The library was Viktor Nikiforov's pride and joy; richly stained oak bookshelves swept from richly carpeted floors to the delicately domed ceiling. The books they cradled ranged from paperbacks scavenged from library sales neatly stacked on the lower shelves to ornately bound relics, carefully sequestered behind panels of glass, but all showed evidence of loving care. Not a speck of dust rested on their pages, nor on the engraved bronze plaques labeling each shelf.
The room had no windows, a fact that greatly pleased the bookbinder who came by twice yearly to maintain the oldest and most fragile volumes.
Sunlight damages these beauties, the woman said, gently tracing the gilded cover of the volume she was inspecting. You are good to protect them like this.
Viktor had agreed with her, but he didn't explain that the room predated its treasures. He had originally chosen it as his study, a sanctuary for those days in which the idea of rest felt a bit too close to a final death, leaving him to work, blurry-eyed, until noon, imagining the rays of sunshine just a few meters away.
But that had been long ago, when he was young, and now the library belonged to the books. Today, he was merely a caretaker, a guest, permitted to luxuriate in its tranquility, free from –
"Yuri!" he moaned. A laptop was perched on the polished desk, surrounded by scattered notebooks and pens. An empty mug - no coaster - sat next to it, precariously close to the edge. Several dark spots stained the plush ivory carpet.
Yuuri Katsuki dragged himself through the airport, trying to keep track of Phichit through the dense fog of exhaustion. Unfamiliar words seeped into his mind, snippets of conversation from other travelers, colorful ads plastered against the speckled grey walls, and the carefully posted signs. He peered at one, trying to make out the smaller letters beneath, but after thirty hours of flying, layovers, taxis, and airplane coffee, he could barely process even rudimentary English. Gepäckausgabe / Luggage Claim…
"Smile!" Phichit grabbed Yuuri's shoulders and pulled him in for a selfie. The resulting photo, showcasing Phichit's cheerful grin and Yuuri's lopsided grimace, was immediately uploaded to his various accounts.
"Made it to #Berlin! Who's ready to start some research?"
"I was gonna clean it up later. Don't give yourself a heart attack, old man," growled Yuri, halfheartedly scrubbing at the bloodstained carpet.
"No, you were going to move the table on top of the stains and hope I didn't notice."
Yuri swiped his blond hair out of his eyes and huffed a curse that Viktor graciously pretended not to notice. Viktor was dismayed to note that the foam was merely spreading the pink stain across the floor. He sighed.
"It's fine, I'll call a cleaner in the morning. Just make sure you tidy up before they get here."
Yuri was halfway out the door into the hallway before Viktor finished speaking, leaving only a muffled, "What kind of idiot gets white carpet, anyway?" hanging in the air behind him.
"I wasn't planning for anyone to be eating in the library, Yurochka," he murmured, knowing that the teenager could still hear him.
A door slammed several floors above him, almost – but not quite – drowning out the mumbled, "Sorry."
"Yuuri, are you sure this is the best research strategy? We have our permits. We could just go ask the police."
Yuuri pushed his glasses back up from the tip of his nose and sighed, "No. I'm not sure, but no one will ever talk to us if we go through the police."
Phichit laughed. "You have a point. So, your contact said to try around Kreuzberg?"
They bent over the map. Notes and circles dotted the creased paper. Yuuri pointed to one location, marked with a star, and several scribbled addresses.
"Most people will probably speak at least some English, but it's probably better if you let me translate anyway. The main languages in this area are going to be German and Turkish, so if we split up, do you remember what to say?"
Yuuri was always amazed at how Phichit's cheerful, easygoing demeanor shifted seamlessly into a businesslike calm. Out of all the translators he could have worked with (not very many, to be honest), he was glad that his friend had enthusiastically agreed.
"Um. Ich spreche kein Deutsch. Mein Freund kann ubersetzten."
Phichit giggled. "Close enough. And Turkish?"
"Yuri. Yuri, wake up!" Viktor shook Yuri's shoulder. He was rewarded with nothing more than a groan. "Yuriiii."
Nothing. Viktor rolled his eyes, picking up the nearest cat, who was curled around the boy's feet. She let out a sleepy mrrrp. Viktor dropped her gently onto the unconscious boy's face, watching with satisfaction as he sputtered back to life (well, insofar as that went).
"What the hell, Viktor? It's barely sunset." Yuri buried his face in the cat's long white fur, as if to ward off the very idea of waking up.
"I have to go into town."
"Great, so go. Just text me next time," Yuri mumbled, rolling over to go back to sleep.
This wasn't going to go over well. Viktor braced himself.
"I got a call from Chris. There's a couple of people asking around about... about vampires."
In an instant, Yuri was out of bed, tensed. He snarled, "Hunters?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"I'm coming with you."
"They're going through the bars. You wouldn't be able to go in."
"I'll wait outside."
"Yura, it'll be fine. I'm just going to take a look at them."
"I'm not a child, I should come with you – "
They were almost face to face now, minus the height difference. Yuri was almost pressed against Viktor's chest, teeth bared as he took a breath, preparing to shout. Viktor cut him off.
"No. Stay here, get some sleep, and for god's sake, clean up your dishes before the carpet cleaners come tomorrow. I'll text you updates. But you're staying here, and I swear I will lock you in the cellar if you follow me."
The fight fell away from Yuri, and he dropped back onto the bed, his face buried in the cat's fur once again.
"Fine."
Viktor swept into the bar Christophe had directed him to, nestled into a quiet corner of Kreuzberg 36. It was easy to spot the newcomers, who were attempting to casually chat with the bartender.
The two men hadn't heard him come in, so he took a few moments to watch their attempts at a conversation; after a couple lines of hushed communication in English, and what Viktor guessed was a combination of Japanese and Thai, one of them would ask the bartender or another guest a careful question in barely accented German, before turning back to his companion and translating whatever grunted reply was received.
Regulars were huddled around the few tables scattered throughout the bar, whispering and shooting covert glances. One of them, a redheaded woman who looked barely older than Yuri, spotted Viktor and slipped over to him with catlike grace.
"They've been here for an hour, asking questions," she murmured in Russian.
"What do they want to know, Mila?"
She grimaced. "The usual."
The bartender had caught sight of Viktor and was making increasingly desperate gestures in his general direction, out of sight of his customers, who were now taking turns scribbling in a small notebook. The translator tapped his friend on the wrist and hopped off the stool, checking his phone as he wandered over to the restroom.
Clumsy, thought Viktor. Or a trap.
He had promised Yuri that he was only here to take a look, to judge the situation and spread word if there was any danger. Instead, he took a seat at the bar stool next to the stranger, who was peering around anxiously. Viktor touched the man's arm gently – no knives hidden in his sleeve, good.
The visitor started, nearly falling off the wobbly barstool, and Viktor caught him instinctively by the shoulder before he could hit the floor. Viktor would have sworn that his heart forgot its decades of stillness and fluttered to life when a pair of dark brown eyes met his.