NOTES:

I had a HQ! fic in the making but I went and wrote this up instead. This fic is so self-indulgent, and I'm not even sure what I'm doing right now or even how long it's going to be. Please enjoy anyways!

Alternative title: The Makings of Organized Crime and Love
(I actually like the sound of this)

When Viktor was a child, his parents had started warning him: "Never do anything that you would regret."

"You're our son," they explained. "The next successor to the company. Don't make stupid decisions." They had also said to him because when he was six years old, he had made that kind of decision once — just once.

And there were many more things that his parents taught him as he grew—as they groomed and raised him: "Walk, don't run. Be proper, be smart. Always say thank you." And yet, nothing had stuck to him more than the words of his nanny, who had pulled him aside one day while he was running down the hall to his father's office.

"No, no," she had started, scolding him, gently and sweetly, and grabbing his hands. "Don't run with scissors. You'll get hurt."

But as sweet and sound as her advice had been, Viktor Nikiforov ignored it and ran like wildfire anyways. He never looked back, never gave it another thought, and so, Viktor took the wise words his parents had told him and never regretted it to this day.

"Hey, you're not moving. Please don't tell me you died while standing, you old fart."

"Yuri, that's really mean."

Viktor blew his bangs out of his face and stared, just for a moment longer, at his own reflection in the mirror. He blinked, slowly, and ran his eyes over his appearance, the length of his hair and the black of his clothes burned into his memory.

A pout tugged at his lips, and he turned, grabbing the black gloves off the vanity counter. "Is it because of the hair? Do you think I should grow long again?" After slipping on the gloves, he grabbed a lock and held it between his fingers, looking mournfully.

"Yeah, because we liked you more with long hair." Yuri growled sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. He kicked against the door of Viktor's bedroom, making it slam against the wall. "Now, would you hurry up?! Yakov said he needed to talk to you before tonight's break-in because the night is still young and you're not!"

"My, oh my," Viktor sniffed, holding a hand to his cheek. "No wonder why we let you do all the hard work, Yuri. By the way, what time was your curfew the other day? Eight? Did you rest well, Yuri?" Viktor purred, batting his eyelashes.

At this, Yuri huffed and snarled through gritted teeth, fists clenched. But it had only last a minute or so before the young blonde calmed down, narrowed his eyes, and trudged out of Viktor's bedroom, kicking against the wall in the process. "Just hurry up, dammnit!" he yelled not long after, disappearing into hall and out of Viktor's sight.

Meanwhile, Viktor had returned his gaze back onto the mirror, running a hand through his hair. He looked tired, incredibly so, and bored, but he wasn't sure why. The bags under his eyes looked weird, so out of unusual and odd on his face that it just really made Viktor wonder if age was finally getting to him. He'd been in this business for so long, it felt like nothing more had changed.

Yakov was no longer the head of their band of thieves but he still kept things in line. His years may have been showing, but he still guided them all the same. The addition of Yuri to their band had felt new and fresh but that had been years ago too, when the male was five years old, and still, nothing was different. It was all the same. They've won many, lost few, and life moved ahead like it always had.

"Hey! Are you coming down or what, princess?!"

Yuri's voice echoed from downstairs. The building rumbled alongside it, the creaks and groans of the wooden panels singing as a choir with the wind outside. Viktor watched the dust fall from the corners, the dirt making a slight haze in his room from the house being rattled. This building too, one of their few hideouts, has long been standing since Viktor could remember. It hasn't changed much, and Viktor has warm thoughts towards this fact, but it also told him how everything was still the same for him.

"Vitya!"

Viktor heard and, deciding to finally get moving, knelt on the ground. "Makkachin!" he called out, opening his arms wide open and smiling as the pooch rushed off his bed to swoop into his arms.

"Well, I can say for certain that you changed," Viktor hummed, pressing his face into Makkachin's fur. "You used to be soooo small! Oh, since when did my Makkachin grow?"

Makkachin barked happily in response, holding his paws onto Viktor's legs.

Smiling, Viktor looked around his room—looked at where his bed was placed in the corner, at the murky window, at the desk where he stored floor plans, pictures and lists of valuable artifacts and jewelry that were plans in the making, and any of his own possessions. This was his room. Beside him, Makkachin licked at his face and Viktor chuckled.

He really needed to get going.

"Be good for me, Makkachin," he said, heading towards his desk. He snatched a picture off the dusty surface—a picture of him and Makkachin—and winked. "For good luck as always, right?"

After he slipped the picture into his pocket, Viktor suddenly tapped at his chin, ignoring another round of 'Viktor!' coming from downstairs and the sound of pounding up against his floor. He gave his room a thoughtful glance.

"Do you think carpet will spice things up, Makkachin?"

"Arf!"

"How about blue? Or pink?"

"Arf!"

"Oh, you're right." Viktor chirped, reaching over to pet Makkachin one more time. "I'll just steal both colors. We'll decide then, okay? I've got a job tonight."

And after one more hug around Makkachin, Viktor had finally swept out of his bedroom to the booms and beats of Yuri pounding against the ceiling and to the howling wind and the rattling of their derelict home. The mask he wore for every heist was barely slipped over his face, hanging over his forehead, the black color a cool contrast against his silver hair. And with that, he was all dressed for work — his outfit as black as the darkest night, with blades secured and a gun sleeping in his pocket.

Tonight, Viktor Nikiforov was ready to steal Hasetsu.

"Yuuri!"

Katsuki Yuuri blinked and turned his head away from a painting he had been staring at, snapping out of it. Sometimes, art took him into a trance. The colors, textures, everything usually looked so mesmerizing to him, and sometimes, he would find himself staring, lost in the art and completely enchanted.

"Phichit," Yuuri murmured low under his breath, pushing his glasses over the bridge of his nose as he rubbed his eyes from staring for so long. He straightened his security uniform, fixing the badge on his chest in place. "What's going on?"

Phichit flashed him a wink and a thumbs-up, swinging the lanyard holding his security identification around his neck. Yuuri took a step back, careful not to get hit.

"I'm going go out for a patrol around the grounds!" Phichit grinned before tapping at the walkie-talkie hanging off his waist. "Let me know if you need anything alright? I'll be back as soon as I finish."

Yuuri smiled, patting at his own walkie-talkie. "Alright." He nodded his head. "I'll just be walking around then."

"Cool, cool," said Phichit before breaking into a yawn. "Man, can you believe this is why a museum security guards do? This is boring stuff!"

"Yeah, but," Yuuri started, looking meaningful in the eyes. He took in a deep breath and looked around the foyer of the museum, where ancient artifacts and valuable mementos of history decorated the room. His eyes sparkled. "This is all worth it, don't you think?"

"Yeah, well, I do like fancy jewelry. And portraits." Phichit added, with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it's the outdoors for me first. I'll let you know when I'm finished, 'kay, Yuuri?"

With a wave, Phichit turned on his heel, heading for the exit, the male's flashlight shining in the distance as he disappeared down the hall.

Once Phichit was gone from sight, Yuuri released a long-held sigh and removed his glasses, tucking them into his pocket. Lifting his head, he was met with the sight of the museum's security camera, a small image of himself reflecting of the screen. He gave it one long stare before he his eyes switched to the large clock that hung overhead from the ceiling of the foyer, its hands about a quarter to midnight.

"I hope this isn't going to be a long night," Yuuri sighed to himself, reaching for the flashlight hanging off his waist next to his walkie-talkie.

When the flashlight hadn't turned on right away, he gave it a couple of hard taps until it did, the light low and dim upon the museum's objects. He brought the light over to one of the banners hanging against the wall, the words 'Hasetsu Castle: A Wonder' bright and colored blue, like ice, reading across.

Yuuri loved Hasetsu Castle. He had seen it earlier in the day while he was working, and it had been beautiful. It was something like an ice castle, and it gave him an oddly nostalgic feeling of home and comfort. He supposed that this was one of the perks of being a security guard — this incredible chance of being so close to beautiful and meaningful objects of history, culture, art, and so forth. These were the opportunities that worked the best for him.

And tonight, he was going to see Hasetsu Castle again.

"Let me go too, Yakov."

"Yuratchka, Vitya can it do by himself," answered Yakov, who stood in the middle of the room with unperturbed and stern eyes. "It's too risky to have too many on the job this time."

"Are you kidding me?" Yuri hissed, blonde bangs falling on his face. "Viktor took too long fixing up his hair and he was just whining about being old earlier—"

"Actually, you were the one calling me old, Yuri—"

"He's gonna mess up!" Yuri grounded out, grinding his teeth. He pointed at Viktor, his black hood casting a shadow over his eyes. "Let me go with him. We can secure Hasetsu that way."

From the other side of the room, Mila had been watching with amusement, her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the wall. "Yuri, relax. Viktor can handle Hasetsu, and he's done tougher work. You can take the gold at Barcelona when we get there next month."

"You're old too, you hag." Calmer, Yuri huffed. "And quit talking in code too. We're thieves, not spies."

"Fine. Steal whatever you want, but when you get caught, don't get mad at me!" she sang.

"I wouldn't get caught! You shut up!"

As the two bickered, Georgi raised his hand, looking hopeful, looking proud. "How about we let me steal Hasetsu instead?"

And at this, the room had gone silent. But it had been short-lived.

At this point, Mila had crossed the room and had lifted the young blonde into the air, much to the teen's demise. She smiled, quite scarily actually, and cocked her head to the side.

"Well, if Georgi's suggesting himself, then I might as well do the same," she started, ignoring Yuri's protests and keeping the boy up in the air. "Do you mind, Viktor?"

And Viktor returned her smile. "I do mind, actually." He chuckled. "I want Hasetsu in my hands." It was beautiful. He loved it. He wanted it.

And Viktor's declaration—his demand—was like turning off a switch. Georgi had released a long sigh, defeat sagging his shoulders, while Mila had also let out a sigh of defeat and had finally dropped Yuri, who fell to the ground loudly, his mouth and cheeks kissing the dirt-stained floorboards.

Spitting, Yuri pushed himself off the floor, passing a quick glare towards Mila, and pointed in Viktor's direction. He looked at Yakov. "Why him?! Who assigned this anyways?! You or Lilia?!"

Yakov grunted, unmoved by the looks his students' passed him. "I did." And then he released a sigh, gripping his head. "What's the big deal anyways? We let Vitya do this quick, we'll finished with Japan, and then we can relocate back to Russia. You're all over yourselves too much."

"And Viktor, the man with the life crisis, isn't?" Yuri rolled his eyes. And then he glowered back at Yakov. "I'm just saying, I could do this too. Viktor's not the only talented one here. At least let me tag along."

Yakov looked towards Viktor. "Vitya?"

Pushing himself off the wall, Viktor shrugged. He reached over and grabbed the hem of his mask, pulling it over his face. When it had covered down his chin, he turned his head towards Yuri, his hand holding up the floor plans and anything he had outlined for the robbery tonight.

And Yuri took it wordlessly, silently, and watched as Viktor also brought out batch of keys. He's seen them before, has gotten close to them once, but to this day, he's never figured what each key opens. Viktor has always said it was a secret.

"Have you gotten better at picking locks, Yuri?"

Yuri's lips pulled into a thin line, and he nodded, close to scowling. The look on Viktor's face, his blue eyes just peeking through the black of his mask, made the man seem so different, so unlike the one Yuri had quarreled with earlier upstairs. The more he thought about it, Yuri finally scowled, nodding his head.

"Yeah."

"Good," Viktor hummed.

"Don't slow me down, okay?"

END NOTES:

Any questions or if you want to chat about the fic or any other fic, you can just ask me over on my tumblr - same name! OR DM or whatever you prefer.

But to recap some things:

Location: Japan
Home-Base of the Thieves: Anywhere they decide. They jump around from location to location but Russia seems to be their home.

Things will be explained more in later chapters (?). I usually pour out details within the story. ^^