in.

Viktor starts tugging at his hair, which he takes as a sign of encouragement as he tries to take him further. It’s difficult, considering the size, but the pulsating heat and the sounds they make together drown out any discomfort.

He sucks harshly and moans while he slowly draws back, his mind so blissfully blank of anything that isn't Viktor.

“Oh, that’s–!” Yūri hears Viktor gasp, squirming until Yūri releases his mouth. “If you keep doing this, I can’t promise I’ll last, my love.”

The affectionate designation is a critical hit to Yūri’s composure, blood rushing to his face. He eventually lets go, mouthing down and nuzzling at the smooth, oval-shaped parts of Viktor before he does. Still struggling to curb the heady feelings surging through him, he licks his lips and answers raspily.

“Sorry…”

Something in Viktor seems to snap at that, and Yūri is thankful it does, having long-reached his limit. Viktor springs forward to kiss him open mouth, hands cradling his head like he’s something precious. Yūri reciprocates automatically, all the desperate craving and desire built up in these months ready to burst from his frame.

The ease with which Viktor goes down on the bed, mouth never leaving his, fuels Yūri’s confidence, and he pulls back to straddle Viktor’s legs. Focusing his eyes, he takes in Viktor, breathless and breathtaking with his hair splayed out on one of the pillows.

He doesn't wait a moment longer.

Sitting up on his knees, he positions himself over Viktor’s erection, reeling from the thrill it gives him. Using his hand, he holds the head to his entrance, gasping when it breaches and slides past the rim.

There's no way to describe it, the way it feels to go down and gradually be filled by Viktor, making him open with an overwhelming, exquisite stretch. Viktor’s hands readily come to his hips, as if to steady him before he falls.

“Yūri…”

Viktor enunciates Yūri’s name like a supplication, a prayer only he can answer. Yūri then places his hands on Viktor’s stomach and stops to catch his breath, taking in the sight of the man under him, whose dark, heavy-lidded gaze fixes on his. Holding the eye contact, Yūri then starts to grind against him slowly, feeling Viktor’s hands slip to his thighs as he does. Viktor doesn't say anything, but the way his eyes glint and his nails dig into Yūri’s skin says plenty.

After all the pictures he took of Viktor without the latter’s realizing, Yūri feels like he still owes him an explanation, however embarrassing it may be. He starts to speak, of what he’s not sure after a while, but the sight of Viktor beneath him is rewarding. He picks up the pace, the pleasure building inside him in such way he closes his eyes, words cutting off with each slam against Viktor’s hips.

Amidst what was probably an appraisal of Viktor as a person or his beauty as a model, Yūri moves faster and with increasing force, Viktor’s grip on on his thighs nearly slackening.

“God, you feel–” Viktor gasps, making a choked noise as he tries to form words. “Yūri, my Yūri. You feel so good. You’re doing so good.”

Yūri’s hips stutter slightly as he processes the affirmation, and Viktor starts to thrust upwards to meet his movements, hitting against the very spot that drives him crazy. Speaking in sentences, even broken ones, becomes downright impossible. The pleasure is unlike any he has experienced on his own, his head falling back as the pressure builds below his spine.

Viktor moves as though he’s seized by a frenzy, relentless and tight in his hold on Yūri, who sobs his name repeatedly, overwhelmed.

“You’re so beautiful like this. Y-You–ah!”

Yūri finds himself spreading over Viktor, whose cries and tight grip tell Yūri he’s close. Gasping from the sensation of his cock sliding hotly between them, he presses his face into the crook of Viktor’s neck, feeling Viktor’s heartbeat pulse beneath his mouth. He drags his lips and tongue over it aimlessly, senses hit by the floral scent of Viktor’s skin.

Viktor’s hands slide up his legs, squeezing along the path slick with sweat and until two fingers press at the border of his entrance. Yūri jolts up at the touch, letting out a scream as Viktor continues to drive himself into him. The friction there, already so tantalizing and good, pushes him over the edge.

“Viktor, I’m–”

Yūri tightens around his lover as his orgasm hits him, riding it out hard and fast. Viktor, who’s still thrusting into Yūri erratically and making the most beautiful sounds, comes not long after, whimpering Yūri’s name before his hips begin to still.

Unwilling to separate, Yūri’s lies on top of him, winding down to the rhythm of gentle caresses on his back until his breathing begins to even. With great care, Viktor then pulls out, rolling them over onto their sides. They’re lovers now, Yūri thinks, the realization made all the more vivid as Viktor stares at him in wonder, like he’s never seen anything similar before.

Viktor leans in and Yūri’s heart swells in his chest, eyes shutting in anticipation of a kiss. The first and second is on his eyelids, the third on his cheek, and the fourth on the tip of his nose, until finally, Viktor leaves an ineffably tender kiss on his lips. Yūri opens his eyes to the sight of Viktor’s smile, which reaches his eyes, and feels like he’s falling in love again.

Yūri has always loved the feel of sand beneath his feet as waves crash onto the shore, the feeling it’s not just him there, staring out into the endless horizon.

What he sees the next morning is truly unexpected, and for a moment he thinks he’s still dreaming.

Except he wasn't dreaming, and Viktor is right next to him, looking straight at him with a fond expression, even.

Yūri blinks away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes as reality dawns upon him. Viktor’s hair is mussed, like it’s been swept up by a gust of wind, and he looks (other than criminally sexy) almost younger, a twinkle in his eyes and a smile stamped across his face. Yūri cannot fight the blush that inevitably comes, because really, how else is he supposed to react to a man whose splendor rivals that of a Greek god?

“Good morning,” Viktor says, fingers sneaking to draw lines over Yūri’s arm.

“…’morning.”

Yūri’s eyes alight on Viktor’s lips, the last test to see if it’s all real. Viktor doesn’t hesitate to move forward then, Yūri’s arms readily wrapping around him. It’s a simple press of lips, soft and warm, until the brush of hands over his back send a frisson through his body and the kiss deepens.

Once Yūri has ascertained that yes, it’s all amazingly real, he reluctantly breaks the kiss so they can get out of bed, a happy sigh leaving them before they untangle their limbs.

“Breakfast?” Yūri asks amusedly, holding out his hand.

Like in a daze, Viktor takes Yūri’s hand and lets himself be pulled up, following his lead all the way downstairs. Waking up next to Viktor and the memories of last night give him a boost of energy and a sense of giddiness he’s not used to having first thing in the morning, while Viktor, instead, seems almost too stunned to speak.

On their way to the kitchen, however, he seems to awake from his stupor, making a beeline for the living room. Yūri’s folders and photography books are piled atop of a table he remembers all too well, and from behind Viktor he sees there’s also a written note.

Behave, you two!

Grinning, Viktor sets the note aside and opens the first folder. Immediately, Yūri reaches out to stop him, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“Please don’t!”

“But I want to see them!” Viktor tilts backs to lean on Yūri’s shoulder, moving to kiss him on the mouth. It’s a pleasant distraction from his mounting embarrassment, but also a guarantee Viktor will get what he wants.

“How many did you take, anyway?” he says against Yūri’s lips.

Yūri swallows, unable to think of even an approximate quantity besides “a lot.” Viktor pulls back, eyes fixed on him.

“I don’t know.”

Viktor opens the book and, as he turns the first page, Yūri seeks refuge in the expanse of his back. It’s only right that Viktor gets to see the photographs, but they reveal as much of Yūri as they do him.

“You really took a lot of them,” Viktor says after a few minutes, voice sounding a bit shaky. Yūri hears the sound of the book shutting and nods, pressing his cheek to Viktor’s shoulder. “Did you finish your portfolio?”

Yūri hums in assent, shrugging slightly.

“I did, but it won’t do me any good until we get a sponsorship. Phichit and Seung-gil suggested we do an exhibit together, but well–I guess we’ll have to wait, and see.”

“I could be your sponsor,” Viktor offers. Suddenly, disbelief crashes down on Yūri, because the last thing he wanted was Viktor feeling sorry for him, thinking he would exploit that just to get his career going.

“What?” Viktor asks, looking strangely lost after Yūri steps away.

“This isn’t funny,” he counters, face twisting in consternation.

Viktor just looks more confused.

“Was it supposed to be?”

The thought of Viktor, a man of great taste and caprice, would settle to sponsor his work because of their relationship only gets to him more. He backs further away, throat tight as tears start to burn in his eyes.

“Do you really think I need your–your pity?” he says forcefully, unable to look at Viktor as he continues. “I know that I. That I was pretty obvious about liking you–loving you. But you don’t need to do this just because of what…” Yūri nearly chokes on his words, thinking of how intense it had been. “We did. Last night.”

Viktor’s face falls and he raises his hands, as if in surrender.

“Yūri. Yūri, no!” He shakes his head and denies the assertion vehemently, like such a thing never crossed his mind. “Why would I–this isn’t pity. Your work is astounding! It’s like you make music through the images, like you transport us right to the very second you took those pictures. Like a beautiful, intimate moment… It’s a form of art. One that grows faster than any other. And I would be foolish for not being interested in it; in yours. Your work.”

To say he’s shocked is an understatement, because there’s no denying Viktor’s words ring sincere to his ears, as well as passionate. What’s more, Viktor’s any facade would crumble easily at the sight of tears, and it’s not hard for them to fall then, as Yūri goes over the words in his mind.

“Do–Do you mean that?”

Viktor has stepped closer, bending slightly on slightly on his knees so that they are on eye level, and Yūri wishes so much to close the space between them.

“Yes. Yes, I do, my Yūri.”

He opens his arms and Yūri all but jumps into them, aching for the physical comfort only Viktor seems to give him. The tension steadily melts away from his body, along with any shreds of doubt remaining in his heart.

After the tears stop and they’re comfortably molded into each other, Yūri can feel Viktor’s smile against his hairline. He tilts his head up to look at Viktor, whose face is shining with such joy it’s contagious.

“So you love me, huh?”

God. It was painfully obvious even without acknowledging it aloud. Hell, he’s not sure how he contains it.

Yūri gives Viktor a gentle smack on the arm, face on fire and heart soaring.

If love can encompass everything you are to me…

“You could say that.”

He’s been considering getting a dog for months now, so he finally arranges a visit to the local breeder. Thanks to Seung-gil’s recommendation, he would be able to pay in monthly installments for a toy poodle of high pedigree. He just had to choose.

With a carefully orchestrated excuse, he takes his boyfriend’s Toyota Camry and drives out to Pontiac to see the latest litter by himself. The puppies are ten weeks old, so technically ready for adoption. He had considered just adopting from a shelter, but after watching a certain episode of Judge Judy that featured a dispute over a small white poodle, it was like he had been struck – again. Makkachin, of the standard breed, was real cute, but that was the most adorable dog he had ever seen in his life, and the plaintiff didn't want it just because it had turned out bigger than the average toy! … The case got him even more emotionally invested in the idea of having a poodle. Especially a dainty one, which meant it had the potential to live longer and not just be ridiculously cute.

He was just human, after all. Still, he decided to volunteer at a nearby shelter for a while to make up for such decision. Now he could say he knew how to care properly for a dog, too.

When he climbs out of the black car, a middle-aged lady is already waiting for him on the front porch of her home. She beckons him inside, and to his surprise he sees several poodles of different sizes when he walks in. They're all groomed as if they’re about to go to a dog show – a far call from long, curly haired Makkachin.

She immediately introduces them, and then points to the mother of the latest litter. She’s a very nice shade of red that he immediately finds appealing.

A few minutes of talking later, he’s led to the living room. There on the floor, are a few red and brown poodle puppies. He feels an instant tug at his heart at their expressions, especially of the one who constantly looks like it’s about to move, to just stay in place on the strip of plush carpet, wagging its tail as they approach.

Once he reaches the center of the room, he bends on his knees, assessing the sweet things. The mother comes over, letting herself be pet as he takes a look. Meanwhile, the lady goes into fine detail about their lineage and what she gives them to eat, until the hesitant puppy finally leaves its spot, joining its siblings and mother at his feet. When Yūri stops petting the others, it rolls over on its back, as if about to go to sleep.

As soon as Yūri moves to pet the puppy's belly, it wraps its legs around his hand as if to play with a toy, licking his fingers.

“…How much is this red one?”

“That darling boy? For you, $2,000.”

Yūri might as well name him Viktor.

Yūri cannot wait for Viktor, who he soon calls Vicchan for how small and cute he is, to meet his namesake, so he texts him and drives straight to his house. They unofficially live together now, and Yūri has pretty much sublet half of his apartment to Phichit, who had already offered to split the rent with him were his roommate, Seung-gil, ever to move out. It was a happy arrangement, and Phichit often came over to Viktor’s place too.

Having so many good things happen in succession made Yūri anxious at first, but he had to admit that his karma wasn't all that bad before either; it felt easier to accept everyone’s kindness now despite the pressure and sense of inadequacy upon attending university with a direction unexpectedly different from that of his entire family.

As soon as he enters the garden, he finds Viktor waiting for him with Makkachin sleeping at his feet, a small table still set from breakfast together near the goldband lilies. It’s not yet midday; Yūri had left uncharacteristically early after a quick jog with Makkachin and a shower, needing to practically pry Viktor off – and himself off Viktor – to leave (because spending Saturday mornings together is sacrosanct!).

He would make it up to Viktor now, and using his left hand he hugged the little poodle to his chest, the bag with his tripod and camera in the other.

Their memories would be his best photographs.