In another universe, Yuuri muses, maybe they would have met in a different way. Maybe he would have been this one neighbor he'd meet for the first time at the laundromat, while trying – and failing – to convince everyone including himself that it isn't blood staining his sheets but rather spilled ketchup from last night's burger and fries. And then they would have gone for a milkshake while waiting for their clothes to dry and bonded over their love for dogs, of all things.
But of course, the universe doesn't work that way, and neither does Gotham City.
"Ready?"
Yuuri wills himself to swallow back the trembling breath seconds away from escaping his lips. Oh, how he hates the firmness of the voice talking in his ears, making the question sound like a statement rather than a question. He knows Celestino means to be reassuring, but sadly this isn't doing any wonders on him.
He takes a deep breath, keeps his eyes tightly shut for as long as it takes him to inhale and exhale. In, through the nose, lips pressed firmly and nails digging into his palms to stop the tremor threatening to take over his body. Out, air leaving his lungs and lifting a small weight from his sinking shoulders.
Yuuri's eyes had closed, the darkness seeping into his vision almost soothing as he stands still. Even the waves of sound drifting towards him, echoing inside the bar and making the ground under his feet shake cannot break his concentration. If Yuuri shuts his eyes even tighter, he can almost hear the people inside. The screams, the cheers, the applauds get louder by the minute, lost with the music. Somewhere in there, his calling awaits.
He sighs one last time, steadying himself on his heels and straightening his poise.
"Ready," he talks back into the headpiece with added confidence that doesn't taste so fake anymore. Yuuri takes a step forward headed for the entrance, then another step ahead followed with another as he gains stability and looks in front of him. The imaginary thread unfurled under his feet is almost gone now.
Time to fly, little Robin.
His hand seizes the doorknob and twists.
En scène.
The moment Yuuri enters the scene, he knows he is the center of attention. The doors part like curtains, a creak introducing him instead of the rustle of red velvet curtains against a sand-lathered ground, his heels clicking on hardwood.
The sky is the limit, and the world is your arena
There is no mistaking this familiar feeling. That of eyes following his every movement, gazes burning into his skin and tracing the contours of his body under his clothes. Stares trail down the visible flesh of his arms legs, along his back and under what little he's currently wearing. Being watched like this, out of his environment, only adds to the initial discomfort he felt due to the absence of direct contact between the floor and the soles of his feet.
Feet on the ground, feet off the ground
Heels up, tiptoe with purpose
When his feet leave the stand, he takes flight
He feels naked, and he practically is for what it's worth. Celestino had aimed high this time, going as far as getting him into a dress and heels. A strange, though effective combination he never would have thought possible, as far as the telling looks the regulars send him give away. While Yuuri's features weren't close to a woman's, the curves and gracefulness he naturally exhibited were equally as enticing. The tunic-like black dress stopped mid-tight but showed a great expanse of his toned legs, adorned with assorted black cutout heels. The front formed a deep v-shape with straps on both sides, a sharp contrast with Yuuri's pale chest. His exposed collarbone and the dress' ample long sleeves gave off a fragile air, almost as if he were a porcelain doll that would topple off and break in an instant.
It usually unnerves him, to be almost naked in front of strangers. The smooth clothing brushing against his limbs fits him like a glove, but it lacks the sleekness of his old performing costume or his suit.
Dive in, take a plunge
"This is just a routine observation mission," Yuuri tells himself, making his way to the bar while subtly trying to eye everyone in a go.
At first sight nothing and no one is out of place. Everyone fits in the decor as they should, or at least as ranks go in a dingy bar infested with Gotham's foulest beings. Most booths are occupied by men in suits and the men's laps by women lavishly dressed, decked in audacious dresses similar to his own. Few men are in their stead on other seats, but those wear suits in contrast. He immediately distrusts them as much as the others.
"Never trust a man in a crisp white shirt and suit, these only mean trouble," a voice whispers at the back of his head. Yuuri doesn't trust it's his inner voice recalling the words like a mantra. It sounds vaguely feminine and faraway. He doesn't it distract him too long.
As he walks past them on his way to the bar, eyes turn. They bore holes into his exposed back, all with different intent. He forces himself to ignore the whispers on all parties. The "have you seen him, walking that way?", "the nerve of him", "hey do you know who this is", "damn I'd like me a piece of that – "
"And what can I get you?"
In his haste to escape from the oppresive words Yuuri had barely realized that he's reached the bar. The bartender, tall and blonde with brown highlights smiles at him in a teasing yet gentle way. Like a breath of fresh air in the stifling bar.
Loose grip, tighten, and loose
Loose
Lose
Lose it
The people behind him are grinding on the dancefloor, writhing to an electro beat in accord as if they were a wave about to crash, pulsing with the music in abandon. Yuuri almost wishes to join them; he's not a big fan of dancing as such, but he's on edge enough to need release. Inside his shoes, his toes press and his feet arch in answer to the rythmn. Instead, he takes a seat on the stool and faces the bartender fully. He plasters a smile on his face as he leans over.
"Hey. I'll have a Blue Lagoon, please."
"Oh, what a polite baby," the blond man – Chris, he reads on his nametag – whistles. "So refreshing, having such a gentleman asking me for a drink for once. I don't suppose your old man would be object to sharing?"
Yuuri pouts a little, faking pensiveness. "Tempting, but I'm afraid he doesn't like to share."
Chris laughs. "Let me tell you a thing or two, sweetheart." The bartender beckons for him to come closer, as he leans over the counter himself. Yuuri poises his elbows on wood and cradles his chin on his knuckles, keeping a polite distance between himself and the man. Distance that is promptly broken, and Yuuri fails to repress the shiver running through his spine as the man closes in his personal space and whispers in his ear; a motion the other didn't lose, if his light chuckle is any indication. "If that daddy of yours really cared, he would have put a ring on it. Unless..." the blond ponders, hand propped under his chin, "unless you really are not legal."
"I've got proof if you want." The bartender raises an eyebrow, completely aware that he's got absolutely nothing on him. Yuuri doesn't carry his ID on him, but he has more than enough false ones to deal with anything the bartender could throw at him. At worse he could always talk him into turning a blind eye – he could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. Thankfully he doesn't insist.
"Anyway, he doesn't care much about rings. And neither do I, really." Yuuri's eyes fall lower as he takes a push back to look at the older man, his gaze falling distratedly on his puckered lips. When he finds enough courage to look up, Yuuri finds his own gaze reflected in the other's eyes, save for the fact that he was contemplating Yuuri's lips in turn. His pupils, Yuuri notes, are a little wider and darker than before, framed with whisky-colored irises.
The full weight of his words finally kicks in, and he has to keep himself from slapping himself. Did he just unintentionnally come onto a complete stranger?
His words and mannerism, for all it's worth, have at least affected not only himself but also the barman. He swallows lightly, Adam's apple bobbing under his throat and Yuuri follows its motion in order not to look back up. "Well then," he starts, "I should probably get started on that drink of yours."
Yuuri almost breathes out in relief when the blond turns his back to him, looking for the appropriate bottles. He seizes the opportunity to look behind him, palm crading his head and hiding his mouth from sight should he need to report to Ciao Ciao.
So far, nothing comes across as unusual. Yuuri's almost dissapointed, but at least that means he will get to go back to the Cialdini estate earlier than expected.
Yuuri doesn't realize how quickly time has passed by until Chris places the Blue Lagoon in front of him. He licks his lips as he takes in the sight of his drink, a neon blue concotion that almost glows under the lights, with a string on cherries sitting on top of the rim, stretched on a wooden stick. His mouth waters at the sight.
Yuuri reaches for his purse to fish out a bill, maybe more – the bartender's been pretty nice to him, unlike most of those he'd run in in his short life. A hand comes up to stop him, resting lightly on his wrist and he represses a shiver at the other's warmth on his skin. "On the house. For being good company."
Yuuri opens his mouth to protest, but a foreign voice interrupts him before he can speak. "No need, Chris. This one's on me."
Yuuri turns again to politely refuse, but stops dead when he realizes Victor Nikiforov is standing right in front of him.
Of course he knew about him. Of course he'd heard about him. Who hadn't?
Victor Nikiforov, Clown Prince of Gotham. Once the city's Golden Boy before he descended into madness and crime. Freak accident survivor. Part-time Arkham Asylum resident. The man with a heart smile as deadly as his poisons. The ex-magnate with a mind like a pet shop of horror. The disfigured face that would make a mother run for her life. Pale skin, clear blue eyes and silver hair that dubbed him the Phantom of Gotham in his debuts.
Victor Nikiforov, who was now offering to pay for his drink in a seedy bar.
Victor Nikiforov, who was looking at him with his trademark smile.
Looked like he'd spoken too early.
"And what's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"
Victor Nikiforov pushes a chair his way without making it screech on the plywood floor, a mere flick of the hand to make it twirl that looks all too elegant in this context. When the heels hit the floor the older man plops in the chair, without once breaking eye contact. Yuuri suddenly feels very naked on his bar stool.
Chris had made his way back behind the counter, the obedient bartender as he was while Victor had taken his place next to Yuuri. He glanced warily at the blond's retreating form, watching him wipe glasses before turning hesitantly to Victor.
Everything that falls must come down or get back up
Will you be the hand that seizes mine in the darkness?
Yuuri begrudgingly has to admit that the Russian opposite him is rather handsome. Nothing like what the dated reports and newspaper cuts he kept stated. No one had ever lived to get a clear picture of his face after the incident that completely changed his appearance, and no reporter ever stayed alive long enough to catch him offguard. He was dressed very smartly, black suit and polished leather shoes, one watch that probably cost more than Yuuri's yearly salary on his left wrist.
Yuuri started when a throat cleared. Chris' doing in spite of his work. Realizing at the same time that he was staring, Victor smiling knowingly at him and expecting an answer.
"Me?" He smiled softly as much as he could dare and looked back at his drink. "Just waiting for someone."
"Someone, huh?" Victor pretended to look for someone in the bar, taking in the dancers and other clients. Some perked up at the sight of the Clown Prince looking in their direction, if only for a second.
"No offence love," he said, turning back to him, "but I can't see anyone here looking for you. Though if I were them, I would."
Yuuri shrugged, pretending to find the nail carvings in the counter more interesting. "He's probably being caught in traffic, or catching up on work before coming."
Ridiculous, he admonished himself as he thought it back. It was close to midnight, no one in his right mind on a Friday night would stay this late to work or be late on the road. No one dared to go out at night in Gotham City.
Victor seemed to buy it though, which was good enough for him while he thought of a escape route.
Yuuri felt Victor's eyes burning as he looked him up and down, his gaze exploring the length of his body and taking in the dress and unexposed-yet-exposed parts of him.
"What's your name, honey?"
Before he can stop himself, he blurts out: "I'm Yuuri."
What an idiot. He mentally slaps himself. Yuuri could have mentally skimmed through his fake Ids, and yet here he was, practically giving away his entire name to the most dangerous criminal in Gotham. One false move and he would be fucked.
"Yuuri." Victor tested his name on his tongue, his accent rolling on the letters in a way that makes Yuuri shudder. "I know a Yuri, but he's not like you."
"How so?" Yuuri asked, just to keep the conversation light and going. His odds of getting out of here alive were getting more uncertain by the minute and if he could access exactly what it was Victor Nikiforov himself wanted from him, the better it was for him.
"He's not a pretty little thing. Little, for sure, but it's not the same. He's not like you."
"I'm not little." Yuuri remarks indignantly, then snaps his mouth shut, feeling heat creep up to his cheeks. He mentally slaps himself. Again. Shit shit shit shit did he just talk back to the most feared man in the whole of Gotham freaking City what the heck –
Victor's booming laugh keeps him from entering a panic attack. What starts as a chuckle erupts from him in loud gushes, verging on hysterical. His cheeks and neck are getting red under the blinding white complexion, Yuuri notes. No one can fake his way into laughter to that extent. He can't help but admire the way the man expresses himself. Skin of his throat taunt and smooth-looking, the buttons of his shirt barely restraining the body underneath, almost on the verge of giving out. His elegant form crosslegged on the seat, all too elegant for the place yet belonging.
It's the suit, Yuuri muses absently. It's always the suit.
"Oh! You've got some fire in you, I like that! Ah." He exhales when he's done, signalling at Chris that he wants a drink. The usual, Yuuri guesses as Chris doesn't bother asking.
"Hey, out of curiosity have we ever met?" Victor gazes at him curiously. "Though I don't think I have, I don't think I could ever forget a face like yours."
Yuuri's blood runs a little cold at his words. If he only knew that Yuuri was actually Yuuri Katsuki, aspiring Assistant District Attorney and part-time masked man, he'd be a dead man.
Thankfully, Victor doesn't give him respite before he launches into another question.
"Hey Yuuri," he leans into his seat, so close he's now inches away from Yuuri's face, hot breath fanning against Yuuri's lips. "Do you know how I got like that?"
Yuuri isn't stupid or suicidal enough to ask what he means by "that". Victor has the strangest face there is to see in an American bar, even though he fits right in. The glowing lights above them hide most of the damage the acid had done to him. The neon colors made him appear a little tanned. A little more human.
He shakes his head, and Victor smiles teasingly. "Come on, surely you must have an idea!"
"Shoot then." Yuuri teased back. "Give me your worst theory."
Victor's answering smile, a little too sweet to Yuuri's liking, looked very much sincere. And quite childish if you asked him.
"Victor! Hey man, how are you?"
Yuuri notices the corners of Victor's mouth lifitng in a strained, unamused smile as he turns towards the voice interrupting their moment. Yuuri recognizes him instantly, as does everyone else. Jean-Jacques Leroy, better known to the little people as JJ, heir of the Leroy Corporation, Canadian mafia leader on the side and part-time boxer. Parading like the prince he thought he was, with his fiancée Isabella Yang hanging on his arm in a skimpy dress out to rival Yuuri's own. Both looking smug like the cat that got the cream.
"JJ," Victor says with repressed bite. "Good to see you."
"As you! Always nice to see my favorite business partner."
"Ugh. No need to sweet talk me, Leroy. Worktime was over hours ago."
It doesn't look as if JJ sees any different in Victor's greeting though, as he pats him on the shoulder. Yuuri's gaze zones in on said shoulder, as the rest of the bar probably did. The atmosphere feels a lot quieter suddenly, tenser. The insistent buzzing in his head, his sole forewarning of upcoming danger, is the only sound brekaing the silence infiltrating his mind.
Yuuri has to keep in the snort building at the back of his throat, resulting in him clearing his throat as subtly as he can. Which is, not.
That's all it takes for JJ to finally acknowledge his presence. His eyes turn in Yuuri's direction, and stay on him. He's looking at him with piqued interest, while his fiancée is glaring at him like he's the whore next door just for having captured JJ's attention. Either way, he's now trapped.
"Well well," he muses, tasting the words in his mouth, "who's your bitch, Nikiforov?"
Yuuri swallows, but hides the motion by plastering a smile on his lips and leaning back, hand under his chin and batting his eyelashes at the new arrival, in a coquettish way. Playing by his rules is his only way to escape should it all go to shit.
Victor, on the other hand, doesn't seem all too compliant. If the way he frowned now was a giveaway, Yuuri felt as if the slur directed at him had triggered Victor instead.
"I don't suppose you were waiting for him, were you Yuuri?" The disdain was more than obvious in his voice, making Yuuri shiver as he guessed what would be coming next. Muted by the growing tension, he found himself only capable of shaking his head.
"Good, good," Victor muttered. "Then you won't mind if I do this."
"Do what – " JJ started, but never finished. Before anyone know, Victor had a gun in hand and the barrel directed at JJ's head.
Yuuri watches, transfixed as a pool of blood gathers under JJ's head, his lifeless eyes staring back at him as his head rolls to the side. Isabella's screams echo in the distance as she is escorted outside, her voice already shut out by the resonating sound of the gunshot, numbed by the alcohol-imbued haze his mind is floating in, and Victor's voice lulling him back to reality.
"Now then," Victor sighs, then flashes a smile at Yuuri when he turns back to look him in the eye. "Where was I last, again? Oh this is gonna get long..." he moans, one finger pressed to his lips in a contemplative manner.
Yuuri eyes Victor's henchmen as they gather to remove the body from the scene, leaving a trail of blood behind them. He feels a little sorry for whoever will have to clean up the mess.
He takes one last swig of his drink, fingers still clutching the glass tightly as he sets it back on the counter and directs it Chris' way, two fingers against the rim in a silent request for a refill Chris is quick to answer to. "That's fine. I've got all night."
Somewhere on the other side of Gotham City, where no one respectable or sane would ever be caught dead or alive, Celestino Cialdini hangs up from his phone call with a torn expression on his face. Yuuri had assured him that everything was going fine during clearing, but something felt off. Maybe it was Yuuri's slightly trembling assurance, or his own natural paranoia. He couldn't decide.
Right now, he had other things on his plate to worry about.
He schooled his face into a serene expression when the last doorknob gave way, opening into a glass cage where a lone figure stood, his back to Celestino.
Celestino smiles, lips twisted with a cold edge.
"Hello, Eros."