How to Tame a Heart

by yuuris-piano

For four years, Viktor knew the sweet ache of a first love. For two more years, he remembered the dull echo of the engagement ring when it rolled onto the floor. /Mafia!AU/

Extended summary: It was the smoke that trailed from Viktor's lips when he stepped out from a black Lexus later that night. His back against the driver's door, a cigarette from Mama between his fingers to ease his mind. When the leftover ash fell and struck against the concrete, Viktor entered the airport. His bangs swept over his eyes. His version of hiding behind a pair of shades. Viktor may've stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and tie, but there were other bodyguards roaming the airport tonight.

Like a playground for an assassin, Viktor faded into the background at the turn of an eye. A switchblade up his arm, ready to strike. The barrel of a gun lurked behind his eyes, an angry demise for a world with lies.

Despite this profile, despite the edge in his name, Viktor Nikiforov had a photo album tucked away in his nightstand. For four years, he knew the sweet ache of a first love. For two more years, he remembered the dull echo of the engagement ring when it rolled onto the floor.

---

Diamonds: they were the business tycoons. Their system ran on finances, in every gold and silver. Not a hint of value was lost behind the white gloves, the various thingamabobs crunching out numbers across black screens, or through the whimsical eyes that saw a number behind every glass of wine.

There was an unnerving itch every time a price was slid across a table. A Diamond, hidden behind a giddy smile and signature gloves, would thumb through the notes. Absently at first, just enough to show interest before the bargaining began. And slowly through the transaction, the Diamond's thumb would caress the notes harder, faster. As if a calculator had been hooked to their mind, and they were tallying up the profit beneath their thumb.

A smile meant good fortune. A blank stare was always accompanied by contracts, little reminders of past good deeds and trivial favors. A frown meant there was a gun, under the table, pointed at the kneecaps as a threat if someone tried to run.

Clubs: they were the fighters. Every member, at minimum, had two weapons. The long-range usually consisted of firearms, but a few members were quite nimble with knives, darts, or a spool of wire. The short-range could've been anything: from a spoon at a dinner show to a fist that hadn't been washed in weeks. The blood from the last, unruly victim still stained the knuckles, and the rusty color seemed to glow with every hit. Every hit fractured the bones until a Club collapsed with manic laughter and a ruffled suit.

Fear was the first dish that a Club liked to serve. Garnished on the side were empty threats that needed time to marinate before the impact was anything but empty. Poured into one of the tall glasses was a blacklist. Depending on where someone was or how close they were to the top, it spelled out the end of that victim's meal. The second course came with poison. A Club wiped the rim of the soup bowl clean with a white cloth. In the reflecting rim, the victim was read their last rights before dessert. For tonight's dessert, there was cake. With every bite, a Club relished in the experience until they stabbed into the last bite with a fork or spoon. Compliments were given to the chef before a dining cloth was thrown over the plate. The victim, left behind, with a bill to die for.

A smile meant that the job was done without a hitch. A blank stare meant that there was a game involved, and the crook of a smile towards the end revealed who the true winner was. A frown was a peculiar feature on a Club's face. When they touched their wound, blood seeping through their fingers and spilling onto the ground, they knew that they had a bill to pay.

Hearts: they were the kind of people who would aid a grandparent in carrying their groceries back home. In some ways, they were the unsung heroes behind the sudden decrease in crime. In some ways, they were the ordinary people that stood for what was right and acted upon it to protect the innocent in the ways they knew how. In other ways, the police were always chasing after them because every story needed a good villain to tell.

Hearts knew how to bring people at ease. Their hands were firm, yet gentle. Before action, there were words. There were questions, leading up to and ending with words, that were designed to know when and how to draw a gun. The finger was never at the trigger unless a trigger word or phrase was used. A discreet bullet was as bad as a lie. If someone had to be "cut loose", they deserved to know their end. Sooner than later, enough time for the mind to process what it needed to do before the final moments. A would always Heart apologized, sincerely. They would ask and comfort someone as gently as possible for a bullet was aimed for the back of the head. The medulla was the perfect place. Quick and instant. Any pain was a fraction of a second long before there was sweet relief for an eternity. Or perhaps, the Heart would like to see their victim's face. From there, three bullets were needed. One for the base of the throat, one to puncture a lung, and the final was the nail to the heart.

A smile represented the joys of walking down a neighborhood road, proud that people felt safer. A blank stare came with the drop of a phone when someone was pronounced dead. A frown accompanied salty tears when a hand had to steady itself before the kill.

Spades: they were the unknown. Better yet, they were the informants. Their weapons were the keyboards and mouses that clicked away into the night. Their bombs were the loose slips of paper that could easily fall into a purse, squeeze pass twitchy fingers, and glide across an expansive space to reach their recipient.

They never killed, but for one exception.

---

"Mama, that can't be all of the notes." A little boy, a little heir to his Mama's business, looked up from a manila folder at the dining table.

The first hiss of a cracked egg over the frying pan distracted the youth long enough so that his Mama could close and tuck the notes on top of the refrigerator. When her son looked down at the table again, the empty space where his reading material used to be was replaced with a breakfast plate. There was blackened sausage with a slice of rye bread. Butter was on the knife, creamy and soft when smeared across the accompanying starch.

When scrambled eggs were added to the plate, Mama's heart grew a little bigger when her son gobbled them up. The happiest sound was when the fork fell across the plate after the delicious meal.

"Mama?" The little boy climbed onto his Mama's lap when she sat down at last. "Am I going to be a good…?" A firm crease emerged over the boy's forehead when he thought long and hard on the word that his Mama taught him last night. "Pakhan?" The word sounded so innocent, so sweet over the child's tongue.

"Can you spell it for me?" Mama asked. Her son nodded. He spelled the word perfectly, and Mama planted so many kisses across her son's cheeks. For what felt like an eternity, Mama and her son kissed, hugged, and laughed in the small, but warm kitchen. Resting her chin on the top of her son's head, Mama asked, "Can you say it again?"

"Pakhan." The word came out as a whisper, as if it was a secret between the boy and his Mama. He kept whispering it until his Mama told him that he might become a Pakhan sooner at this rate. The little boy stuck out his tongue, eyes glistening under the kitchen lights. His reddish cheeks burned even brighter at the small thought of what his Mama had said. "I want my dream to come true." He puffed out his cheeks, and Mama wiped a happy tear from her eyes. The sweet drop hanging over the edge of her thumb before splashing across her son's hand.

"I know you do." Mama's eyes shone with tender love. It was like her heart was a pitcher, and it was overfilling. Her son was the little tea cup that caught all the love. But even then, the leftover love spilled onto the kitchen floor and stained the titles like a massacre.

With a single blink, Mama narrowed her eyes at the imaginary red, smeared across her dear child's cheeks and her son rubbed the color deeper into his skin. Until his eyes had the same shadows, the same hunger, as his Mama's. Even so, a single flick of reality washed over Mama's eyes. Her fingers caressed the red hovering splattered across her son's cheeks.

"Can you be my little boy for a little while longer?" Mama tilted her head.

A cheesy smile curved over her son's lips. "Okay, Mama."

Those words, just those two, eased Mama's heart, body, and soul. After the morning cuddles, Mama found her strength again. While she was at the sink, her son hovered by her leg. He tried to help, but he was too short to reach for anything. Mama grabbed a stool from under the sink, and she gave her son a sponge so that he could help clean. Rubbing elbows and trading imaginary stories, laughter spilled over the suds and hands that met in the soapy water. Just as Mama grabbed a plate, she froze when her son asked her,

"Mama, are you a Pakhan?"

For a moment, all Mama could hear were the riddle of bullets against a wooden crate. For a moment, all she could hear were the desperate breaths of her women and men, fighting on foreign territory. For a moment, Mama felt her husband's hands in her own before they slipped away. For a moment, the soap over her hands stained like blood. For a moment, the plate in front of her shone like a gun with her splintered face as a reflection.

"Mama?"

Mama felt a little tug on her sleeve. She looked down and met her son's eyes. He looked at her, a tilt to his head, and he wondered what was wrong. For a second earlier, his Mama had the brightest smile in the world. But now, Mama looked as if she was under a black veil, reciting the words guarded close to her heart at last year's funeral. While Papa slept in his casket, too sleepy to sit up and say 'goodbye' before the world swallowed him up like a pill.

Her breaths steady, Mama picked up a plate and began to clean it. Scrubbing it thrice before handing to her son, a fire burning within her eyes.

"Yes, I am."

Those same words, muttered under her breath, were the same ones that she had said when she took her husband's role as Pakhan of the family. She was the Queen and King of a deck of cards that held no purpose but to be played in a poker match with thieves, liars, and traitors.

"Who are the Jacks?" her son asked.

"They are the hitmen and women," Mama said. She passed a frying pan to her boy. The pan was heavy in her son's hands, but he was strong just like his Mama. He splashed water over all the soap before placing the pan on a rack to dry. Mama extended her fist for her son to bump, and he bumped her back. A trademark smile over his lips, just like his Mama's smile.

"The Ace?"

Mama mused over the files tucked in her mind. "Important visitors. Good to keep them safe."

Her son, her Alexa, held his breath just so that he could whisper, "The Joker?"

Mama chuckled. Her son was a curious one. Already three and he wanted to know everything about the family's business. Mama raised her boy well, but it was time for her to go to work. She promised Alexa that she'll tell him more this afternoon. Mama stuck her tongue out when Alexa did so, and they danced around in the kitchen. Both tried to distract the other from what they wanted to do, but it didn't work. It ended in laughter, and Mama pulled up a picture on her phone.

"This is-"

"It's Big Brother!" Alexa squeaked.

Right you are, sweetheart. Mama gazed fondly at her phone's screen. With a train ticket in his hand and a trench coat that snugged him too well, Viktor Nikiforov waved at Mama's phone before she had the picture taken.

---

When Viktor rolled over in bed early that morning, a nose booped his neck. He opened his eyes, slowly at first. It was much too early for the sun to be out, but VIktor could make out the gold and orange illuminating just under the horizon.

Some time during the night, Makkachin had pulled his curtains back as she dragged her nose along the carpeted floor. Following Viktor's scent, Makkachin had climbed into bed and she built a nest on Viktor's chest. Her great, big head rested over Viktor's heart, and the reassuring rhythm had lulled her to sleep.

Right now, Viktor wiggled one of his hands free from his blanket. His fingers sank into Makkachin's fur, and the poodle dug her paws into the blankets when Viktor scratched under her chin. Makkachin's ears flopped around with every scratch, and she licked Viktor's chin so that he would stop. Laughing softly, Viktor leaned forward and brushed his nose against Makkachin's. He whispered her name until the poodle opened her eyes. She borked, and Viktor borked back. He couldn't exactly imitate Makkachin's sound, but it was close enough.

On a weekend like this, this was how Viktor started his day. Resting his arms around Makkachin, Viktor waited for the rest of his body to wake up. Little hills created by his toes moved around and ran under Makkachin's tail. Makkachin turned and lifted her head. Her jaws snapped open for a yawn as her eyes followed Viktor's wiggling toes. Viktor puffed out his chest when Makkachin got onto her feet. Her paws squishing at Viktor's organs when she wandered to the other end of the bed. Makkachin gently grabbed one of the hills with her teeth, only to realize that it was her master's toe.

Makkachin pawed at it. Viktor lifted his big toe slowly, and he dragged his blanket up to Makkachin's belly so that he could give her a good tickle. Disturbed by the rising blanket, Makkachin hopped off the bed and jogged out the bedroom. The pitter patter of her feet accompanied Viktor's laughter. Viktor had to make a mental note about this for Monday so that he could tell Mama and the rest of the family.

The laughter lasted only for so long before silence drifted into the room again. Without Makkachin's warmth, Viktor's hands were cold again. Folding his hands under his head, Viktor laid still in bed. What was he going to do today? Before he could answer, Viktor had to check his phone. It was somewhere on his nightstand, but Viktor didn't remember where.

He reached out his left hand, and his fingers fumbled across the nightstand. After a few pats, he found one. Slick model, USB charger attached to its end, and with a clean screen. Nope, not that one. No one ever messaged Viktor on his personal phone.

His fingers scooted it away and searched around the area. Viktor scooted closer to the edge of his bed so that he could reach farther. Near the very edge of his nightstand, he found his work phone. Much smaller than his personal, an older model with a keypad built onto it, but it was the phone Viktor needed. His thumb slid pressed the OK button in the middle, and the screen lit up.

There were a few messages from the Bratva, but they were mostly reminders and a few updates to safety protocols. Even so, Viktor sat up and read them carefully. At the very end, there was a message sent from Mama.

6:34 a.m.
Mama: I used to be the type of person that would stay in bed for an hour and not want to get up. Now, I can't wait to jump out of bed and experience the love and companionship that we have as a family. How I kiss my boy every morning before starting my day, I wish I could kiss all of you the same.

A few heart and flower emojis riddled the end of Mama's text. Bless her heart, for every emoji lifted her words. Warmth sprouted from Viktor's phone, and the roots crawled up his arms and down his chest. The warmth anchored at Viktor's heart when he brought the phone close and grazed his lips over Mama's sweet message.

Today was the anniversary of when Mama became the Pakhan of the family. Today was the day where Papa stepped down from his lines of duty, forcefully so. He could've easily been the Pakhan for another forty years if Fate had been kinder. How many messages did Mama receive before her first cup of coffee? Thirty? A hundred? Literal thousands as family members reached out and thanked her? For the blessing that she was, for how strong her will and heart remained during the first months as the family's Pakhan, and for everything she had done so that no one felt left out.

Viktor wanted to send his own message, but his mind was empty and his stomach was even more so. He could almost hear Mama's voice by his ear, telling him that he should eat and be happy first before doing something for her. Scratching the back of his neck, Viktor placed his work phone back onto the nightstand and shuffled out of the bedroom.

The carpeted floor beneath his feet turned into hardwood. Makkachin slipped off of the couch and followed Viktor to the kitchen. The pitter patter of her paws offered a reassuring rhythm for Viktor's heart to accompany as he poured food into a bowl and set by Makkachin's usual spot.

While Makkachin climbed onto her stool for breakfast, Viktor shuffled from one end of the kitchen to the other. His fridge was rather sad. A few eggs in a carton, some vegetables bunched in a corner, and he had a full carton of milk. Scratch that, Viktor had about a third of a carton when he grabbed it off the shelf. Passing by the toaster, Viktor turned on his little radio before searching for a bowl and a box of cereal.

"If you thought the crimes rates couldn't get any lower, think again!"

Viktor lowered his radio's volume. Makkachin borked from her stool, and Viktor wore a strained smile when he turned to look at Makkachin. Everyday, it felt like the radio had nothing better to talk about than crime rates and how low they were getting. Yes, it was nice and reassuring to be able to grocery-shop at night without getting mugged. Yes, it was great to know that no one was going to break into your home and hold you at gunpoint.

When the spokesperson for the morning spoke again, he commented about how the police departments in the area were receiving a bigger budget than ever before.

"A ten percent gain, ladies and gentlemen! Small with math, but big with numbers!"

Viktor crushed his milk carton as he poured some milk into his cereal bowl. Afterwards, when Viktor tipped his cereal into the bowl, he imagined the barrel of a gun about an inch away from his head.

"When you see your officers, be sure to…" The voice from the radio faded from Viktor's mind when he turned around. Staring at him, exhaling the breath of the law, was a faceless police officer that the public was supposed to entrust their lives upon. Some weekends, it was a woman. Her finger at the trigger, ready to land a kill. Today, it was a man. He had every intention to beat Viktor into the worm that he was, just before the latter had his first taste of milk and cereal for the morning.

Through imaginary scenarios like this, it sharpened Viktor's senses for when he had to deal with the real thing. He struck first. His arm grazed the enemy's chest as the imaginary officer moved out of the way and kicked Viktor against the kitchen counter. The force behind the slam nearly tipped Viktor's cereal bowl over.

Out of all the days… Viktor spat into his sink. Already, he could feel a bruise blossom over the side of his hip. Luckily for Viktor, his imaginary opponent didn't move or twitch until Viktor stood into his fighting stance.

Makkachin watched as Viktor punched, kicked, and cursed at...seemingly nothing. Just the air in front of him before hurling himself into another fixture in the kitchen. To the fridge, Viktor was pinned against the door. To the stove, where Viktor grabbed an overhanging frying pan and wielded it as a sword.

To Makkachin, Viktor's strange morning routine was usually for fun and games. If he got hurt, it wasn't too bad. But when Viktor ended up on the floor, hissing in anguish, arms bound and crushed behind his back by an imaginary force...Well, Makkachin had to draw the line.

She leapt off from the dining stool and growled at the air above Viktor. Immediately, Viktor returned to reality. He shushed Makkachin gently and reassured her that he was okay. Viktor looked into her eyes, and all he saw was pain. Makkachin slowly brought herself back to ease, but she whimpered and licked at Viktor's bruises and scratches. Her nose booped against Viktor's chest. It was her way of saying that Viktor had gone too far with his little game.

"I'm sorry." Viktor buried his face into Makkachin's fur. "I'm so sorry."

Makkachin pushed Viktor back with her paw. She licked his cheek, and Viktor was forgiven. His stomach grumbled when the embrace was done. Viktor rubbed his stomach, a tinge of pink riding high over his cheeks when he glanced to a random tile to his right.

"I should eat breakfast now."

Makkachin borked before returning to her usual dining stool. Viktor rose to his feet and carried his bowl of cereal to the dining counter. His breakfast was mushy now, having gotten himself carried away with a morning fight routine. But when Viktor dug his spoon into the milky mush and brought it to his lips, it still tasted like cereal. That was all that mattered and Viktor enjoyed his morning in peace. Occasionally, he would reach over to Makkachin and give her scratches and some massages to ease the tension in her shoulders. Makkachin liked those moments. Her tail wagged around like a rudder, brushing against Viktor's arm in the softest way.

The morning news behind them switched to some classical tunes as Viktor and Makkachin enjoyed their morning together. Just as Viktor was able to see the bottom of his cereal bowl, he heard his phone.

The rings didn't bother Viktor, but his heart couldn't find peace until he touched his work phone. Viktor steadied his breathing when he brought it up to ear.

"Yes, Mama?"

"I'm sorry for bothering you like this-"

"Not at all," Viktor blurted out. He apologized for interrupting her, and Mama told him that he was fine.

"I have an assignment for you." Viktor could hear the smile in Mama's tone. "What's a good time for you?"

---

When Viktor was tall enough to nestle his cheek against his mother's hand while they walked, he was old enough to enjoy the train. He would stand behind his mother, glance around at the towering train-goers and the myriad of windows around the train station. After exchanging her money for two train tickets, Mrs. Nikiforov gently squeezed her son's hand. Like an excitable pup, Viktor hopped with every step as he and his mother went down the station to catch their train. Viktor wanted to get there as soon as possible, but Mrs. Nikiforov would often hold him back.

Sometimes, she liked to browse through the magazine racks and catch up on the weekly news. Sometimes, Mrs. Nikiforov pointed at the pigeons and little doves that trooped around the underground station. Viktor would chirp and ask his mother how the birds got down here, and Mrs. Nikiforov would say that the birds wanted to catch the train too.

Those little moments were what made the waits bearable when Viktor and his mother came down the station a bit early.

But in those occasions where they came just in time for the train, Viktor would squeeze his mother's hand. Down the tunnel, a snake with beaming eyes was rushing into the station. A whistle echoed through the darkness, the sudden gust that followed blew Viktor's bangs in every which way. Viktor truly believed that if his mother wasn't next to him, he would fly away.

So when an adult Viktor came down the station's steps with a train ticket in his hand, bound to his glove because it was a chilly morning, Viktor imagined that his mother was walking beside him. Her strong steps, her guiding arm, led Viktor to where he needed to be. Hunched under his trench coat, the echoes from his dress shoes against the concrete, Viktor looked like any other train-goer. Places to go, people to see. People passed by him in a current, and Viktor was strolling against the current.

When Viktor arrived to where his train should be, he followed the tracks until there were only lights behind him. Flickering lights of the station, but they soon faded the farther Viktor ventured into the tunnel. The ledge space on either side of the tracks grew smaller. Viktor pressed his back against the walls and shuffled along. When his toes began to stick out from the ledge, he knew he was approaching the entrance to the hideout. From his trench coat, Viktor yanked out a flashlight and waved it in the darkness. A handle appeared, about a foot away.

Viktor thought of his mother and of her firm steps. He thought of how she always held his hand when they were waiting for the train. Right now, Viktor felt her warmth at his fingertips. Breathing softly, Viktor shuffled a little farther before he had to stop. The tunnel and the darkness rumbled underneath his feet and against his back. A train was coming.

Viktor had a choice. He could either wait for the train to pass, and inevitably lose a chunk of his face. Or, Viktor could bolt, open the entrance wide, and shut it behind him. He had fifteen seconds. Viktor figured that he needed his face.

He sprinted. His hands fumbled at the door handle, wondering why nothing was happening. Viktor winced when the approaching train lights blinded him. Despite that, he kept pulling at the handle until the door sprung open.

Viktor barely slipped himself inside before the train barreled past him. Shutting the door behind him and crushing his fingers the whole time. For now, he was alive and probably, his fingers were too. Pain sprinted up and down his right hand, his right arm, and Viktor needed a moment to collect himself.

When his breathing steadied, Viktor stuck his flashlight between his teeth and moved forward. Around were wired cages, keeping electrical appliances a good distance away from Viktor as he maneuvered around a dark maze. Occasionally, dust fell from the ceiling when a train rumbled by, somewhere in the station.

Viktor pulled out his work phone and scrolled through this morning's messages for the new directions to the hideout. After what felt like an hour of shuffling through the darkness, Viktor found the door he was looking for. He deposited his train ticket into a box on the other side, and the door softly clicked behind Viktor.

In some ways, the hideout looked a lot like a bar. Without the alcohol.

There were a few squishy couches and armchairs, on the counter to Viktor's right there was the fridge and a few ingredients laid out for Mama's snack in the afternoon. Sections of the walls were cut out to house books for casual reading and for board games when some family members brought their children to work. Mama liked those days, and her son had a few friends to play with when he came to work as well. But those memories died in the back of Viktor's mind when he adjusted his tie.

Today, the hideout wasn't a comfy place to seek refuge from the real world's problems. Viktor crossed through the room and knocked on Mama's door with his good hand. His shoes rubbed into the welcome mat when he heard a, "Come in."

Viktor slipped out of his dress shoes and laid them on Mama's mat before opening the door. Inside, Mama was slowly working through a ball of yarn, a colorful scarf falling onto her lap as she knitted slowly under a lamp light. Her spectacles were about a centimeter away from falling off her nose before Mama looked up from her work. She greeted Viktor with a smile, and Viktor greeted with a bow.

"Apology for changing the usual route." Mama set her knitting equipment to the side and offered a steaming cup of tea. Viktor brought the cup to his lips before sitting into his seat, right across from Mama.

"Apology accepted." Viktor savored his sip before setting his cup down. "Cinnamon?"

"I know how you like your spices." A bit of a hum trailed from Mama's lips when she refilled Viktor's cup. She topped it off well, and Viktor nursed his drink for a good minute or two. Mama offered to feed him some cookies that she had bought earlier that morning, and Viktor politely declined. Setting his cup down again, Viktor folded his hands on Mama's desk.

"What are the details behind my assignment?"

"Not so fast, Viktor. You've just gone through a harrowing ordeal." Mama noticed how Viktor carefully hid his twitching fingers underneath his palm. "Are you hurt? Did you lose anything?"

Viktor brushed his bangs to the side. "Thankfully, not my face."

A good chuckle brought a smile to Mama's face before she asked for Viktor's hand.

"Your right hand, child."

Viktor extended his hand, and a whistle escaped between his teeth when Mama cradled it gently over her palms. She carefully pulled off Viktor's glove and pressed her lips against the bruised fingers. A small kiss for every pain that shot up Viktor's arm, but the throbs began to subside. Bit by bit, Mama worked her simple magic to bandage Viktor's wounds.

"Just a little while longer, we can have the original route to the hideout again." Mama re-gloved Viktor's right hand before slouching back in her leather seat. "The officers have been cracking down on the station lately."

"A worm in the family?" Viktor suggested.

Mama rested a heavy hand over her heart. "I hope not. A scolding is never easy. For me and them," she added before taking a bite out of one of her cookies.

She reached into her cabinets and pulled out a case file. She pushed it to Viktor, and he waited a moment before glancing down. Mostly papers and words and a profile he had to memorize. No pictures as of now, but Viktor didn't get his chance. For when Mama spoke, Viktor always brought his eyes up to give her his full attention, despite the curiosity laced between his fingers.

"An Ace from Japan will be arriving tonight for trust bonds," Mama explained before biting another chunk of her cookie.

"Finances?"

"Typically, an ask for trust bonds would indicate so." Mama set her sweet aside and leaned forward across her desk. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "However, they're really in it for the trust."

Viktor whispered as well. "So protection?"

Mama nodded. "With patrols around the train station at the moment, it isn't wise to bring the Ace here for right now. I need you to distract them until the situation is…" Mama drummed her fingers against her desk. "Under control."

Viktor glanced down at himself before meeting Mama's gaze again. "With what, exactly?"

"Sightseeing, keep them occupied, and definitely keep them safe. Word through the grapevine, the Ace's fingers are worth their weight in gold." A heavy sigh escaped from Mama's lips. "On top of that, the Clubs have been closing in on our borders. Open fire is ill-advised if we can avoid it. But if things get hairy out there while you're bodyguarding, I'll take responsibility if you shoot." Mama pressed one of her hands over the case file and lifted the other as a solemn vow.

"Mama, but it'll be my-"

"It'll be my fault for having trained you too well." Mama winked before lowering her hand. With that done, Mama finished her cookie and returned to her knitting. Viktor slouched back in his seat. His mind still numb from Mama's proposal, but her words of reassurement began to chip into his thoughts. The steady rhythm of Mama's needles helped bring peace to Viktor's mind, and he watched Mama for quite a while before he asked her for whom she was knitting for.

Mama's rested her needles and the scarf onto her lap. "Papa likes his neck warm on a day like this." Her bright tone seemed to fade when she looked up from her needles and saw the tears welled in Viktor's eyes. She rested her needled across her lap, a heavy smile weighing down her lips. "You know how Papa doesn't like crying," Mama whispered under her breath. "But he cries too and doesn't hide it."

Rising from her seat, Mama asked if Viktor wanted a hug. He nodded and Mama opened her arms. Viktor got up slowly and fell into Mama's embrace. She drew little circles and squares across Viktor's shoulder and patted his back. Tears stained the crook of her shoulder, but Mama didn't mind.

As she hugged Viktor and shushed softly in his ear, there was a bright candle on top of Mama's cabinet. A smoking cigar laid in front of it, and there was another one just a few inches away. Almost like two people kissing, but it was the smoke that connected the couple than mere touch alone.

---

It was the smoke that trailed from Viktor's lips when he stepped out from a black Lexus later that night. His back against the driver's door, a cigarette from Mama between his fingers to ease his mind. When the leftover ash fell and struck against the concrete, Viktor entered the airport. His bangs swept over his eyes. His version of hiding behind a pair of shades. Viktor may've stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and tie, but there were other bodyguards roaming in the airport tonight.

Some prominent names were striking their heels down Moscow's runway, and Viktor blended into the scene when top models were escorted out with a team of agents at their disposal. Viktor pressed the earpiece in his ear, and he received information on the Ace's general appearance.

"Hair slick back, glasses, and he has a briefcase."

Viktor coughed into his elbow. Lips hidden from the crowd, he muttered, "Safe word?"

"Onsen."

Viktor couldn't help but chuckle. A peculiar safe word for a peculiar Ace. Viktor liked that. Lowering his elbow from his face, Viktor's face returned to its usual blank slate before he strolled.

He was approaching the terminal where Japan's Boeing 737-800 had docked for the night. Hands rested in front of him, Viktor kept his eye on the exit when he waited by some velvet lines. A few bodyguards approached and stood on either side of him, ready to pick up their lucky Ace for the runway in downtown. A crook of a smile tugged Viktor's lips, but he hid it as people emerged from the exit.

A mingled group spilled out. Viktor scanned the crowd. He could safely rule out glasses for now since everywhere he looked, he saw his reflection in a pair of spectacles. Some men carried briefcases, but they didn't match the description Viktor was given beforehand.

Viktor touched his earpiece again. "What terminal is the Ace arriving at?"

"Which terminal are you at?"

Viktor eyes caught a sign in the middle of the area. He said the name quickly, and the family's informant told Viktor that he was at the correct terminal.

"You probably missed them. Go find them."

"No need for a command," Viktor muttered under his breath. He weaved through groups of tourists and brushed elbows with models along the way, but he couldn't find the Ace that he was looking for. He went through the checklist of descriptions that he was given.

Slick hair, glasses, and a briefcase. They were too general. Viktor needed something else.

"Asian," his informant said.

"That is 99.9 percent of the people that came off that flight." Viktor gritted his teeth. "I need something a little more specific." Viktor couldn't hear what his informant said next.

A group of elderly tourists shuffled by and asked Viktor if they could take a selfie with him. Probably because they thought if he was here, a fancy model was just a vodka bottle away, or something. Before Viktor could respond, he had a grandfather to his right and the man's grandson squished to his left. All of the tourists extended their selfie sticks and the oncoming flashes irritated Viktor's eyes.

He had experienced flash bombs, and the havoc they had on his retinas during a CT Classified Mission. Viktor had experienced the idiocy of lighting a flare up close, and how he couldn't open his eyes properly for days. By some Hell, phone flashes were equally or worse than those past two experiences combined. At least, in the moment with Viktor's mind in disarray.

All he could see were flashing and fading dots when he stumbled away after all the selfies were taken. Viktor wobbled, weak in the knees. His hands grasped the first fixture that he found, and he tried to steady himself. His breaths were short as they came.

Viktor collapsed into a waiting seat at the terminal, blinking at his shoes until his vision stabilized. By then, he was able to hear his informant and she asked Viktor if he was alright. Just before Viktor could reply, someone wrapped their arm around Viktor's shoulders. A phone faced him and the stranger. Viktor turned his head away, hoping that the tourist would understand the hint.

"That's not a face a bodyguard should make." Soft laughter brushed against Viktor's ear, flushing red down the side of his head and to his neck.

Viktor recognized this voice. It was the same voice that used to tuck him to bed at night, the same voice that he would stay up late and listen to when the sun couldn't shine through the rain, and it was the same voice that reminded Viktor of the lonely engagement ring hidden in his closet. Never to see the light of day again, but it was this voice that reminded Viktor of what love felt like. Of how young, unpredictable, warm, and beautiful a first love could be.

When he lifted his head and stared straight into the person's phone, Viktor saw himself on the screen. Flushed in every manner of red and pink, from ears to the collarbone that his navy tie hid. Holding Viktor like he had never left, with a sincere smile that used to haunt Viktor in his dreams, was Yuuri.

Yuuri's glasses were hanging off of his suit's collar, his hair slicked back as if he was a runway model, and there was a briefcase pressed between his legs when he decided to sit next to Viktor.

When Viktor turned away, Yuuri didn't see his face.

Now that he could, Yuuri was the one averting his gaze. He was the one that turned his face away, and Viktor caught Yuuri's wrist before the latter could run away. Not like how Yuuri had done over a year ago, but Viktor needed reassurance. Reassurance, that this wasn't a dream and that this growing pit in his stomach was from dinner's sandwiches than from something else.

"What are you doing here?" The slip into Japanese caught Viktor before he realized it. He never stopped learning, even when Yuuri fell from his life.

"I could ask you the same." The familiar voice, mixed with those Russian words and the softness behind every syllable, meant one thing. Yuuri hadn't lost his touch with the language, either.

---

Twenty-two was the magic number to dial when Viktor experienced his first love. The arbitrary exchange of numbers and usernames, restless nights gazing fondly at a phone screen, and a whirlwind of dates. All of these rituals, these codes that Viktor would admire or decipher from a far, they suddenly made sense.

When he heard Yuuri speak for the first time, it was at a Winter Olympics.

Coming down the aisle, peeling out from his coat, Viktor cursed under his breath. His eyes locked on the skating rink in the middle of the performance arena when the last skater for the evening caught a flower tiara and bowed. The wisps of her hair nearly touched her nose before she lifted her gaze, her head and smile. Cameras flashed, like scattered dots along a background, when Viktor dropped into his seat.

Viktor buried his face against his hands. He lifted his gaze, his bangs slid over and blocked his vision. Viktor blew his hair to the side. The fringe flopped back against his face. Viktor brushed it aside, but the Laws of Annoyance dragged it back.

A few minutes before, just as Viktor was settling in for the last performance of the night, his phone rang. Viktor glanced at the screen. In bold characters with a urinal for a profile, Nature left a message. Against all his better judgement at the time, Viktor bolted to the restrooms. By some struck of luck, there were televisions to and fro when Viktor started and finished his business. At every corner, he caught sight of a Triple Axel or another quad that he was missing in person.

With the myriad of groups and minglers in the halls, it would've been easier if Viktor parkoured. However, every security camera and every smile from a passing officer reminded Viktor who he was and of who he wasn't.

Outside the Olympic facility, he was a criminal. Branded with a scar and cigar, faceless for the most part because criminals were beyond the clairity of the Law. However, here with his seat ticket and snuggled under a scarf, Viktor was just another body. Another count that filled a seat in the performance arena.

Here, Viktor sat in his seat with a grim face. Hands pressed together in a prayer, Viktor mumbled under his breath that he should've parkoured when he had the chance. Yuuri, who was sitting next to him at the time and VIktor didn't know his name yet, turned his head when he heard Viktor. Already a sweating mess under his scarf, Viktor didn't mind when his bangs scooted and covered the rest of his face. He tried to look away, but his eyes remained on Yuuri.

When Yuuri spoke, with the best English that he had, he quietly described the ending to the free skate of Pavane.

Though he stuttered, adjusted his glasses, coughed, and blushed when Viktor shifted his face to look at him properly, it didn't matter that the descriptions weren't the best. It didn't matter that Yuuri had to glance down at a clipboard on his lap-he wanted to tally his personal scores for every performance-and apologize for the inaccuracies in his numbers. It didn't matter that Yuuri paused in the middle of his explanation and asked, "Am I bothering you?"

In a span of a hundred and fifteen seconds, Yuuri had captured Viktor's attention. Was it the passionate accent behind every word? Was it the gold, glimmering behind Yuuri's eyes when he spoke with such enthusiasm? For in those brief moments, Viktor felt as if he was only one man against a desolate world. And somewhere along the way, Yuuri accompanied him.

Somewhere along the way, Viktor made an album. Every turn of the page rekindled an old memory. His fingers caressed against the aged-photographs, felt a few through the plastic and replayed a memory. One photo, at a time.

His first taste of ice cream with Yuuri, having ran around St. Petersburg's fountain until they were breathless and starved for contact. How the sunlight filtered through Yuuri's hair, a glowing crown over his head when he danced through the water like a swan. His shoes slipped across the concrete, re-enacting his own version of a free skate. The poise in his arms, the sudden kick of his legs before a spin. Viktor watched from the sidelines, already soaked from head to toe. An ice cream cone in one hand, a popsicle in another. For a while, Viktor forgot that they were there because Yuuri's body was made to dance. Every shift and change along his body resonated a new note or harmony. The squeaks of Yuuri's shoes when he slid. Viktor's popsicle flew into the air. Viktor caught Yuuri, his hand resting just under the latter's hip. When the popsicle fell back to Earth, Yuuri caught it and asked if Viktor wanted a taste.

Online chatting and video calls were almost foreign concepts to Viktor when he initiated the first conversations. On discord? Viktor added emojis in their private chats, color rising to his cheeks when Yuuri up-voted a few of the emojis that Viktor tagged him with. Their love for skating drove the talks at first. It was a common ground that both men shared, whether it was figure, single, doubles, or speed. Slowly but surely, one or the other grew bold and reflected on more personal aspects of their lives. Viktor mentioned that he worked at a train station. Not a lie, but any mentions of Mama and her family didn't happen when Viktor's fingers tap-danced across his keys. His laptop rested over his stomach late into those nights, nearly tipping over when Yuuri said something funny or an epic video was shared on the chat. Hovering at the foot of the bed, Makkachin watched as her master grew brighter with each passing second. The smiles over his lips shone brightest after a bout of laughter.

Makkachin had her choice of fun when she tackled Yuuri at the front door of the apartment space. Yuuri was visiting for the week, hoping to make it a surprise, but Makkachin wanted to leave her first impression on Yuuri. So with her fur and slobber across his face, Yuuri greeted Viktor when the latter raced out of his kitchen with a frying pan. Yuuri tucked his hands behind his back and guessed that Viktor would have to arrest him now. The "evidence" of his "break-in" already documented by Makkachin, and the standard poodle wheeled Yuuri's luggage past the threshold and into the living room. Viktor held his frying pan behind his back. He approached Yuuri, ever-so carefully with a spring to his step. His fingers caressed over a towel on the couch, and Viktor patted Yuuri's face dry. Three inches separated their faces, a towel blocking their lips from the other's. Lost in Yuuri's eyes, Viktor found himself in the latter's arms. Yuuri sweeped Viktor off of his feet with ease and winked. If Viktor dropped his guard, Yuuri would've ran through St. Petersburg with his heart.

When Viktor reached for his clothes after a soak in the hot springs, a little bump moved around in his basket. His fingers touched a squishy nose, and a toy-poodle leapt out. When Yuuri came into the changing room, a courtesy towel around his waist, he found Viktor on the floor. Melting, because Vicchan curled himself over Viktor's chest. His tiny borks were music to Viktor's ears, and he was powerless when Vicchan slid off of his body and cuddled next to him instead. The first time Viktor melted, it was when he met Yuuri's family earlier that night and how they stuffed him with pork cutlet bowls. It was a beautiful dish, crafted by an angel, and Viktor truly believed so when he glanced across the dining table and witnessed pure bliss painted across Yuuri's face. The second time Viktor melted, it was when Yuuri invited him to take a dip in the hot spring. The steam cloaked Viktor's body before he slid into the water. His shoulder brushed against Yuuri's on the way down. A courtesy towel sprawled over their laps while they enjoyed the peace of each other's company. After the third time Viktor melted, granted it was Vicchan's fault, he regained his senses when Yuuri sat next to him.

"If someone walks in, I'll tell them that I'm keeping you company."

Safe to say, Viktor melted for a fourth time.

One of Viktor's favorite pastimes when he and Yuuri were together was summed into a simple question: Can I kiss you?

Whether their umbrella was forgotten on the ground when he and Yuuri ran through puddles in the pouring rain. Whether they bumped their chopsticks before enjoying a meal together. Whether it was late at night, sleep hovering over Viktor's eyes when he rested his head against Yuuri's chest. A movie played in the background, a scene of a meadow illuminating over Yuuri's glasses when he met Viktor's gaze. Viktor reached up and pulled Yuuri's glasses off. The wisp of his hair tickled Viktor's fingers. The space between them, bridged by Viktor's touch. Bridged by a kiss when Yuuri met Viktor's lips.

How three years flew by in cinematic blur. It was a midsummer's eve when Yuuri wrapped a string around his ring finger, upon Viktor's request. Beyond his webcam, Viktor had a notebook and a pen. He scribbled a down number when Yuuri's measurement was done.

Four years into the relationship, a sigh trailed from Yuuri's lips. "Let's end this."

The engagement ring rolled out from Viktor's fingers and clanked against his bedroom floor.

---

His mirror soften the jagged edge across his complexion when Viktor glanced up at his reflection. His tie was finished, a neutral dark resting against a red background. A lure, a hook, for an unexpected eye. Viktor caught his breath before the sigh. After smoothing his tie against his chest, Viktor ran his fingers through his bangs. Every curl and snag jogged a memory from last night. His hair was stiffer than usual. The final touch was when Viktor folded his collar, pressing firmly with his palms for an ironed-look. His hands had never been this frail. Viktor pulled away from himself.

Dare say, he looked just about ready for a date. The only thing missing was a bouquet of flowers, but Viktor had a decent handful of guns when he strapped into his holster belt. A firearm on either side of his chest, and a toothpick in his back pocket for a quick-draw at the grocery later tonight. For when Viktor was by himself, a normal man amongst the living. But on a morning like this and for the subsequent mornings after, Viktor was a bodyguard.

Bright colors were quick to lure attention, and a sniper would notice Viktor first. Enough time for Yuuri to duck and hide, or run as far as he could. Blend into the background while Viktor called the shots. Viktor hadn't perfected his quick-draw for nothing, all those months ago when he killed first before a Club aimed at him.

Gunpowder fresh over his tongue, Viktor walked out of his bathroom. The pitter patter of his feet ended when tile ended at carpet. On Viktor's bed were a few suit jackets to choose from. But as he got closer, his eyes wandered to the top drawer of his nightstand. The compartment, he hadn't opened in years, stared back at him. More fitting for a cigar at its edge than a thick layer of dust when Viktor skimmed his thumb over the rim. When he pulled the drawer back, Viktor lifted the cloth off from a leather-bound album. Stitched across the cover were his initials and a faded Y.K.

A poor attempt, on Viktor's part, when he tried to remove the stitching with a switchblade. Speaking of which, where was his...? Viktor exhaled softly and brought his finger to his lips. His suit jacket was never complete without a secret inside the breast pocket, as the old saying went or whether. Though his finger throbbed, the bleeding subsided just enough so that Viktor could hide his wound against his palm. With his other hand, Viktor picked up his old album and thumbed through the pages. Memories, vibrant and alive through the plastic screen, whirled past Viktor's eyes. When his thumb reached the last page, he found cursive writing. His cursive writing.

Viktor pulled out a script he had written two years ago, a script he had meant to memorize and recite to a certain love in Hasetsu. The paper felt so fragile between his fingers, and Vikor's lips twitched when he read his proposal. At the tender age of twenty-six when this was written, Viktor had nothing better to say than reassurance if Yuuri cried at the drop of a knee. Perhaps, these were the words Yuuri was meant to say if Viktor cried instead. Or perhaps, Yuuri would say the proposal from his heart, but Viktor never got to hear those words and this script in his hands was more sad than useless. Granted, it was on a sliver of a napkin.

However, the words imparted by his younger self spurred nostalgia in Viktor's heart. His fingers trembled, nearly crushing his fine cursive. Viktor tucked the script carefully back into the album and locked his memories away. He opened the drawer and lowered the album to its grave. The familiar silk drew over the leather, and the grave was left undisturbed. Dared to never be seen, but Viktor left the drawer partially open so that he could relive his memories. One by one, if it was enough to quell his heart after today.

Outside his bedroom door, the pitter patter of Makkachin's steps came first before the poodle peeked past the door. She ran up to give Viktor morning kisses. Her nose brushed against Viktor's toes before she stood on her hind legs. Her paws rested against Viktor's chest for support. Viktor closed his eyes when Makkachin licked his cheeks, and he threw his arms around her shoulders. They circled around each other's feet, enjoying the warmth and company. Eventually, Makkachin slipped away from the waltz when the burden on her legs was too much to bear. Sitting on the floor, Makkachin shook her body while Viktor slipped into a black suit jacket.

His hand slid across his nightstand, brushing against his car keys and his phones. His personal phone rested inside his suit. His work phone snuggled into his front pocket. His car keys looped around his finger before Viktor wished Makkachin the best. A booming bark echoed in reply.

About five minutes later, Viktor was down the road in the same Lexus from the night before. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. His eyes flickered from the lights ahead to his rear-view mirror. Where in a few moments, Yuuri would be there. Sitting, legs crossed with his face rested against his knuckles. Staring, the beauty of St. Petersburg just beyond the window and his fingers could only touch the images against the glass. Quiet, no word to say because other than yesterday, it had been two years since he was this close to Viktor.

Heartbreak, Viktor knew it wouldn't happen, but the imaginary-Yuuri staring at him through the rear-view mirror would mention it. How things have gotten awkward, and how familiar touches felt so cold. If imaginary-Yuuri's eyes were switchblades, they bore their marks when Viktor missed the median he needed to turn at. He stared back at the road. Even though he was alone in the car, glancing back at the rear-view mirror raised the hairs on the back of Viktor's neck. He breathed softly, steadily, and moved forward when a red light turned green. Viktor u-turned and entered a hotel's parking lot.

Not much to say about it, but it was a cozy complex that accommodated for anything. Especially for hiding an Ace under the radar when a patrol car drove past Viktor. Viktor didn't turn his head. The corner of his eye noticed the blurred outlines of two officers. They weren't looking at him, or maybe the one in the passenger seat did when she saw the red around Viktor's collar. However, the tint in the windows made it hard for her to look. Viktor smiled, free from handcuffs for at least another while, before he approached the hotel's entrance.

"Just like how you rehearsed," he whispered to himself, watching how imaginary-Yuuri faded from the backseat. Viktor loosened his tie before he pulled out his personal phone. Without looking, his thumbs dialed a familiar set of numbers before Viktor rested the phone against his ear. It took one ring before he got his reply. Yuuri was hesitant on the line, not daring to speak, so Viktor broke the ice.

"Morning, it's me." Viktor could imagine a scowl on Yuuri's face. Was it unprofessional for a bodyguard to greet his client like this, so casually? However, that scowl turned to a smile that Yuuri hid with the back of his hand, though Viktor wasn't in the hotel suite to see it. "I'm at the front in a black Lexus."

"You called me on your personal phone." If this was a lecture, it was surprisingly gentle. Or if not, it was a roundabout way to say: You still remember/have my number.

"I can hang-up and call from my work phone," Viktor suggested, a familiar tease across his tone. A slight hic from the other line, a twitching Yuuri his thumb nail between his teeth so he wouldn't laugh. Not in a haughty or in a sour way, but the kind of laugh that could easily break the tension, crack the glacier, between them.

"Let's make this clear." Viktor glanced at his rear-view mirror, and imaginary-Yuuri returned with arms crossed across his chest. "I don't know you. You don't know me."

A simple truth that Viktor could stand beside. In the four years that they dated, Viktor never suspected that Yuuri would turn to a mafia for aid. On the same token, Viktor never mentioned the true nature of his profession. All in all, he and Yuuri were at a truce with one another, willing to continue this engagement if the past never surfaced.

The charms Viktor could've said were best saved for later, but his wit was as sharp as his aim. "I would say that coincidence was what brought us together, but we can change the arrangements if you prefer."

"The engagement is fine the way it is." If there was more to say, Viktor didn't hear it. When he lowered his phone after the call, his eyes shifted to the right and met Yuuri's. Yuuri clicked on his bluetooth earpiece as he approached the black Lexus, a casual shuffle to his gait. Thick frames, not like the thin spectacles from last night, hugged the bridge of Yuuri's nose. A yellow sweater, a white dress shirt peeking over the collar and the cuffs were folded at the end of his sleeves, hugged Yuuri and gave him a classic look. Almost as if Yuuri was a college student again, and Viktor was the sugar that kept his cupcake sweet when pink hovered at Yuuri's neck.

"I think I overdressed for the occasion." Viktor adjusted the rear-view mirror when Yuuri got into the car. Yuuri's reflection glazed over his eyes before Viktor turned his rear-view properly.

"As long as we're not seen together, you're fine the way you are."

In an earlier time, the statement meant that Yuuri enjoyed Viktor for who he was. The meaning wasn't lost, though the words were different now and the distance Yuuri tried to establish for himself. Professionalism, it wasn't. No matter how stern Yuuri tried to sound because a hint of a smile curved over his lips from the second-half of what he had said. Viktor eased his thumping heart, afraid that Yuuri could hear it from where he sat.

When Viktor pulled out from the hotel, his mind wasn't steering the car for his emotions did all the work. His grip on the steering wheel loosened just a tad, enough where Viktor could listen and respond to the morning chatter that Yuuri engaged him with. Whatever butterflies that had roosted in Viktor's chest from this morning and the previous night, they flew away when Yuuri apologized for his earlier behavior.

"It's hard, having to pretend that I don't know you." Yuuri rested his head against the window. "All of a sudden, Fate has us meeting again and I went on autopilot."

"Are you still on it?" Viktor met Yuuri's gaze through the rear-view mirror. Yuuri winked at him slowly, with both eyes. His voice, so sweet on a morning like this, laced with a threat that sweetened his affections.

"It depends if this talk is being recorded or not." Whether the whisper was intentional or not, the nostalgia that blossomed behind Viktor's eyes didn't go unnoticed by Yuuri.

That look, the endless possibilities that could hint to its meaning, reminded Yuuri of the last time he and Viktor saw each other, face to face through a screen. Before Yuuri broke the relationship, before Viktor mentioned that he had something to say but around the bush, Viktor's words were lost in in the tangled silence between them after.

When Yuuri lifted his head from the car window, Viktor found parking by an outdoor, shopping plaza. Tender wafts from the local food stands wandered into the car when Viktor rolled down his window by a sliver. The breeze followed in, brushing his bangs with the lightest kisses. From a nearby booth, a few bubbles wandered down the parking lot. Swirling like Autumn's snowflakes and Viktor caught one over his pinkie. He brought it into the car and blew it to Yuuri's seat. Balanced over his knuckles, Yuuri leaned close until the bubble popped under the pressure. A while followed a snort from the driver's seat, and Yuuri asked Viktor why there were in the car when could just...go out.

"I thought you'd never ask." Viktor's tie fell between his fingers when he pulled it off.

Yuuri didn't hide his smile when Viktor got out of the car. A spring to his step when Viktor wandered around his car until he opened Yuuri's door. HIs hand extended, and Yuuri reached out. They held each other, loosely around the fingers, while walking through a path littered with pinwheels. Of every hue and variety, every pinwheel turned when they passed by.

Strung by his own awe, Yuuri almost forgot with whom he was with until Viktor squeezed his hand. Yuuri had stopped, wanting to touch a pinwheel with a soft poke, but Viktor had to keep Yuuri moving. Not just for safety-sake, but because there were more wonders to capture Yuuri's eyes.

"Let's not get carr-" Yuuri began to say, his voice trailing when he walked again. His eyes still on the pinwheel that had caught his gaze.

Viktor rubbed the back of Yuuri's hand with his thumb. "As your escort, it's my duty to keep you entertained." Lost after after words were: "In any way I know how."

For a moment, Viktor forgot that he was a bodyguard. He forgot that Yuuri was a client, and that they were here to waste time for Mama's sake. But perhaps, if Viktor closed his eyes, he could believe that they were here, set by Fate to enjoy each other's company. With what little time they had left before the inevitable goodbye.

When Viktor opened his eyes, bunnies and bears popped up from his peripheral. He squeezed Yuuri's hand so that they could quietly examine the merchandise. The plushies were all in a row. Some had neutral faces, two dots and a curve for a face. Others had emotive faces, the kind that took no words in describing how they felt. Yuuri picked up a bunny plush, the one that had a heart-shaped smile. He took one glance at it, looked up at Viktor, and asked the seller how much it cost.

Viktor reached for his wallet. "I'll pay."

A slick, rubble note appeared between Yuuri's fingers. "No, I'll pay."

Viktor slid his money across the seller's booth. "I insist."

"I'm buying this for you." Yuuri nudged Viktor's hand aside with the bunny plush, and the seller took his money. The bills flipped through with a deft thumb. While Yuuri counted out his change, Viktor noticed a peculiar plush at Yuuri's end of the row. There was a bear plush with a drooling mouth and watery eyes. Viktor tilted his head to the side, eyes flickering from its face and to Yuuri's. Viktor gestured to the plush and asked the seller how much it cost.

"Same as this one." The seller gave Yuuri his bunny plush. Another exchange was made: money slid across the booth and Vikor got Yuuri his present. Yuuri slapped Viktor's arm, playfully. Mumbling to Viktor what memory he thought of when he saw the bear, and Viktor tiptoed around his response. Perhaps, he mentioned a certain memory that involved pork cutlet bowls, and Yuuri whispered that he couldn't help himself. Viktor agreed, the memory of Mama Katsuki's food hovering over his tongue when he cradled his bunny plush in his arms.

For a while, silence played her harp over the rekindled couple. Slowly but surely, the notes grew richer and thick around the edges when the loose, blue sky turned to the red underside of the overhanging branches, sagging into the shopping plaza. Bits of gold flecked with the crimson for a taste of Autumn.

"Commemorative photo?" Viktor pulled out his personal phone.

"If you send me the picture later." Yuuri wrapped an arm over Viktor's shoulders before jumping. Viktor's thumb slipped and the selfie was taken. Yuuri with a glowing smile, his bear plush squished against his cheek. A blur where Viktor's face should've been, knocked off-balance. His bunny plush looked excited, as per usual.

A minute later, when Viktor sat himself on a bench and fanned himself with his plush, Yuuri sent himself the selfie. His thumb hovering over the picture while so many others piqued his interest. Especially the the most recent before the selfie, a black and white picture of a familiar supermarket near Viktor's apartment.

When Yuuri asked Viktor about it, a sigh trailed from Viktor's lips. The smile on his bunny plush seemed to sag, so did the plush when Viktor's arms slid down the length of his chest.

"Will you walk with me?"

Like how we used to. Yuuri took Viktor by the hand, and they walked onwards. Past bustling shops and the tender wafts of meat from concession stands, onwards still after Yuuri bought an umbrella from a nearby store. Clouds began to settle over St. Petersburg, but the rain wasn't a threat yet. Not while the first drop came from a bullet. As soon as Yuuri glanced elsewhere, he looked to his left and Viktor was gone. Just the pitter patter of his shoes against the concrete when Viktor asked a booth manager how much it was to shoot.

Five plastic guns laid side-by-side across the booth's counter, and a target sheet was hoisted by drawstrings after the monetary exchange. Scattered across the counter were 'bullets', tiny orange beads that would barely break the skin if it made contact. So with thirty in front of him, Viktor loaded his pistol of choice and shot.

A single hole ripped through the 50-point marker. Even though he technically won, Viktor's hand trembled when he asked the booth manager if he could still fire. He got his nod, and Viktor shot again. Another hole ripped through the 50-point marker. After the third or so shot, Viktor rested his bunny plush on the booth counter and pulled down its ears. Muffling the sharp pang of the trigger before Viktor loaded another pellet. The bunny plush continued to smile, despite it being well-aware of what Viktor did behind its back. Its eyes followed Yuuri when he approached the game booth.

Yuuri touched the back of Viktor's shoulder just as Viktor shot. He missed his mark and rested the fake pistol against the boother's counter. Yuuri rubbed his knuckles against a tense spot on Viktor's shoulder.

"Take your jacket off," Yuuri said. "You're sweating."

Viktor brushed the side of his neck before his hand slipped down his chest to meet his waist. His fingers tapped the holsters hidden under his suit jacket on the way down. Yuuri heard the tinks of the leather against the firearms.

"My mother used to take me here, often." Viktor picked up the plastic pistol, took aim, and fired. A third hole appeared on the 50-point mark, dead in the centre of the zero. "She'd let me play the games if I was good boy that day, and she would join me during plays like this." Viktor waited for his target sheet to change. Afterwards, he took aim and shot.

Resting his umbrella against the booth counter, Yuuri paid gave the manager his money before picking up a pistol. He got twelve pellets, pink. A whistle between his teeth when he took aim. His pellet whizzed through the empty, white space of the target sheet. Yuuri lowered his head in mock-shame, a hic of laughter sprung up from his throat.

"It's been a long time since I've seen that smile." Viktor lowered his gun when Yuuri glanced up at him. He stood behind Yuuri and moved his arms into place. His breath felt like wisps against Yuuri's neck, and Viktor aimed towards a ring within the target sheet. Breath hitched at the back of his throat, Yuuri pulled the trigger after he saw a nod from Viktor. A tiny hole appeared right above the three in 35.

"You did well," Viktor whispered into Yuuri's ear.

"It feels like you have experience with this." Yuuri pressed a kiss against Viktor's cheek. It was quick, felt like a peck compared to some of the kisses they've shared in the past, and Viktor asked for permission before he could kiss Yuuri back. Oh, Viktor could've stayed like this forever before he pulled away after a short while.

"I had some good teachers throughout the years."

"I don't think your mother was one of them," Yuuri spoke, careful with his words when Viktor returned to his left. The plastic pistol back in Viktor's hands, more of an edge in how he held it. No longer a toy, but a product of war in his hands when VIktor lined his shot at a faceless officer, a product of his own imagination.

"You're right, but she told me something that I'll never forget." The next thirty seconds struck a quiet horror to the shooting booth.

Pellet after pellet, leaving the barrel of Viktor's gun, obliterated the target sheet in front of Viktor. The trigger pulled, like a broken record, even after all of its ammunition was rolling on the floor. Yuuri, too afraid to move, nearly had to shout Viktor's name until the man regained his senses. The plastic pistol fell onto the counter. "Do what you know is right."

Whether that was what his mother actually said or if it was message for himself, Yuuri didn't press the question. Another, more poignant one, hovered at the edge of his lips.

"The supermarket that was on your phone…?" Yuuri's voice faded when Viktor asked for more bullets. The back of his neck flushed from the concoction of thoughts and emotions smoking through his circuits.

"I was standing outside, by the window near the snack aisle." Viktor's voice was soft, and only Yuuri could hear him. "One moment, I wondered when my mother was going to come out. The next, glass shattered behind me when I turned around. I heard the first drop of rain when I saw my mother, on the floor." Viktor smacked the booth counter with his knuckles, steadily louder until it matched the thumping rhythm of his heart. "Bleeding out while a man ran out the door."

Viktor didn't speak for a while, concentrated on a faceless projection that he created for himself. Aimed for the throat, lung, and heart of the imaginary-foe before Viktor lowered his gun. Knowing when to hold back instead of pulling the trigger.

"My life was a thousand, broken pieces on a floor," Viktor finally said, a black and white film of the incident played over his eyes.

At the first drop of rain, Yuuri unfolded the umbrella and held it above their heads. Rainwater splattered off the umbrella and dribbled over Yuuri's shoulder when he tipped more of the cover towards Viktor's side. "What happened to the man or should I say, the criminal?"

"The police, despite the budget and endorsements they had, they really couldn't find time to spare." Old poison dribbled past Viktor's lips, his eyes narrowed. Every twitch of his fingers spelled out the dry sarcasm in his voice.

"You turned to the…" Yuuri leaned closer to Viktor and whispered what he meant to say. Viktor nodded after a long while. Relinquishing the plastic pistol, Viktor reached for his bunny plush and snuggled it against his chest.

"I met her." Viktor drew an outline with his eyes, his best interpretation of Mama without saying her name. "I heard that she was the best in her particular field, and that she liked to check her crops regularly for any bugs or vermin. I asked her if I could find me a...certain pest, and she offered me a spade and basket. She quite literally took me under her wing because she was the only one who listened to me."

"Did you find the pest?" The rain was loud enough where murder could've happened behind them, and they wouldn't have heard it.

"Instead of pesticide, I kept it in a container and watched it." There was a drop in Viktor's voice, a glossy teal over his eyes when he spoke. Because Viktor was beating around the bush, Yuuri didn't know what Viktor truly did to the criminal. All he could do was imagine, but Yuuri's imagination turned up blank. But this feeling, this coil snaking up is arm and around his throat, the sudden twitch in Yuuri's fingers when he squeezed his bear plush tightly. If he wasn't careful, he would find himself in the same 'container' that Viktor spoke of.

What happened next was not by Yuuri's doing, or perhaps it was Fate lending her finger on the situation. A raindrop fell and slipped through Viktor's hair before it touched his skin. Viktor blinked a few times, a familiar sheen over his eyes. Broke from his trance, Viktor almost forgot where he was until his elbow brushed against Yuuri's arm, and reality bandaged the mental-break that had seized Viktor earlier.

"Was I...Did I say something earlier?" Genuine honesty on Viktor's part, but Yuuri wasn't so sure. If this was an act, Viktor memorized his script and then some when he retraced the conversation he had with Yuuri before...before there was a fuzzy moment in his train of thought. Viktor asked his bunny plush if he had said anything. Granted, the plush didn't move, but Viktor stared at it for quite some time until…

"You wanted to go back to the car," Yuuri said. He adjusted his umbrella accordingly just as Viktor nodded. He kept whispering under his breath if he did said that, but Yuuri reassured him and told Viktor that the shooting game had caught him off guard earlier.

Viktor seemed to believe him, like he often did. He walked close to Yuuri, despite the latter walking farther away. Not too far to create a rift between them, but Yuuri kept a safe distance. Well-aware that Viktor had done his own lies to keep his mafia ties a secret, Yuuri bounded his thoughts with a lock-and-key.

"Enough about me." The words rolled off from Viktor's tongue with ease when the parking lot went under his feet. "What about you? What's your story?"

Yuuri's teeth grazed over his bottom lip. "My story is like your story, but one chapter behind."

Viktor raised an eyebrow, nudging Yuuri with his elbow. "I'm sorry. I didn't major in literature. Can you enlighten me?"

With the umbrella above them, Yuuri climbed onto his tippy toes. His umbrella angled just a bit. Not enough for a soak, but the rainwater sloshed off the umbrella and collided into a puddle behind them.

In any genre, what could've happened was a kiss. A moment of sweet relish to quiet a thumping heart, but this wasn't a fairytale. Nor was Viktor a knight, or Yuuri a mere damsel in the conventional constitutes of a fairytale. His voice, a ghost of a whisper, along the crook of Viktor's ear.

"I need to find a hacker."

So as Fate would have it, the switchblade in Viktor's suit slipped and rested against his tinkering chest. "Harassment?"

"Identity theft."

No longer muted after those words, the rain enveloped their silence when they got to the car. Yuuri got in first. He sat his bear plush next to him and strapped it behind a seat belt. Viktor would've smiled, but his bangs acted like his own pair of shades when he got into the driver's seat. Yuuri's wet umbrella leaned against the passenger's seat. Viktor's bunny plush sat on his lap.

Viktor's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, better that than choke the faceless spectre peering at him through the window shield. Of Yuuri's hacker; oh, Viktor's twitched for a real gun. However, Viktor reached for his keys and the Lexus purred during the downpour.

"It troubles me that someone would pretend to be someone that they're not," Yuuri sighed. His voice eased Viktor's mind for a moment when he drove out from the parking lot and was back on the road. Viktor didn't say it, perhaps of how odd it sounded or of how somber the car ride became. But if Yuuri was looking for a hacker, in St. Petersburg of all places, wouldn't his business be better served with the Clubs or Diamonds? The Hearts, led by Mama, were a prominent group in some way with the community, but to be heard or even referenced across international waters was foreign to Viktor.

Under Papa's ruling, and even after Mama became the Pakhan, no one was to know that the Hearts existed. No one; except the members, the rivaling families in St. Petersburg, and the overall community. Other than an occasional headline or a snippet on the Sunday news, the Hearts were relatively under the radar. And yet, Yuuri found them and reached out to Mama.

And yet, the cinnamon eyes that shone smiles back at Viktor through a reflection in the rear-view mirror, those eyes felt like garland over Viktor's threshold before he was lowered down to a stiller town. In that thought, Yuuri was there. Not with a bouquet for the early grave, but a gun to ensure that Viktor was dead. In the open casket, eyes open for his last shade of blue, the final color was the smoke trailing from Yuuri's gun.

---

A quarter 'til nine said the navy watch, clasped to Viktor's wrist when he stifled a yawn. His eyelashes fluttered, fanning sleep away when the Sandman passed by and blew sediment into his face. Viktor exhaled, his bangs hovered in the air for a moment before falling softly against his face. Combine his fatigue with the dim lighting of the restaurant, and Viktor was bound to fall asleep at his post. Perhaps, he could close his eyes and lean against the door behind him. Feel the golden hinge of the handle and press on it softly in his sleep.

The final say came from Guildenstern, Mama's right-hand marksman. Despite the purple hues beneath her eyes, her stature never wavered. Her posture, the hilt to a blade, prompted Viktor to stand straight. Of the duo, he was the blade with the sharpened tip, and Guildenstern reminded him of how pivotal his position was. For a sharp blade was a smart blade, or at least that was how the saying went when Guildenstern showed him how to to fight. How to hold a switchblade, and how to grapple a limb or neck to the tip of the blade.

Thirty-four with golden embroidery stitched over her eyepatch, Guildenstern was the token-definition of everything Viktor strove to be. His own eyepatch, just his fringe over his left eye, kept Viktor alert. Bold, even. With one sense impaired, the others could notice a pin drop faster than the eye he had left. A little something he learned from Guildenstern, and his mentor had so much more to teach him.

How shoes become critical in low-lighting. Not just for a swift retreat, but to feel vibrations. At least, a little before a fist or face swung out from the darkness. How a suit jacket was the cornerstone between life or death. Were the shoulders comfortable? Could one strike or swing without resistance, or fall death to fashion design?

Guildenstern didn't comment on it, but her face softened when saw a stitched quote inside the silk of Viktor's suit jacket. Viktor had tugged his suit, adjusting a black box that had tilted and wedged his switchblade into a tough corner. His knuckles brushed against his personal phone, and the screen illuminated over cursive words.

Lovers Never Die

"My mother often said that," Viktor said, tucking the switchblade up his sleeve. "Clung true to those words 'til it was her time."

A half-smile, a rarity that Viktor could only count on one hand, appeared just over Guildenstern's lips. Viktor wouldn't have noticed it if he didn't pay attention to the reflection on his switchblade.

"I see where you get it from." Guildenstern loosened her posture for the first time in hours.

Three had went by, with just her and Viktor as each other's company. Their backs against the doors to the private room, where Yuuri and Mama shared dinner and discussed about 'trust bonds'.

Even Guildenstern was as weary as Mama when the doors closed just a few hours prior, and her gaze always wandered to Mama's face when there was a slip in the opening. A check of reassurance to unwind the tension sewn to her bones whenever a server came bearing with racks of meat, or a nifty bottle of wine so that Mama could poorly imitate a sommelier. However, she was improving and had some stories to tell with every sip of white or red.

"The deal should be ending soon." Viktor hoped to break the silence, aware that Guildenstern had finally grown passive in her duty as a bodyguard for the evening. Whatever slouch she had before stiffened, and Guildenstern narrowed her eyes when a server emerged from the darkness. Every server was seen the same way, and Viktor tried to smile to lighten the mood. However, he had never seen this server before.

She had not been serving the private room, some others were. Viktor still smiled, but his fingers twitched when his switchblade ran down the length of his forearm. Just a cuff away from slipping into his hand, Viktor's eyes met Guildenstern's briefly.

The server stood before them. An innocent smile, but not innocent enough because she clasped her hands in front of her. Perhaps, to keep her fingers from twitching.

Dessert became the topic, and Guildenstern followed with her own case study of what was acceptable after a three-hour-long meal. One couldn't possibly have room after all the wine and delicacies that passed through the private doors. Arms crossed and with a smokey eye, Guildenstern could've tangoed with the server through every thrust and pull of the conversation. until Viktor chimed in and said that dessert was fine.

"Can you add a fruit tart?" The memory of Yuuri scarfing one down was fresh on Viktor's mind. Albeit, the request was selfish on his part when he felt Guildenstern's breath. Despite her being a two feet away from him.

"I'll make that two," said the server. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder when she turned on her heels. The clicks of those shoes ticked the end for Viktor when Guildenstern cracked her knuckles. Subtly at first, but every crack sounded like a substitute for Viktor's neck for what he had done.

When Viktor gulped, his switchblade slid out from his cuffs and across his palm. The blade nestled over the lines on his hand, like a lock for a key. "I think it's okay if-"

Viktor cut his train of thought when Guildenstern slipped her fingers under her eyepatch to ease her hidden eye. Her exposed eye was closed, but Viktor didn't move. Any and every twitch from his body, Guildenstern would sense it within a heartbeat.

"What did I do to forget?" Guildenstern mumbled under her breath.

The mere whisper of her voice knocked Viktor off-balance. Viktor squeezed. His switchblade burrowed into his hand. Breathing steadily, Viktor slipped the blade up his sleeve. Discreetly as he could when Guildenstern opened her exposed eye. Viktor balled his hand into a fist, his heartbeats ticking by his ear when Guildenstern spoke again.

"Mama loves fruit tarts." Guildenstern patted her shoulder thrice before typing the reminder onto her phone. Viktor broke into a grin, a bit of a laugh creeping up from his throat to lighten the mood.

All the while, Viktor curved his fist upward. Just a bit, enough for his blood to pool against his palm than seep through his fingers. Evidence marking a trail of where he stood. Fortunately, a message through his earpiece drew Viktor's attention away from his wound. It was from Mama, and Guildenstern heard the same for she stood like a soldier, as if Mama was standing in front of her. Stooped over a chair and with a tease riding up her cheeks, her classic bun spilling down her neck and she was a mother. Like she had always been.

The discussion was a success, slurred by Mama's incoherent words and jokes when she sang the highlights and the thickest accent Guildenstern and Viktor had ever heard. Viktor glanced up at Guildenstern, and his silent mentor nodded along with what Mama said. Whether she understood or not because Mama's chirpy laughter issued harsh, reception-feedback through the earpieces. Guildenstern shushed softly until Mama settled down. Perhaps, with Yuuri's help because Viktor perked up when bits of Japanese slipped into the earpiece.

"Did you take notes?" Guildenstern turned her back on the world and finally faced the doors that stood between her and Mama.

Mama hiccuped. "I have a stack and a few signatures that need verification. I saved it for you."

Breathless, Guildenstern turned off her earpiece. "She knows me too well."

Viktor didn't need to see a smile because there was a skip to Guildenstern's movements when she grasped one of the doors handles. A slight pause, a moment for her face to slip into a neutral expression, before she opened the private door.

A chandelier, stunning with thousands of colored glass strung high over the ceiling, reflected a bouquet of jewels across the stainless dishes sitting before Yuuri and Mama. A few glasses of wine shared between them. Yuuri, with his glass untouched for the most part, and Mama, uncorking a bottle with her steak knife. She lowered the blade when Guildenstern and Viktor took their seats at the table, and Mama poured them wine.

"You two will have to stop by this weekend so I can cook a proper meal." Mama excused herself when she hiccuped. Guildenstern brought her wine glass to her lips and savored the flavors of 1973 while Viktor helped himself to the hot, fresh bread that Mama saved for him and Guildenstern. Mostly for Viktor, because Guildenstern pushed the willow basket of bread closer to Viktor while she clinked her glass against Mama's.

Mama curved her arm around Guildenstern's, and they saw each other's reflection in the white wine. Guildenstern nursed from Mama's glass, and Mama did the same with Guildenstern's. Every time Guildenstern looked up from her drink, she caught Mama's eye and flush from the alcohol curled over the bridge of her nose before she and Mama pulled apart. A sigh curled out from Mama's lips and it drifted over her and Guildenstern like the smoke from a cigar.

On the other side of the table, sitting to Yuuri's left and feeling the man's warmth illustrated a fleeting memory for Viktor when he brought his wine glass to his lips. Though this warmth wasn't as intimate as Mama and Guildenstern's, this touch eased Viktor. When Yuuri looked elsewhere, laughing at an obscure joke that Mama knew, Viktor slid a dining napkin off from the table and wrapped it around his right hand. Tied a loose knot so that the bleeding could halt and for his wound to heal. Even more so, Viktor felt that this where the healing began. With laughter that sounded so genuine, and with this light-hearted buzz that swirled and danced in the atmosphere.

'Wonderful' was the word Viktor was looking for. The orange and yellow hues, swirling down from the chandelier like Autumn leaves, massaged the aches over Viktor's shoulders and neck. The wine and the bread kept his stomach warm, a resilient fire for his core. Everything felt at peace, everything had not a touch of worry.

Mama slurred her words together, almost indecipherable to native ears. Guildenstern managed a grin every now and then, able to drop her guard for just this once. Yuuri rested his head on the crook of Viktor's shoulder, coral pink dusting over his skin. Viktor inched his arm around Yuuri, one of his fingers looped around a lock of Yuuri's hair.

It felt too good to be true. It felt like a fairytale, and the monsters were gone. Chapel bells and flowers resonating in the distance, somewhere over a meadow where Viktor and the people he knew simply frolicked through the greenery in flowing costumes. Carnations in their hair under the kissing sun.

But as fleeting as a fairytale could be, the monsters were never truly gone. On the edge of the pages, in the shadows behind each and every word, there lurked a wolf. Prowling, low across the landscape, the creature tore across the passages in a single leap and bound. Much like Yuuri's response when Mama checked the time on her phone, commenting that she needed to leave soon.

"You always feel a little guilty when you're not tucking Alexa to bed." Yuuri yawned and nuzzled closer against Viktor's neck. Viktor steadied his breaths, his eyes wandered to Mama.

Mama was busy checking notifications on her phone's calendar, but there was a breath of hesitation when she digested Yuuri's words. Her eyes narrowed, and the drunken flush over her skin mellowed. Not enough where her actual drunkenness was considerably less, but there was a shift in her behavior. There was a shift in Mama's tone as she rocked her wine glass between her fingers.

"Indeed." There was a steak knife over Mama's dining napkin. Simply draped over her lap and the blade was balanced over her knee. Not for long, because Mama rested the steak knife over her finished plate when the private doors opened with a click. A curious raise of the eyebrow painted Mama's face when Yuuri lifted his head from Viktor's shoulders. Suddenly, the close proximity between them spanned from sea to shining sea. Yuuri, a blank canvas where his joy used to be. Viktor, wondering what he had done to drive Yuuri away. The scene lingered in Mama's mind when she flicked her gaze to the private doors.

A server, the same woman who had asked about dessert, wheeled in a silver trolley with a custard cake, fruit tarts, and a crème brûlée. Every pastry sat on a pristine throne, with its reflection hovering over the white glass. If sweets had a price, these sweets were crusted with botanic bling. From delicate flower petals, roosted along the sides or the middle, and sprinkled with the jewels of this season's berry harvest.

"Excuse me." Intoxicated as she was, Mama had a good memory or two when she gestured at the dessert trolley. "We," Mama pointed at Yuuri with her eyes, "didn't order any dessert."

"It was my suggestion," Viktor chirped, feeling all eyes on him despite most of everyone not looking at him. The only person who cared to was Guildenstern, a quiet nudge of support on her part because she didn't stop Viktor when he ordered the dessert earlier.

"If I would have known, I would've saved room." Mama patted her belly with a sigh. She waved a disapproving finger at Viktor, but it was hard to take the gesture seriously because of the grin over her lips. Mama unbuttoned her waistcoat, letting it slide and fall of her shoulders. However, Guildenstern caught it and draped the article over the back of Mama's seat.

The server came around, balancing the dessert plates on her arm. Little spoons cradled in her right hand when she set the plates down. A round, amber-glazed custard cake sat in front of Viktor with a silver spoon to spare. Crisped, crème brûlée smoked in front of Guildenstern. In front of Mama and Yuuri were the fruit tarts, golden with a honey brush before baking. The thousands colors from the chandelier overhead painted a rainbow of flavor over the desserts, watering the tongue before the first fork was lifted from its plate.

The server bowed her head, the wisps of her bangs nearly ticking the end of her nose before she lifted herself and reached for the silver trolley. Just as she turned her head, Mama's voice crumbled through the sweet atmosphere like a hot fork.

"Guildenstern, what are the top headlines for tomorrow." Mama ran her fork down the edge of her fruit tart. Oozing berries within the slice, but she didn't pick up a bite. Instead, she shifted her fork around until she could see the middle of the pastry.

"Missile launches from our neighbor, flu outbreak, the stocks will be…" A thought hovered over Guildenstern's tongue before she broke the surface of her dessert with her fork. The fluffy, creamy texture of the crème brûlée oozed freely over her plate, and the crystal glaze on top shattered with every prod of the fork. "Slight variances for some businesses, but others will remain as they have been."

Guildenstern brushed her overhanging bangs to the side, looping the longer fringes behind her ear. The prongs of her fork sunk to the bottom of the crème brûlée. The clink of the dish beneath it, if it wasn't evident before.

"Do you enjoy custard cake, Viktor?" Mama pressed one of her heels against the leg of her seat.

"I do, Ma'am." Viktor stared at his dessert, seemingly innocent on the outside. He picked up his fork, unsure where to cut at first. But the delicious, brown sugar crusted over the top of his custard cake looked so...it wasn't as neat as the graham crumbs smoothed along the side.

If Viktor was a flashlight, his eyes shone brightly when he met Mama's gaze. She smiled at him, a reassuring click of her heel against a leg of her chair to ease Viktor's mind. His eyes flickered from Mama's to the server's.

The server had her hands clasped in front of her, erratic twitches sprung down from her knuckles and to the tip of her fingers. When Mama spoke, she spoke as if she was speaking to her son, her Alexa, if he had done something wrong.

"It's funny that Mr. Katsuki and I have been the only ones dining in this room, served by other servers in the past three-hours, and here you stand before us, before me, with these sweets." Mama pushed her plate back. "You would've had me with two, but four?" Mama tilted her head. "Who would've known that two agents, two with a quick-draw, would've joined me for dessert?"

Mama held up her right hand, and she slowly lowered her fingers until her ring finger was all that was left, singling out that she was the only who knew about this arrangement. Winking over her finger was an old wedding ring, a symbol that had never been removed since a fateful encounter before an altar, nearly twenty years ago. An eternity too soon, Mama had to dig a grave with her bare hands. An eternity too soon, the server was digging her own. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. Except the trolley next to her, but what could she do with that when she turned and met Mama's eyes.

"You're a Club, am I right? One of Archie's chemists?" A single strand of hair slipped and slid across Mama's face. Stopping a quarter away from her eye when not a sound left the server's lips.

The server's mouth was open, a vein or detail popped over her neck, but she said nothing. Her words buried somewhere deep inside, unable to surface because of a typical Club's pride.

"I know if Archie was here, he would be more disappointed that we're," Mama gestured to herself, to Guildenstern and Viktor, and to Yuuri, "not dead. However, if our roads do happen to cross someday in the future, I want to offer some advice." Mama pulled her fruit tart closer. "The sugar laced on top. It's crushed cyanide pills, isn't it?"

Mama dabbed her dining towel with her tongue before patting it over the berries on her fruit tart. Phone in hand, Mama shone her flashlight and examined the crushed powder. Tsking under her breath, noting how clunky the crushed cyanide pills looked. They weren't crushed well enough, almost as if the server had stuffed the pills into a bag and stomped over it a few times in a hurry before coming into the private room.

"For any assassination, preparation is key. I think if you had this prepared before coming here, we wouldn't be any wiser." With that and a cheerful smile, Mama passed the spotlight to Guildenstern.

As if she was speaking to Mama's son, Guildenstern bit her tongue and went through her bit with a story. Choking on her words every now and then, having to relinquish her walls. Mama told Guildenstern that she should just be herself, that the best advice came from being true to one's values. Immediately, Guildenstern dropped her "cutesy act". The sudden change seeped the colors out from the private room. A drop of gray swirled over the scene, clouding it to Guildenstern's favors when her fingers folded over themselves. Her chin rested on top of them when she spoke.

"You could've fooled us all." If there was more to add to that statement, Guildenstern didn't say it because her own pride almost spilled. Much like the server's, but the server wore her pride as a badge over her chest. "Cyanide to take out the Queen, and the rest of us have are dealing with a knock-out drug. Or at least, something that would slow us down. That if we went for help, we wouldn't be able to move and you would take care of us in this room."

It was a frown to think about it, but a shudder to speak of it. More-so now, with Guildenstern's hand hovering over her gun when the server trembled from head to toe.

"Kid," Guildenstern pulled the safety off of her firearm, "this isn't something to cry about." A bullet slipped from the cuff of her sleeve and slid into the revolver before Guildenstern spun it under her suit jacket. A click holding her thoughts on the edge when the server's steele eyes emerged from the shadow of her own bangs.

"It doesn't matter because I failed." The server's hands, uncontained by the sporadic twitches she allowed herself. If a wolf had dressed itself in sheep's clothing, the server was shedding off her wool and claws took place where shy hooves once were.

"It's not a failure when you learn from the experience." Mama's voice never rose above the comfortable-level she was at. Not a hint of disappointment left her lips, and her voice wavered for just once so that the server would turn and actually listen to her. "The greatest poison you've given us today are these beautiful sweets that we can't eat. It's often the sweetest things that harm us when we least expect it." Mama cracked a smile and sliced a hefty portion of her fruit tart, balancing the sweet bite over her fork.

The server took half a step forward. Guildenstern's finger hovered over her trigger. The barrel of her gun followed the server with every step of the way. Her aim was almost too easy when the server's front barely grazed the dining table. But even so, Guildenstern didn't shoot. Call it faith because anyone could shoot, but it took a hands-on-approach to solve a problem than destroy it.

The server lowered her head. Not a twitch nor stir from her body spoke of an alternative motive when tears dripped down her cheeks and fell quietly onto the dining cloth. The weights on her shoulders slid off when Mama rose from her seat wrapped her arms around the server's shoulders. Quietly shushing into her ear, telling the server that she was proud. Proud that the server could do this on her own, proud that the server had given the advice a chance, and proud that the server could walk away with this experience on her belt.

For an outsider, it was odd to watch. It was strange to see a target and her killer embrace in such a tender moment. Yuuri's initial shock melted into something softer when he felt Viktor's hand against his own. Viktor had leaned in close, comforting Yuuri's nerves with a single brush of skin. Viktor's warmth eased Yuuri's mind as he quietly absorbed the sight before his eyes.

There were different ways to kill, besides poison or a gun.

The server thanked Mama, sobbing onto her shoulder that no one had ever reached out to her like this. When they pulled apart, the server had only one request: a fight. Guildenstern gladly took up the offer, wrestling out from her suit jacket. A switchblade poised in her hands, steadied between her fingers. Her gun rested with Mama when Guildenstern walked around the dining table and into the fighting arena.

A blade slipped down the server's sleeve, a firm grasp over the hilt when she circled Guildenstern. Guildenstern did the same for her. The click of heels, the clacks of dress shoes, the velvet carpet between them. Not a breath of hesitation, the server lunged first. She swung, gutting the tip of Guildenstern's tie. She side-stepped around the server and twirled the server with her. Arms bolted under Guildenstern's grasp, the server held her breath when a blade laid poised against her neck. Nearly biting into her skin, but Guildenstern didn't allow it so.

The server spun her blade in her hands. Not to stab into Guildenstern's knee or to gut her open. Instead, she threw her head back and smacked Guildenstern between her eyes. Slipping out from Guildenstern's grasp, the server threw her blade like a dart. Not at Mama, but aimed for Yuuri's heart.

The knife, a twirling dart that spun from its hilt to the tip of the blade, crossed the precious feet between the server and her target. Yuuri braced himself, pulling his forearm across his chest to take the blow. At the same time, he was pulled to the side. Viktor embraced Yuuri in his arms and tore into the space between him and the knife. The blade sunk into the crook of his shoulder blade. Thrusting its roots into Viktor's body until it touched bare bone.

Time resumed normally when Viktor gasped. The bloody dining napkin that had covered Viktor's wound slipped from his right hand. Viktor rubbed his red thumb across Yuuri's cheek, leaving his mark. Mouth agape, Yuuri looked down at Viktor's slumped figure. The knife, half buried into Viktor's body, flushed the surrounding area with red. Yuuri's fingers inched towards Viktor's face, rubbing his warmth against Viktor's skin to keep him awake. A wound like this wasn't enough to kill, but Viktor felt so cold under Yuuri's touch. Yuuri's touch skimmed the hilt of the offending knife before he slowly pulled it out. He coaxed and whispered into Viktor's ear, telling him to relax. To make this easier, but it didn't stop the fact that Viktor grinded his teeth while Yuuri pulled. Winces and sharp intakes rattling his body until Yuuri offered his shoulder for Viktor to bite.

"Won't it hurt?" The whisper of Japanese perked Yuuri's ears when Viktor panted over his shoulder. His chin sank down the edge of Yuuri's suit vest until his teeth skimmed the fabric.

"Not as much as seeing you like this." Yuuri rubbed his fingers around Viktor's shoulder blade. Relaxing the muscles before his other hand pulled at the knife's hilt. Viktor's teeth latched onto Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri winced, but he hid it with every tug of the knife. Viktor suppressed his hisses by biting harder, nuzzling his body closer to Yuuri and bridging every tiny gap in between them.

To an outsider, it appeared that Viktor was keeping still while Yuuri helped pull a knife out of him. But to them, it was this shared pain that brought them closer. Mama blinked when Viktor was free from the knife and crumbled against Yuuri's tender arms. The bloodied knife was poised in Yuuri's grasp, a dark haze ghosting over his eyes when he twirled the weapon for a kill. To avenge Viktor while the man hissed between his teeth, pressing his bloodied palm against his wound.

Guildenstern was a little quicker on the avengement than Yuuri. Guildenstern knocking the server off her feet and pinned her face and torso against the dining table. Hands against her back, the server bared her teeth, glare as sharp as her aim when she kicked. A swift buckle overcame the server when Mama's fruit tart approached her face. Mama placed her fork near the server's mouth, a hefty portion of poison waiting to be swallowed.

"It's best to stick with the poisons when hand-to-hand combat isn't your best tool for right now," Mama said, patting the server's shoulder thrice. "Transfer your aim to a gun, and you'll be an excellent marksman." With that, Mama asked Guildenstern if she could take care of the server, and Guildenstern responded back with pleasure before clasping handcuffs over the server's wrists and holding her steady.

In the meantime, Mama approached Viktor. She gently pulled him away from Yuuri so that Viktor could support himself on his own. Mama nudged his bloody fingers apart, and she inspected the wound. As deep as it was, as bloody as it was, Viktor was going to be okay. He was going to be just fine. That was what Mama told herself, despite every fibre in being screaming that she should take care of the server, personally. However, Mama had shed that persona long ago when she took with her first steps as Pakhan just a year ago.

"There's a hospital that will treat Viktor." Mama lifted her waistcoat and pulled a card from her inner pocket. Held between her fingers, she pointed it to Yuuri and he accepted it with steady hands. "Please, take him there."

One moment, it appeared that Mama could do no wrong and that her voice was as just as the ideologies she carried on her shoulders. But at that moment, at that transaction when Yuuri slid his gaze up to meet Mama's, he saw that she was like anyone else. A person, battling their own demons and mistakes. The flush over her cheeks wasn't from the wine, but the wavering control she had over her impulses. In which, she passed her role as a caretaker to Yuuri.

It wasn't a normal touch. Say, like a pat on the shoulder or a caress of the cheek. It was a card that Mama slipped into the open pocket of Yuuri's suit jacket when she shuffled through a deck tucked in her waistcoat.

The Joker of Spades.

---

"Do you know why a Joker shows up so rarely?"

In the stillness of that night, Yuuri almost didn't hear the question. His lips, nursing the edge of his drink when he tipped his head back, and Yuuri caught the chiseled gaze of his Otōsan, the leader of the family. Balanced on his squeaky stool, Yuuri placed his glass down as if it was a piece of a chessboard. Otōsan shuffled through his pawns and filled Yuuri a hefty portion. A card, the Joker's calling, slid across bar counter, accompanied with the drink.

Yuuri caught his glass, his eyes surveyed down the grimy poker card before he nursed his drink. In the dim lighting of the bar counter, when Yuuri was but a month shy from his twenty-fourth birthday, he could almost recite the words that Otōsan mumbled as he wiped a glass clean with a soiled rag.

"The Joker owns many faces." The words spilled out like pillaring smoke, wafting a wheeze up Yuuri's throat. He coughed, spitting up his drink back into its glass. The alcohol burned every corner of his mouth at the very end of where his throat began.

Even so, Yuuri regained his composure and prompted Otōsan to speak. The rudeness came with an apology when Yuuri bowed his head, so low that his forehead touched the counter, and he remained that way until Otōsan knocked the spot near Yuuri's head. Yuuri lifted his gaze, his chin hovering over his drink.

"He can take on as many shapes to his will." Otōsan fished for a card in his poker deck. His knuckles blazed with old scars and bruises from his time as a Jack for his King, and that throne was as cold and as empty as the bar. The only soul listening to these words was Yuuri, and he adjusted his glasses when a black-and-white photograph was laid on top of the Joker card. "Even that of a lover."

Unlike the crooked teeth of a manmade Joker, Yuuri met a beautiful smile. Heart-shaped, bright, and warm along the edges. Perhaps, it was morning when the photo was taken, but it was hard to tell by the grainy quality. The abundance of shadows just under the eyes, the curve of the nose, and the supple lips that had once kissed Yuuri thrice before kissing him a fourth under a spreading tree...It had been two years too long since Yuuri last saw such a familiar face.

Otōsan watched as Yuuri caressed the photograph with the back of his thumb. The young Joker's eyes were ablazed with so many questions of how, what, and why. These questions, Yuuri had to answer on his own, were the perfect fuel to ignite Yuuri's heart. For when he bowed his head and thanked Otōsan for the drinks, there was no turning back. A ticket to St. Petersburg was purchased later the next morning and not two weeks after, Yuuri lifted his wings and glided back to the perch of where he had once called Home.

If he could see the familiar face for just once more, Yuuri could set his heart free. But when his feet touched the perch, the gates around him closed. He hopped, back and forth, over a rocking place and covered his face with the front of his wings. Peering through the golden bars, mouth fallen at the sight, Viktor met his bird, his love, again.

---

The memory of that night, of Yuuri's first sight of Viktor, hummed in the back of Yuuri's mind when he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the Lexus. When he glanced through his peripheral and caught sight of Viktor, head tipping because of every bump of the road, it felt as if nothing else mattered but now.

The calm of Viktor's face, how he looked so peaceful when his head pressed against the side-window. How the low drawls of sleep parted his lips, and Yuuri could've stole a kiss. How Viktor's bangs acted as sleep-masks when the car passed under the overhanging street lights along a bridge in St. Petersburg. The amber, orange glow brushed through Viktor's hair like kisses, tucking him into his safe haven.

When Yuuri stopped in front of a stoplight, no one else around him besides Viktor, he lowered his hand from the steering wheel and reached over. Mere inches away from stroking Viktor's hair. So close, yet so far when Yuuri pulled away and rested his fingers along the steering wheel instead. A twitch overcame his fingers when light shone across the dashboard, illuminating the Joker of Spades that laid across the surface. A gift from Mama, a glossy ID tied to Yuuri's name, and he couldn't throw it away.

Yuuri had tried so, earlier.

He had rolled down the window, the card held between his index and middle finger. But when Yuuri caught a stir from Viktor, a snore on his part, Yuuri couldn't let the card go. He couldn't flick it away, so it remained on the dashboard. Slipping every and which way when Yuuri took his sharp turns, and the haunting grin of the card's denomination bled into his imagination. So much so that a silhouette from the corners of his mind slipped its slender legs across the leather of the backseat.

First came the jingling bells as hooked shoes rested on the carpet of Lexus. Second came nimble hands, fingers as delicate and long as a spider's, rested on the crook of Viktor's seat. Nearly grazing his neck and curling around a sliver of Viktor's locks, but the figure didn't do so. Whether by Yuuri's own command of his imagination, or the spectre lurking behind Viktor stopped in the middle of his act because Yuuri kept a steady eye on him through the rear-view mirror. Third came the torso, an hourglass shape with stocky shoulders and a trimmed waist. Thin flakes and the upward curves of the Joker's clothes, void of the usual rainbow that the domination would typically carry. The last to emerge from the silhouette was a face, pale as the back of Yuuri's neck when he suppressed an urge to scream.

The Joker, his curved shoes and extended chin, accented those crazed sockets where eyes were meant to be. Or perhaps, they were there. Pupils blotched into a silvery gray when he stared at Yuuri for what felt like an eternity, and Yuuri couldn't look away. But in reality, Yuuri's eyes flickered back to the road ahead when the stop light turned green.

"Stab the heart." A ghostly whisper, Yuuri's own voice but transcribed into a melodic tune, crept from the Joker's lips.

A trail of smoke snaked through the car and coiled around Viktor's lips and throat, like a noose. With a single command, it could suffocate Viktor. Yuuri's imagination didn't allow it, but he became steadily conscious of his own actions. How one of his hands had slipped from the steering wheel, inching towards the suit jacket draped over Viktor's body. Of a peculiar switchblade that poked out from an inner pocket, how the hilt nearly grazed Yuuri's touch.

"Set one's inhibitions free from-"

"Shut up," Yuuri snarled under his breath.

Under that command, the Joker disappeared. Though the smoke left behind was part of Yuuri's imagination, it burned his throat and eyes. Pressing the emergency lights, Yuuri drove off the main road and parked on the shoulder of St. Petersburg's bridge. Knuckles white, shadows of his bones against the steering wheel, when Yuuri gasped for breath.

He tore out of his seat belt and left the door open when he stumbled out from the car. Holding onto the skin of the Lexus with the best of his grip as he made it to the other side of the car. Back pressed against Viktor's side of the Lexus, shoes leaning against the edge of St. Petersburg's bridge when Yuuri caught his first taste of the breeze.

Behind him, Yuuri heard the squeaks of a window being pulled down. A fragile hand reached out and held onto his arm.

"Babe, are you okay?" Soft-spoken as he was, Viktor mustered his strength forward when he leaned his face out the window and rested it against Yuuri's sleeve. With what sanity he had left, hitched to the back of each and every breath, Yuuri closed a door over his imagination.

With the key chucked over the bridge and sinking in the depths below, Yuuri settled back and recharged under Viktor's warmth. Breathing steadily, Viktor lifted his head and peppered a kiss on Yuuri's cheek. One kiss turned to many as Viktor slowly made his way up to Yuuri's forehead to keep the demons at bay, to keep his angel aglow to the best of his abilities.

But even so, the effort had a price. In exchange, a fiery bite sunk into the crook of Viktor's shoulder blade, and he couldn't hide his wince with a smile when Yuuri met his gaze. A brief exchange, wordless at best, before Yuuri sowed his own kiss at Viktor's lips. Hunger, a crave for touch, deafened Yuuri's rationale for a moment before he satisfied his taste. Viktor slipped out from the kiss, lips parted in shock before he asked Yuuri to kiss him again. To know that the touch was real and as visceral as the short moment had made it feel so. When Viktor climbed up the side of Lexus' door to meet Yuuri in the middle, he hissed between his teeth and lowered himself slowly. His arms buckled under his weight.

"Your shoulder bothering you?" The words rolled off of Yuuri's tongue with ease, the little hint of a Russian accent burning the back of Viktor's ears.

Viktor tugged at his collar, trying to inspect his knife-wound. Yuuri asked if he could help Viktor out of his shirt, for medical purposes. He added that with a whisper when Viktor's fingers froze at the mid of his collar. Yuuri took the initiative, his fingers fumbling over the first few buttons. He glanced up, barely a skip from missing Viktor's gaze.

"Tell me when to stop."

"I hope you never stop."

Viktor turned his head away, a trail of pink stopping just below his chin. Yuuri continued to unbutton the dress shirt until he reached the bottom, and he carefully tugged the fabric off from Viktor's body. A passing car shone its lights through the Lexus, illuminating the scars that the world so rarely saw from Viktor. But as quick as Yuuri's curiosity was to touch the bits of history engraved over the flesh, as quick as the darkness came to cloak Viktor's secrets. When the dress shirt fell, crumbled into a heap at the crook of the passenger seat, Yuuri's fingers brushed over the makeshift bandage over Viktor's wound.

Bits of a dining cloth, sliced into reasonable rags, before they were bundled and pressed against Viktor's wound. Acting as an agent to help the blood clot around the area, and the bandage was held secure by Viktor's navy tie. Having never seen Viktor bleed, Yuuri's curiosity got the best of him during this private moment. His thumb rubbed over the angry wound when he lifted the bandage, and Viktor whistled between his teeth. Better than a hiss, but the whistle conveyed just as much pain.

"You need something warm," Yuuri murmured under his breath. He opened the nearest compartments on the dashboard, his hands skimmed the insides for what he needed. Yuuri kept his other hand near Viktor's wound, heating the area with his touch. "I'm not enough for you."

"You've always been." Viktor pulled Yuuri's hand away from the inner-compartment of the dashboard, curling his fingers between Yuuri's like they've once done before on a midsummer's eve. A kiss followed every word spoken, pressed softly against Yuuri's knuckles. "You've always been more than enough for me."

"Viktor, you don't…" Words barely passed the threshold of Yuuri's throat, barely up the steps before they knocked on the door leading to his lips. Yuuri snatched his fingers out from Viktor's grasp. "You don't really mean it."

Viktor tilted his head. "Is that what you've been telling yourself for the past two years?"

Yuuri shook his head. "No, I-" Again, the words were caught at his threshold. Slowly throughout the conversation, Yuuri slipped his body out from the car. Until only his fingers were left, hovering over the rim of the open window. Even then, Yuuri slipped them out immediately when Viktor reached for the door handle and got out of the car. His suit jacket trailing behind him before Viktor slipped it on, his torso leaned against the stony railing of St. Petersburg's bridge. Breath coiling up into the air as smoke in the dead of that night.

Viktor's bangs tickled the bridge of his nose when he lowered his gaze, admiring the depths below him with a soft smile.

"When I first saw you, after all these years, I told myself that I wasn't going to fall in love." His voice low and steady, like a drum beating the entrance for an inevitable storm. "If we fell for each other again, it would only open up more…"

Viktor licked his lips, suddenly fascinated by the reflection over his shoes from a passing caring when Yuuri approached from behind and rested his elbows against the stony railing, alongside with Viktor. Viktor tilted his face towards Yuuri, unable to meet his gaze for a moment before courage tapped into his senses.

"Every moment we spent together," Viktor didn't hide his smile, "I keep finding myself with these thoughts. Where I think about the future, our future."

"You suspected that I felt the same way?" Yuuri asked. Numb, for the most part as he slowly digested Viktor's words.

His heartbeats quickened, the rhythm crashing together as cymbals before a grand orchestra where Viktor was the maestro to his heart's melody. Baton at the ready, Viktor held the orchestra at a fermata. A quick downbeat resonated in the silence between him and Yuuri on the bridge, and Viktor moved the imaginary-orchestra through a harrowing passage.

"I suspected that you hid your feelings for other reasons." Viktor's gaze never wavered, despite Yuuri's reluctance to meet his eyes. "Is that why we broke up?"

"No." Yuuri spat the response out as if it was poison. "Not at all."

Viktor folded his fingers over each other and rested his chin over his knuckles. "What was it, then?"

His eyes tore away from Yuuri's face and stared briefly at their reflection in the frigid water below. A pale, orange outline where he and Yuuri were. Dark ripples fading between them when a pebble fell over and prodded the water's edge.

Yuuri's nails buried into his sleeves. "I did it for you."

The look on Viktor's face must have said it all because Yuuri's walls crumbled, one by one. Yuuri clung to himself for security despite his crumbling state, drawing Viktor closer until his love was a breath away from falling apart.

"I didn't know how much you meant to me until I had to subtract you from my life. It was either you or surviving in the mafia somehow." Yuuri's nails punctured the skin along his wrists. They only loosened at Viktor's touch but even then, Yuuri's body didn't know who to trust.

On one hand, Yuuri wanted to squeeze every part of his body until all his blood slushed out. On the other hand, Viktor acted as a mediator between the physical acts of pain, trying to lull Yuuri back to his centre so that he could find peace despite the divergence of what he needed to do and what he wanted to do. Tears spilled down Yuuri's cheeks, far sooner than he could catch them.

"I didn't want to lose you." Yuuri buckled under his emotions, breath hitched at the back of his throat when Viktor caught a single tear along the edge of his pinkie. Bringing the tear closer to himself, watching it fall into the salty sea below at a single flick, the draw-bridge to Viktor's heart lowered. From the dust of two long years, Viktor met Yuuri at the middle of these twisted emotions, gutted with a knife.

"On the day we broke up, I wanted to go to Hasetsu."

Thinking back on it, Viktor felt a bolt of laughter down his side. Perhaps, out of pity for his younger self. Perhaps, for an emotion that Viktor couldn't quite describe because if the moment hadn't come, Viktor wouldn't have heard Yuuri's heartfelt words. Viktor folded his fingers between Yuuri's and held his lover steady as the weight of the truth spilled out in waves. Small, unnoticeable at first until they grew too great for one person to bear.

"I bought a plane ticket in advance, and I was revising some of my plans before you gave me the call." Viktor remembered the day too clearly when he brushed his bangs behind his ear. "We both had something to say, a little banter to see who would say their thing first. I wanted to keep my surprise for a little longer, so I asked if you could go first."

Words froze at the tip of Viktor's tongue, unsure if to be spoken. When Yuuri squeezed Viktor's hand, sniffles and messy tears smudging the facade off from his face, Viktor found strength in Yuuri's courage.

"'Let's end this.'" Just as Yuuri had said it before, Viktor copied the same tone. The same death in the conversation that occured two years ago. The echo stuck with Viktor's voice, his throat constricting over a few words, when his secret crept out. "When I heard those words, your engagement ring slid out of my hands and bounced over the floor."

Viktor's fingers hovered over a familiar black box in his inner-pocket.

"I knew I should've waited, I should've said something sooner. If I wanted to surprise you, I wanted to do so while I was down on one knee. I could've spoken first but after hearing you speak, I wasn't sure if it was appropriate or if you'll feel awkward. But at the time, I wished that I had the chance to propose to you."

Turning on the heels of his shoes, Viktor reached out for Yuuri's hand again. Slipped out from his suit jacket was the black box, held so tenderly on Viktor's palm and caressed so softly by his fingers. When Viktor knelt down on one knee, Yuuri hid his face with his other hand. Tears flowing freely and dripping onto the ground and into Viktor's hair like the first drops of rain.

"For two years, this box has been in my room. Sitting in a corner, where I prayed every day that I would forget it was there." Viktor pried the box open with his thumb. Sitting in the middle of its velvet cushion was a silver ring, winking like a star that Viktor had plucked from the night sky.

No words, no reaction crept over Yuuri's features. His eyes, engulfed by the beauty in Viktor's hand. Yuuri's ears perked up when Viktor spoke again, a little more movement behind his words. A little waltz of a rhythm that kept Yuuri engaged, enough so where he and Viktor swayed back and forth just a bit in a stationary dance of their love.

"I, too, am afraid of losing you." If there was more to say after the statement, Viktor left it to Yuuri's imagination. For what words could he say to convey the sleepless nights that used to haunt his past before and after Yuuri left a gaping hole in Viktor's life. Filled with love and even so, spilled over with tears at the thought of an early 'goodbye'.

Yuuri adjusted his hand so that his fingers fitted well between Viktor's. "If this love hurts you, why do you still carry it?"

"Even though I'm afraid of this, of us, of what'll happen after I let go of your hand…" Viktor pressed Yuuri's hand against his cheek. His eyes closed for the longest moment before they opened again . Viktor slipped the silver ring out from the black box. "I love you."

Viktor could almost hear his younger-self, standing behind him and sighing. Whispering that Viktor should recite from the script he had written for this similar moment, two years ago. No matter how often Viktor recited from that script, but he found a better set of lines at this moment than he did before. Lines that he had been writing in his heart ever since he made the conscious-decision to tuck Yuuri's engagement ring into his suit jacket earlier that evening.

"Pain is love?" The words crept quietly from Yuuri's lips.

"Love is pain." Viktor slipped the engagement ring carefully along Yuuri's finger. "Or perhaps, loving you has given me a lot of pain because I couldn't imagine a life without you in it."

A ghost of what he wanted to say slipped from Yuuri's lips as a sigh when he lifted Viktor back onto his feet. Standing as equals along St. Petersburg's bridge, Yuuri buttoned Viktor's suit jacket so that the latter wouldn't feel cold. "Do I really mean that much to you?"

"Yuuri, I think you should give yourself more credit about this." Viktor brushed his thumb under Yuuri's lips, and the touch lifted a reddish smile over Yuuri's face. "You share my same fears, and my same love," Viktor whispered. He could've leaned in for a kiss, but Viktor met a more fulfilling touch when he cradled Yuuri's hands so lovingly to keep them warm.

They stood there on the bridge, not knowing what to say next. However, were words needed right now? When Yuuri looked into Viktor's eyes, he found the love that he had to put away. He found the love that was tucked in the very corner of his heart. Where once, Yuuri and Viktor fitted well together like a lock and key. But when Yuuri changed his lock, Viktor couldn't fit that way. Viktor had to forge whole another key to unlock Yuuri again.

Two hearts united as one when Yuuri and Viktor bridged the space between with a tender embrace. This hug, this touch, it was as if they've never done this before.

You meet me where I am.