How much I desire!
Inside my little satchel,
the moon, and flowers

~Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)


Smoke wafted into his face, and he waved it away with flicks of his wrist.

"Sorry," Yuuko said, holding the pipe in one hand, shoving the envelope into her yukata sleeve[1] with the other. There were bruises on her neck and collarbones – marks of possession. "Normally I don't, you know, but my client last night—"

"I know," Yuuri said quietly.

"Right," said Yuuko. She stuck the pipe in her mouth and inhaled, long and deep, her expression loosening. Growing more serene. "Right."

Yuuko had changed.

Ever since she learned about Takeshi's fate, she became different person. As though she had cried and cried, and everything that made her Yuuko had flowed away with her tears. As though someone had swapped her out for a doppelganger with an entirely different personality. Honestly, Yuuri wished someone had; any fate was better than their miserable existence in Yoshiwara. Alive but barely living.

She was still sweet, of course. Sweet and kind. That much remained, too ingrained within her soul to be scratched out by the dark claws of the teahouse. But the positive and bubbly attitude, the pure zest for life – all of that had disappeared. Evaporated along with her dreams, her heart, her innocence.

Yuuko, standing outside her teahouse with her tousled hair, hastily worn yukata, and a bright red pipe in one hand, was but a shell of her former self.

Yuuri fought desperately to save what was left of it.

He paid her a visit sometimes, on the rare nights he had no clients. He's not quite sure why; his heart curdled every time he did, watching her through the red bars of her opulent cage, watching her stare holes into the ground, determined to ignore the whistles and catcalls and lewd proposals[2]. Her outright rejection was seen by the men as a challenge: a wall to climb, topple, and conquer. While Yuuri had his fair share of rough clients, Yuuko attracted the kind who felt they had something to prove, who thought they owned the world and the world owed them.

Worse, she never rose to a high rank because of her refusal to entertain. Unlike Yuuri, she never gained the power of choice.

"Tell me about the silver-haired fox," Yuuko said suddenly.

Yuuri blinked, startled. "Who?"

"The foreigner who called out to you just after we parted that one time." Yuuko drew in another breath of smoke, lips curling at the corners. "He was very handsome, from what I can recall."

Yuuri's bottom lip sank between his teeth. "He's…"—compassionate, and generous, and loving; the very man who will bring me to ruin— "Just a client."

"Really." There's a hint of the old Yuuko in the way her eyebrows quirked, the way she glowed like the last vestiges of a sunset. "Just a client, huh?"

"Just a client," Yuuri said firmly, eyes dropping to the pink petals on the hard, dirt road, scattered dry and wilted across the ground.

"What's 'just a client''s name?"

"Viktor." Yuuri shuffled his feet, crumpling petals beneath his geta. "He's from Saint Petersburg. Russia, he said. They have pretty sunsets."

"Hasetsu has pretty sunsets," said Yuuko.

"Yes," said Yuuri. "Yes." He inhaled, then blurted, "He gave me red camellias."

A pause, long and pensive and drawn out.

"Oh Yuuri," Yuuko murmured then. Her voice was filled with such emotion that Yuuri's gaze lifted, only to meet warm eyes that had turned soft and luminous. Just as they always did on the anniversary of Takeshi's passing. "You—"

"Kiyora! Kiyora, where are you?"

Yuuko let slip a particularly unfeminine word, before she pulled Yuuri into a hug and whipped around the corner, back to the entrance of her teahouse.

The smell of tobacco and body wash lingered in the air.

After a moment, Yuuri left. Listened to the clack, clack, clack of his geta against the dirt as he walked. Maybe if he focused, really focused, his mind would stop wondering just what exactly his most cherished person had to say about Viktor. A person who had lost her love and her life.

She wouldn't disapprove. Yuuko never disapproved.

But she would be sad.

And frankly, Yuuri would much prefer disapproval.

Around him, petals swirled in the breeze, flying, falling.


Viktor sneezed.

"Someone's talking about you," Christophe remarked idly, head bowed over his manuscripts.

"Oh?" Viktor said, bemused. He turned back to the mirror and straightened his cuffs for the third time. "Something good, I hope."

"Merely a superstition[3] in these parts." In the mirror, Christophe's reflection lifted his gaze, lips quirking at the corner. "Perhaps Aoyagi's commenting on your vanity."

"It has been a while," Viktor protested. He swiped a hand through his hair. Navy blue tie, grey buttoned-down vest, dark pants, and a full-length coat. The vest served to outline his slim figure, his waist, while the coat called attention to his long, long legs. (It was Yakov's most hated outfit – "Hardly practical," the old man groused – and therefore Viktor's absolute favorite.) "I only wish to look my best for him."

Christophe exhaled, a sharp rush of air.

"I can hear your thoughts from here," Viktor said.

"Then there's no need for me to say them out loud," Christophe said.

"What will it take to convince you that I love him?"

Christophe snorted. "I have no doubt that you love him, my friend. Why do you think I nag you so?"

Viktor's eyes softened; Christophe was a good friend. And a horrid worrywart. "You haven't seen him, Chris. What he's like behind the veil of the enchanter, the siren. He's bright and beautiful and… and human. Full of love and sorrow, so much sorrow, buried under layers and layers of glimmering decadence. He's worth everything. He deserves everything."

"Poetic," Christophe said. "You do know what they say about poets?"

"They're as nosy as writers?" Viktor swept past the writing desk, gathering a handful of gold coins and swatting Christophe along the way.

"Tortured souls that live in a world of their own creation," Christophe called as Viktor left, laughing.


Light breeze from the open window. A soft, lingering fragrance of perfume and incense. Shadows strewn against painted walls, flickering in the light of the candle.

Viktor missed this. So, so much.

He finally had Aoyagi in his arms again, the warm expanse of Aoyagi's body pressed against his, the enticing herbal scent of Aoyagi's hair tickling his nose. He inhaled, deep and longing, burning Aoyagi's essence into his senses, his memory.

On the chest of drawers stood the fresh batch of camellias, replaced by Aoyagi's little assistant, Yoshino, as soon as Aoyagi received them. The old batch looked fairly alive, but Aoyagi was insistent that they had lost their color. He had whispered hasty instructions to Yoshino, who looked strangely bemused about the whole affair.

"You said you had something to ask me," Aoyagi said, resting a hand on Viktor's thigh. Warm and so distracting.

Viktor sighed. "A little longer," he murmured, tightening his grip round the lean shoulders, pressing Aoyagi closer. The robes were red tonight, red as Aoyagi's lips, red as the camellias, clouds and cranes drifting, spinning, and curling round the fabric in a dizzying white pattern. "Let's stay like this a little longer."

Aoyagi's laugh rolled out, a gentle musical. "We have all night."

"One night is never enough," Viktor told him.

Aoyagi squeezed Viktor's thigh in acknowledgement, the silence rising between them, soft and comfortable. Warm around the edges. It reminded Viktor of his childhood – of the times he played quietly by his mother's side while she did her embroidery, the times he read his storybooks while his father browsed the papers.

It reminded Viktor of home.

Even though home had taken on a vastly different vibe for him now, courtesy of a certain grumpy war veteran.

"I have to thank my superior," Viktor mused aloud. "He made our reunion possible, sending my wages to me."

"He must be a nice man," Aoyagi said, lashes dipping.

"He is. Grouchy, but loving in his own way." Viktor smiled into silky, ebony strands. "I can't wait to introduce you to him."

Aoyagi hummed. "I would like that."

"Would you?" Viktor murmured, heart soaring. Uncanny how a statement so simple could bring him so much joy. "I'm sure they will take to you as quickly as I have. My superior, my cousin, my parents…"

"Your parents?" Aoyagi said softly.

"Oh, yes. I visit them every year at our family plot."

After a moment, Aoyagi shifted. Reached up to rest a hand on the curve of Viktor's cheek; press their lips together in a quick, chaste kiss. Viktor gazed into brown eyes, warm as honey, the hand on his cheek tender and comforting.

Ah, if Christophe could see Aoyagi now. The softness, the affection, the vulnerability in those depths – the person beneath the edged mask. This kiss spoke of something different too, far different from their past kisses. It wasn't a slow, simmering burn like the embers of a fireplace, nor was it filled with the desperation of an unfulfilled hunger. It was just. Sweet. Doting, almost.

Aoyagi was changing.

No, it wasn't accurate to say he was changing. He was revealing more of his true self, his otherwise flawless, imperceptible gaze now full of something that looked like happiness. A look that Viktor had coaxed out. A look that Viktor had put on his face.

Without thinking, without pause, Viktor leaned down to touch the edge of that happiness, slide his mouth over Aoyagi's. Feel the catch of Aoyagi's breath on his upper lip, the way Aoyagi's fingers curl into his vest.

Just one kiss, thought Viktor, brushing his tongue against Aoyagi's, inviting him in. He vowed not to have sex with Aoyagi again until he had earned his trust, but one kiss never harmed anyone.

"Viktor," Aoyagi sighed, and something warm settled into Viktor's bones.

He loved how Aoyagi felt against him, how Aoyagi fit just so in his arms. How Aoyagi sank into their kiss, like the many boats docking into Saint Petersburg at dusk, finding their way to safety. To home.

His hands drifted down, gripping, tugging Aoyagi closer—

Aoyagi hissed, a quiet noise that clutched like an icy hand round Viktor's heart.

A noise of pain.

Instantly, he pulled away. "Did I hurt you? Where did I—"

"I am fine," Aoyagi said hastily. He framed Viktor's face with his hands, drawing him down for another kiss.

"Wait," said Viktor, catching Aoyagi's wrists. Thin and ever so delicate. "Wait, you're hurt." And then he saw a flicker of expression on Aoyagi's pristine features, mere seconds before the iron mask slid back into place. "Aoyagi…"

"It is nothing," Aoyagi said. "I just…" Lashes ghosted against pink cheeks, dark and hesitant. "I fell."

"You fell," Viktor repeated, incredulous.

"Yes. Yes." Aoyagi breathed and looked away, ornaments dangling, shadows crawling across his face. "I was careless and fell down the stairs."

"And this…" Viktor pressed his fingers lightly against Aoyagi's hips, withdrawing as soon as the same noise escaped through Aoyagi's teeth. "This is the only spot you injured?"

A pause. Then a nod.

Even in the flickering light, it was plain as day that Aoyagi was lying.

But why?

"May I?" Viktor asked, resting a hand on the pillowed sash, black as charcoal.

Aoyagi considered the request, his eyes turning bright and liquid in the candlelight. Then, regally, chin lifted high, he gave another nod.

Viktor unraveled the sash. One after another, the robes slid off, smooth and satin-slick, pooling round the slender waist. Aoyagi didn't move. Allowed Viktor to undress him like a doll, and Viktor knew, with a twinge in his chest, that this was how others saw him. Nothing but a beautiful life-sized marionette, a living, breathing toy for their twisted pleasures.

When he peeled off the last gauzy layer, he saw it then.

Bruises on the jut of Aoyagi's hip, stark against fair skin and spaced evenly apart. Like the fingerprints of large, human hands. Hands that touched and tainted and marred the most beautiful being, undeserving of such cruelty.

Deep in Viktor, red-hot anger twisted, swirled. Scorched his insides and pounded in his ears, blocking out all sound and sanity.

One single thought blazed through Viktor's mind, dark and feverish:

I'll kill him.

When Viktor spoke, he could barely hear his own voice. "Who did this to you."

"Please," Aoyagi murmured. The falter in his breath heightened Viktor's fury. Scared; his strong, brave Aoyagi was scared. "It's not, it's not what you think—"

"I know those marks," Viktor cut in. "I've seen them. Felt them. I bore the same markings when I was in the throes of lust with a stranger on the frontlines, desperate for the touch of another human being. We wanted, needed to feel alive, so it was frantic. It was violent." He bit out his last words, sharp as a viper's sting. "Who did this to you."

Aoyagi flinched, the barest of movements. "Please," he said again, head bowing, hands clutching his robes to his chest, as though he was suddenly embarrassed to be exposed. Ashamed. "Don't make me say it." Gone was the unwavering composure, replaced by frightened uncertainty. A wounded bird trembling in the corner of its cage. "Please."

Right there, Viktor's anger left him, deflating and crumbling like a crushed lantern on the street. What was he thinking, taking his rage out on Aoyagi? Scaring his love into giving him an answer like some schoolyard bully. That didn't make him any different from the nameless bastard who had laid rough hands on Aoyagi.

"Aoyagi," Viktor said, reaching for him. The courtesan came, willingly, pushing his face into Viktor's neck, hands smoothing up Viktor's back. His body shuddering with shaky breaths.

Viktor's chest ached.

"I'm sorry, solnyshko," he whispered. He tugged the silk fabric over Aoyagi's bare shoulders. Circled his arms round Aoyagi and pressed a kiss on his neck. "I shouldn't push you into saying something you don't want to. I'm sorry."

Aoyagi's only response was to grip at Viktor, fingers digging into the material of his vest.

It had to be a client. Some vicious brute of a client who had no interest in Aoyagi's true worth. No interest in Aoyagi, period, beyond the allure of his beauty, his body. Even with the power of choice in Aoyagi's favor, there were always wolves in sheep's clothing.

Viktor's jaw clenched, teeth grinding down hard.

He had to get Aoyagi out. Steal him away and bring him home. Now, more than ever.

"How much would it take to return you your freedom?"

In his arms, Aoyagi stiffened.


A nightmare. This had to be a nightmare.

It took the same form every time: anger then empty promises then the slow but absolute abandonment. They all ended in despair. Always. With Yuuri bolting off his mattress, sheets soaked with tears and sweat.

But he wasn't waking up this time.

Viktor's unbridled fury had frightened him. Fueled his guilt and shame. It was nothing like the owner's anger, all noise and fireworks, a big production that showcased her temper to the world. Viktor's anger was quiet, cold. A slow-burning fire so hot and seething that the red-orange flames turned a frosty blue.

If Viktor knew who gave him those bruises, if Viktor ever found out the truth, would he still pay for Yuuri's freedom? Would he still call him his 'little sun', his darling, his lucky charm? Would he still look at Yuuri as though he mattered, as though he was more than the price another man was willing to pay?

No, no, Viktor would not.

And Yuuri would fall, spiral into the gaping maw that was Yoshiwara. Just like Takeshi. Like the many others who fell before him.

In his nightmares, Yuuri always relented. Gave his soul to Viktor, only to have it dashed, splintering and scattering across the hard ground.

This time, Yuuri settled for honesty.

"You cannot afford my freedom[4]," he told Viktor quietly.

"I have savings in Russia," Viktor said. His expression was grave, but his eyes were warm and blue. Blue as the oceans of Hasetsu. "I can have it sent over. All of it."

Oh, it couldn't be true. Viktor had to be lying.

Lower ranked samurai earned a mere pittance, playing bodyguard to the merchants and noblemen who had usurped their place on the upper echelons of society. Surely the wages of a former soldier didn't amount to much either, even in Russia.

Only a fool would waste his hard-earned money on a worthless courtesan.

Yuuri knew Viktor had to be lying.

Then why – why was Yuuri's heart hammering in his chest? Responding to the thrill of hope and relief, like some part of him wanted desperately to believe.

"Don't," he blurted before he could stop his treacherous mouth. "Don't make promises you cannot keep, don't—"

"Give you hope?" Viktor finished softly.

Yuuri's breath caught, his pulse fluttering.

"Aoyagi," Viktor murmured. He traced his knuckles along the line of Yuuri's jaw, pausing to grasp his chin between a thumb and forefinger. "Have I given you any reason to doubt my intentions? My promises?" Leaned in, pressing kisses to his forehead, nose, the curve of both cheeks. "My affection for you?"

Yuuri swallowed. Against all odds, Viktor kept coming back. When Yuuri spoke of sunsets, Viktor brought him a sunset. When Yuuri asked him to write, Viktor wrote, pages and pages of gushing, romantic text. When Yuuri lied about the red camellias, Viktor delivered, returning with a bigger, fresher bouquet.

"No," Yuuri whispered.

"Then tell me," Viktor said. Pulled back, silver and smiling, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose like distant constellations. "Tell me how much you need. Give me a chance to prove myself to you."

Yuuri's eyes dropped to the mats. It was hard to think, looking into that earnest expression. "It is… not that simple…"

"Because you're waiting for your lover's freedom?"

Yuuri blinked, emotions ceasing mid-spiral in confusion. "Lover…?"

Viktor cleared his throat. "The woman from the teahouse with an engraving of the moon."

Oh.

"Her name is Kiyora." Yuuri shook his head, ornaments clinking against each other with the motion. "She is important to me, but she is not my lover."

"I see. She's not your lover." There was a lightness to Viktor's voice then, almost as though some kind of burden had been lifted. "Regardless, does your hesitation involve her?"

The ornaments swung once more. "I want her to be free, but this is not about her. I… I only think that..." —I'm a liar and a coward and you will soon learn that I've never deserved you— "...you don't know me. You don't know the things I have done. And I – I think that if you did—"

"Oh, solnyshko." Viktor squeezed his shoulder, drew him in close. "I know you have a beautiful soul that's trapped and afraid and wishing to be let out. I know you yearn for anything that reminds you of home, like sunsets, family, and warmth. I know you're a wonderful dancer that touches the humanity of even the Gods themselves." Lips caressed his forehead, so soft and full of love that Yuuri's heart fell to his knees.

"I know enough to want nothing more than to dance the waltz with you on the docks of Saints Petersburg."

Yuuri was just beginning to adapt to the fantasy of Viktor's love; that much was possible in the teahouse, a place of illusion and deceit. But the promise of love beyond En – that was real. Far too real. As real as his nightmares, filled with bleak, desolate emptiness.

The higher the flight, the harder the fall.

Yuuri's fingers sank into the fibers of Viktor's clothes. The material was thick and unfamiliar, but he liked how it felt on the pads of his fingertips. How it fit the span of Viktor's chest just so. How it was soft and warm and comforting, just like Viktor.

I've never deserved you.

Something inside him snapped, and he was eight again, alone and wishing for his mother's sauce-stained apron. Sensations flooded through him, sensations he had long forgotten. Sensations that drove the shudder in his chest, the heave of his shoulders. The tears, hot and unrestrained, pouring down his cheeks in fat, pink gobs, a messy cocktail of salt and eye powder.

Minori would have disapproved. Chuckled even, bemused by how far Yuuri had fallen, how ugly he must look. How he had thrown cold, unfeeling Mikawa to the wayside and turned so, so weak.

"Oh. Oh, my darling." Viktor's arms tightened around his shoulders, pressing him further into the thick fabric. Yuuri clung to Viktor, shaking, hiccuping through his sobs. "Aoyagi, what's wrong?"

Aoyagi.

Aoyagi.

Of course. Viktor had never known him beneath the illusion that was Aoyagi. None of this was real. None of it.

"How can you say you know me," Yuuri gasped, "When you don't even know my name?"


Viktor did not sleep that night.

He held Aoyagi until the courtesan cried himself to sleep in his arms. Tucked Aoyagi under the covers, then stared at the ceiling, counting the number of painted clouds across the tiles.

This wasn't how he had envisioned the night.

Tears of joy, perhaps. Excitement and adoration and maybe lots of cuddling.

Aoyagi was right; Viktor didn't know him. Secrets, the man had so many secrets. Viktor thought he had seen past the veil, but he hadn't realized just how deeply Aoyagi's core was hidden. That he had barely scratched the surface of the many, many layers that was Aoyagi.

Ah, but Aoyagi wasn't his real name.

The courtesan was quiet when they parted at dawn. His gaze stayed low, hands clasped together so tight his knuckles turned white. At the entrance, he all but fled, slipping through the front doors before Viktor could say a word.

And then came the rain. A perfect ending to a disastrous night – as though the Gods could sense his turmoil.

"You look like hell," Christophe observed helpfully from the kitchen.

Viktor squinted blood-shot eyes past a curtain of silver, plastered wet and disheveled to his forehead. He was hyperaware of dripping on Christophe's expensive handwoven carpet, of his best suit sticking to chilled skin. Of his heart falling, falling, falling through the floor.

"He has a name," he said. "A whole other name I don't know of."

Christophe paused in the middle of buttering his imported bread[5]. Then, "You haven't learned much about Yoshiwara, have you?"

"All I care about is Aoyagi." Viktor shuffled into the living room and dropped onto the couch, his clothes making a sad squelch against the leather. "Or whatever his name is."

If Christophe had any qualms about Viktor drenching his furniture, he chose to bite his tongue. "I take it your offer to buy him out didn't go well?"

Viktor kneaded his temples, exhaling sharply. "He refused. Said I didn't know him, that I didn't know his name—"

"Whoa, wait, hold on," Christophe interjected. He lifted the butter knife and jabbed the blade toward Viktor. "Aoyagi wouldn't let you do it?"

"Yes," Viktor said. "I just don't know what more I can do to convince him of my intentions."

Christophe let out a contemplative hum. "I wonder... if you might be looking at this all wrong. Whether we have been looking at this wrong," he added under his breath.

Viktor's eyebrows shot into his bangs. "How so?"

"Consider this." Christophe sauntered in, a plate of breakfast in one hand, tightening the sash to his purple robes with the other. He sank gingerly onto the couch and crossed his legs, robe falling open at a lewd angle. "You've spent your entire childhood, your entire life, in a prison masquerading as a place of luxury and opulence. After years of giving your body and soul to the teahouse, a client comes in, shows you love, and offers to get you out. Permanently. Even if you had reason not to trust him, would you ever say no to a chance of freedom?"

"No," Viktor said. "No, I'd leap at the chance."

"Right." Christophe took a bite of bread. "Then why would Aoyagi deny himself this chance?"

Viktor shrugged miserably, raking a hand through his wet strands. "He's worried I won't follow through. That I'm just… saying words. Giving him false hope."

"All right, sure." Christophe shook the bread slice at Viktor. "But I'd bet my writings he's had plenty of clients tell him things they didn't mean. What makes you so different?"

"I mean them. My words. I mean every one of them." Viktor slid down the couch, shoulders crumpling together. "But I don't know if Aoyagi knows that."

"Okay. Here's my next question: why would Aoyagi care how much you know about him? Most courtesans forge an entirely new identity; they do it to forget their old life, to survive. Why couldn't he accept your offer based on his new identity?"

"I don't know, Chris. I don't—"

"Think, Viktor. For once, really think about Aoyagi and his reactions to you."

Viktor frowned. "I haven't thought of anything else since I met him."

A huff of a laugh. "Yakov would love to hear that. I mean to think with your head, friend, not your lovesick heart. Really process what he has been saying to you."

"Fine," Viktor sighed as Christophe watched him expectantly, perfect white teeth sinking into the bread slice, crumbs scattering. Closing his eyes, he reached for the events of last night. Aoyagi's face, Aoyagi's words. Gathering, piece by piece.

You don't know me.

You don't know the things I have done.

"Any thoughts?" Christophe's voice floated in. "Why does Aoyagi care how much you know about him?"

Don't make promises you cannot keep.

"Well, because…" The inkling of some idea began to take shape, blurry and vague. Viktor straightened with a squelch. "Because…"

I think if you did—

The idea sharpened. Flushed out the memory of a naked figure clutching at his robes. Trembling, shaking. Eyes shining bright and golden-brown in the candlelight.

Please. Don't make me say it. Please.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Viktor felt something loosen, thawing like the earth in spring.

"… because he wants me to know the real him. Except he's frightened. He's frightened that he's done something shameful – oh, Chris!" Viktor threw his arms in the air. "You're brilliant! Why didn't I see it before? It's not about trust. It's not about my intentions. He thinks he's not good enough because some brute left his mark on him. He thinks my feelings will change if I knew – oh, I have to go. I have to – thank you, Chris!" He grabbed Christophe's face and planted a kiss on his forehead, dripping rain water on Christophe's bare thighs. "Thank you!"

"Anytime," Christophe chuckled as Viktor bolted straight back into the pouring rain.

Straight back to where he left the other half of his soul.


"You're distracted today," Yuuko noted.

Yuuri glanced over. He liked the spring rains. The cool breeze against his skin, the fresh, earthy scents, the quiet pitter-patter on their umbrellas. It grounded him, took him away from his thoughts. Of tender kisses, chuckles that made his heart buoyant, smatterings of stars across ivory skin, sweet words that lifted and crushed his spirits all at once.

"Sorry," Yuuri said, stretching out a smile and pulling an envelope from his sleeve. "I've gained a few more clients, so…"

Yuuko breathed. "Yuuri. You have your own debt."

"I'm fine." Yuuri pressed the envelope into her hand. "You need this more than I do."

"But you're close." Yuuko grasped his hand tightly. "Closer than I ever would be."

Rain splashed up against his geta, caught the edges of his yukata. He wiggled his toes, letting the scratch of wet wood ground him further. Chase away stormy visions of the night before. "Not as close as you think."

Yuuko stepped closer and tilted her umbrella over his, a secret between them. "What happened?"

"I…" Yuuri swallowed around the stone in his throat. It was times like these that the old Yuuko shone through the dull new coat of lost innocence and bitterness. (Oh, how he missed her.) "I think I might have had a chance at – happiness? At a future? But I, I got scared, so scared, that it would crumble the minute I touched it, even just the fringes of it, a-and I just… I ruined it, Yuuko. I ruined everything."

There was a pause, before Yuuko exhaled slowly, quietly. "Wow. I haven't seen you this emotional in a while. Not since…" She stopped, unable to finish. Over a decade, and Yuuko still couldn't speak about Takeshi's incident. Couldn't even mention his name. "Is this about the silver fox?" she said instead.

"Viktor," Yuuri said.

"Right, Viktor." She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "You love him, don't you?"

"I don't know," he murmured. "Honestly, I'm afraid to."

"Oh." Yuuko pulled back, eyes softening. "That's a yes."

"Yuuko—"

"Don't 'Yuuko' me." Her voice took on a stern tone, and she gave him her best glare, narrowing her eyes and wrinkling her small button nose. "And don't start with your silly 'Yoshiwara has no space for love' nonsense."

Yuuri opened his mouth, only to close it when Yuuko reared to her full height.

"No, listen. It's about time you allowed love into your heart again. Don't get me wrong; I think Yoshiwara is a cesspool that collects the scum of our country. On my worst days, I want to just light a match and set the whole damn shithole ablaze, with me inside it. But on my best, I remember. My love for… for him. For you." Yuuko's chest rose in a deep inhale, face smoothening out, eyes closing.

"It's this love that's keeping me alive."

Yuuri drew in a wavering breath. Of all people, he hadn't expected Yuuko to still believe in love. Yuuko, who lost the love of her life, who faced the filthiest, ugliest side of humanity night after night after night. Who sometimes held the same faraway look in her eyes as Takeshi did in the kitchens those many years ago. "I… never thought about it that way."

"We both found our own methods of survival," Yuuko said. "But maybe it's time you stopped thinking with this—" she tapped a manicured nail on his temple, then slid down to prod at his chest, "—and started thinking with this."

Yuuri started, "But if I—"

"Uh-uh," Yuuko said firmly. "No more thinking." She tilted her umbrella back, turned her gaze to the gloomy sky. Revealed a jawline that would have made ukiyo-e artists gasp and reach for their brushes. She could have made oiran if she tried. "I have to leave, but I'm not going until you'll at least consider what I've said."

"All right," Yuuri relented. He didn't want her to get into trouble. "I will consider it."

"Good." She gave him a peck on the cheek, soft and light. "Thank you again for the money."

Yuuri watched her leave, umbrella bobbing ever so slightly above her coiffed hair.

Perhaps Yuuko hadn't changed all that much, after all.

Yuuri turned and began walking, listening to the sound of rain against his umbrella top.

Using love to thrive. It went against everything Minori had taught him, and it was Minori's lessons that had gotten him this far. But Yuuko might be right. No wishes, no dreams; shut down all emotions and all sense of hope. Those same words of wisdom were tormenting him now. Driving him mad over—

"Aoyagi!"

Yuuri spun round, seconds before a warm mouth crashed over his, arms flying round his shoulders, pulling him flush against a firm chest. The scent of pine enveloped him, and his hands fisted instinctively into the thick fabric. Foreign but familiar. Safe.

Only one man could make him feel that way.

"Solnyshko," Viktor breathed, and Yuuri shivered. He realized then that his umbrella had fallen. He realized then that he didn't care.

"Viktor," he said. "What are you...?"

"I don't care what you've done or who you've done," Viktor murmured.

Yuuri stared, chest constricting. "Oh no, no, you don't—"

"Shhh, let me finish," Viktor said, pulling away to look down at him. Luminescent, rain catching in long, silver eyelashes. "The first night I met you, I knew there was something about you. The quiet sadness beneath your veneer, the gentleness behind the razor edge. And then we met again. And again. And with each meeting, I learned more about you, bit by bit. With each meeting, I became more and more convinced: you deserve more than this life. You deserve so much more."

"Viktor," Yuuri said, his voice hushed, unsure of what else to say.

"You're right that I don't know you," Viktor continued softly. "But that doesn't matter to me. Because we'll have time for that when you're free. Because you're worth so much more than the price I am willing to pay. Because nothing you've done, nothing, will ever change the way I feel about you."

Yuuri's heart tripped, and he was falling then, falling—had been falling—into Viktor's open arms and Viktor's open heart—

"I want to dance with you," he said, trembling, words rolling out of him like the rain on his cheeks. He wasn't thinking anymore. Wasn't questioning. Too struck by how beautiful, how perfect Viktor was. "I want to see the sunset with you, I want to meet your parents, I want you to meet myfamily, I want to show you my home in the South. I want – I want—"

Mid-sentence, Viktor's hands were on his cheeks, pulling him in, and they were kissing again. Yuuri slid his hands into Viktor's hair, Viktor's words folded tenderly, lovingly into their kisses: anything for you; my world, my sun, my everything.

This was real, thought Yuuri, light as air, with Viktor's hands smoothing up and down his back. Viktor's hot mouth on his jaw, neck, and straight back to his lips. This was no illusion. Viktor was a gift, a miracle. Viktor was his.

To hell with Yoshiwara. To hell with En, the owner, the people walking by with looks of judgment on their faces. He believed in Viktor, in Viktor's love, in hislove for Viktor, and he would gladly burn with the rest of the world when fate finally dealt him a losing hand.

"Yuuri," he said.

Viktor stopped his kisses just long enough to blink at him.

"My real name," Yuuri said, eyelids dipping, feeling oddly shy. "Yuuri Katsuki."

Viktor's face twitched once, twice. And then it shone, full of light and exhilaration and unadulterated joy.

"Yuuri," Viktor said, the first syllable drawn out to linger sweetly between them. He held out a palm, open and inviting, and Yuuri's heart felt too big in his chest.

"Will you do me the honor of a dance?"


The scene was talked about for days: a young man with his arms around a foreigner, laughing and swaying in the rain, a pair of mad, wayward fools.


Notes

Mankai: 満開, literally, all flowers have bloomed, but in actuality: 80 percent of flowers have bloomed.

General notes: Happy thanksgiving, y'all! \o/ This chapter is in dedication to all our loved ones who support us in our time of need.

[1] In lieu of pockets, Japanese store small items in their yukata/kimono sleeves. This practice carries on in the present day.

[2] Twice a day- once in the afternoon and once in the evening -female courtesans will sit in a room with a red latticed wall (very much like prison bars) where clients can gaze at them and make their selections for the night. Typically, they would sit in a row and have their pipes and tobacco boxes with them. More ambitious courtesans would make eyes with clients, because their promotions are based entirely on client numbers and earnings. For those interested, Yuuko did manage to rise to the rank of tsukemawashi, two ranks below oiran, but she still has to be on display and has to accept any client who chooses her. Here's an image of the latticed room from the inside: .

[3] In countries like Japan, China, and South Korea, there is a superstition that talking behind someone's back can cause the person being talked about to sneeze. I've also heard that one sneeze = something good is being said; two sneezes = something bad is being said; three sneezes = someone is in love with them.

[4] Regarding a courtesan's debt, I cannot find any specific number, much less convert that to the Russian currency in that period lol. But I do believe najimi fees are equivalent to the present value of up to 3 million yen (or, 30 thousand USD), so I'd imagine the debt of a high-ranked courtesan like Yuuri would really, actually, cost Viktor his entire life savings and more.

[5] Almost everything Christophe owns is imported, which indicates just how wealthy this man is for the times.