Yuuri hits the bottle deep into the evening, while the sun draws its last rays into the sky from the window of the dining room.
Yakov Feltsman and Lilia Baranovskaya had at the very least the decency to leave an abounding wine cellar behind them prior to their departure for Moscow. A discovery he – or rather Victor – makes, when the older man ventures in the hidden depths of the house where Yuuri never dared to go during his stay. He very much doubts that with Victor back he will go past his hesitation to explore the rest of the house.
Knowing what is happening before the walls rather than behind them is enough. Rats could keep the darkest corners to themselves.
Victor resurfaces with a bottle of wine firmly clenched in his palm, a sharp contrast with the bright smile illuminating his face. He swears his features are almost similar to that of a heart, mouth wide and revealing a set of pearly white teeth. Pointy enough to be sunk into flesh and rock alike.
"What is the bottle for?" Yuuri dares to ask, wary of what is to come as Victor moves to the glass cupboard, extracting two wine glasses from a front row. They key and wood panes give easily under his nimble fingers, like he had set them there before on countless occasions. At the very least his movements exude a familiarity and knowledge that Yuuri finds himself questioning.
Victor laughs, a smooth bark that startles Yuuri from where he stands, almost breaking the serene facade he'd carved for himself and struggled to maintain since the beginning of the day. This is the first time he hears Victor laughing, an honest sound differing from his soft, childish giggles and the puffs that die into Yuuri's skin when he presses against his back, relishing this semblance of domesticity they now share.
"For celebrating of course!"
Victor nudges him slightly with an elbow as he passes him, depositing twin glasses on the table alongside the unopened bottle. A shadow must pass on Yuuri's face, for he turns to him whilst fishing for the corkscrew. The sommelier knife glints between Victor's fingers, a thin silver line that cuts through the foil in a fleeting slash. The corkscrew digs into the cork, pushing into the bark mercilessly and pulling with a wet "pop".
"Come on, don't be a spoilsport will you? Drink with me." There's no mistaking the barely-veiled amusement in his voice at the prospect of getting one of them drunk, or the both of them, just as there's an underlying threat in his words. Yuuri's ears replay the phrase like a tape, filtering the laughter and catching the curt tones suppressed by the honey of Victor's voice.
Wine swells inside the glass, waves bursting from the deep and crashing into the crystal. Foam settles at the surface, a puddle of red sea within a clear goblet. The second glass fills itself to the brim too, in a display of carelessness that astonishes Yuuri. If Lilia were there she would do more than just tut at their wine etiquette.
The bottles of beer Chris had left him are still cool in the fridge, he thinks once the bottle is set back on the low table. But surely Victor would be damned if he ever let him drink any of it for their special day. Nothing, not even wine, is too good for Yuuri.
The first glass makes its way into his hand, fingers curling around the stem, thumb and index supporting the bowl. His other hand brushes the rim, as if he were scared it would escape his grasp any moment. Victor's fingers mimic his own, without the extra hand.
"To our first day together," Victor clinks his glass against his own, the movement forces Yuuri to retract his fingers and let them fall limply at his side. Victor's free hand instantly reaches for his no sooner do the glasses chime.
Yuuri bites down the retort on his lips. This isn't technically their first day together, but he indulges him nevertheless, echoing Victor's words. "To our first day together." He forces a small smile for good measure, which seems to please Victor deeply if his answering smile is a hint.
Yuuri tilts his head, and half throws back the glass until the cool liquid hits his palate. A fruity bitterness fills his mouth and throat as he downs the wine in a few gulps, nectar lingering on his tongue. Victor watches him distractedly from the sidelines, a small chuckle on his lips at the sight of Yuuri finishing his wine in quite an improper way, whereas he had only taken a tentative gulp and inhaled the the full-bodied dress.
His wine etiquette is definitely all wrong, and he couldn't care less about it.
If Yuuri had drunk – truly drunk – during his stay, the glass he would hold in hand would most likely be a tumbler designed for whiskey or scotch, with its wide brim and thick, finely-cut base. Not to mention he would have also filled more than half of it, a scandalous breach of protocol. Like he could bring himself to care in this moment.
Yuuri doesn't wait for Victor's confirmation before he takes the bottle for himself, setting both glass and wine on top of the piano and taking his designated seat on the bench. Curious, Victor stays back to watch him, glass half-untouched in the crook of his fingers.
Yuuri tests the notes with a single hand while the other busies itself with filling his glass to the brim. Unsteady fingers almost make droplets of wine fall onto the notes and lid, the bottle stuttering its way from the rim to the top of the wood and metal monster where it is finally set back. Familiar notes drift in the air, a telltale sign that he won't have to tune the piano.
He takes a large sip, allowing the pungent liquid to sit and warm inside his mouth before swallowing it, refraining from choking given how strong the wine feels seeping into his body. His cheeks already feel a little warmer, partly from the alcohol and partly due to the room's temperature, his eyes a little heavy without his glasses on. Not that he needs them. These days he could play with his eyes closed, the sequences of black and white keys familiar underneath his fingertips. He could turn blind tomorrow and the piano would remain, whispering its secrets in his ears.
Yuuri crosses his legs, toes arched and feet crossed in pointe position under him, awaiting to be spread on the pedals. His hand joins the other on the keyboard, and he draws a deep breath into his lungs, steadying himself from the center of the bench. Movement One of Vivaldi's Winter permeates the room as his fingers start to fly on the keyboard.
The tension in his shoulders loosens a little more with every note he hits, feet on the pedals, fingers spreading and reaching out in the replication of a ritual all too familiar to him. He lets the notes born from his fingering guide his motions, ears pointed in catching the sounds dying away the very moment it is struck, vanishing beyond earshot.The legato sings and glides, propels harmony forward across the keys and onto the instrument with nearly superhuman dexterity.
Blood beats against his temples, the strong wine dripping into his system and thumping at his head with every progress the music makes. The continuous leaps from one side to another takes its toll on his tired body, the exhaustion of the day dawning on him and making him slightly dizzy.
He risks a sideways glance at Makkachin. The brown poodle is out like a light, bundled in his dog bed as per usual, sleeping the remains of the afternoon away while Yuuri plays. How he doesn't wake him with his playing, he wonders.
The poodle never once barked in Victor's presence, instead choosing to rub against his legs and licking his fingers.
Traitor.
His left foot moves to the pedal but collides with something soft instead. The sudden awareness that Victor has come to stand right behind him shakes him back to reality.
The older man slides next to him on the piano bench, squeezing his way through even when the seat is theoretically large enough for the both of them to sit in. Victor leans over him, propped on the crown of his head as he plays, then shifts their position so to recline on Yuuri's left side, his right arm loops around Yuuri's shoulder to reach for the remote keys.
But he doesn't bow his head the way Yuuri does when he concentrates on his music, letting the notes draw him in, drown him in a false sense of calm and peacefulness. Instead he buries his nose in the crook of Yuuri's neck, inhales deeply the scent of his perfume. The invasion of Yuuri's personal space is nothing new, as much as he'd like to do something against it.
Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shut out Victor's presence. Victor's scent, Victor's Victor's broad shoulders caging him, Victor's eyelashes fluttering under his jaw, Victor's lips nuzzling the junction where shoulder and neck meet. The clavier trembles pinned by their conjoined playing, the single notes altered and hit both harder and softer from their conflicting pitches.
His hand quivers off the keyboard when it reaches for his glass, mutely prompting Victor to take over his place. His large form pins him to the instrument, a pull complimentary to the one in his throat when he swallows the rest of his glass. The alcohol buzzes in his veins, drums through his bulky arms. Victor's breath is deliciously warm, skimming on the cool sweat gathered on his collarbone. Instinctively he leans back, exposing the expanse of pale skin of his neck. Victor's arduous playing dulls in favor of setting his attention on Yuuri's neck. While the climax of the piece reaches its end, Victor's ministrations don't intensify. If anything, there is a tenderness to them that makes Yuuri blink against the onslaught of inebriation.
He barely avoids the wrong key in the nick of time when Victor's teeth nibble none too gently at a portion of his skin. An abstract miscalculation with subtly aborted potential for disaster. A breach in their harmonious, delusional flow; the homogeneity of which he won't dare to break again.
His fingertips slip off the keys, still cold in spite of the activity, and one hand reaches back to caress Victor's cheek.
"Take me to bed, Victor."
"Now we've had quite a lot of candidates asking about the position, but Victor was adamant on having you here."
Yuuri minds his wording around Victor; or rather, his lack thereof. He thinks of the romance novels both his sister and Yuuko kept around, of the headstrong but shy heroines who demanded to be made love to by their equally stubborn lovers.
"Making love", the one expression they would teach them in his English classes back in high school, the flushed cheeks of girls in bloom, flustered but all-knowing, and the snickers of boys elbowing each other.
"Victor used to have only female nannies, but this is the first time he's asked for a male nanny. He is quite excited to meet you, you know?"
Whatever it is they're doing right now... this isn't making love. This isn't having sex. If anything, it's prostitution.
"Oh but don't worry too much about it. You're younger and prettier than the others, so hopefully Victor will take a liking to you pretty quickly."
They leave the curtains drawn and the lights on, bare for the world to see, with the moon as their witness.
Yuuri isn't so sure of what he is supposed to make of his body as Victor spreads him out on the mattress. Yuuri grasps at the sheets in an attempt to haul himself up, turn away from Victor, but his back remains firmly pressed into the bedding. Victor wordlessly insists on making love face to face.
Victor marks him with his mouth, his fingers and his eyes, drinking in every detail his blue irises can catch. His advances are excruciatingly unhurried, taking care to prepare Yuuri and focused on his body. There's a giddiness to the way his lips stutter on his collarbone and chest that reminds him of that which can only be found in virgins; he of all people would know.
Or maybe he wasn't. Lilia had talked of previous nannies, all female and quite young and pretty too – the last part she had never openly mentioned, but the comparison she'd made of him concerning the others had sparked something inside him. The memory of it churns in his guts. How was he to know he was Victor's first, and his last?
And who was he to care?
Traitorous moans escape his lips when Victor's hands linger on his hips, reaching under him to remove the last of his clothing. His skin feels hotter against his own, much too close for comfort now that they will be down to nothing.
Yuuri cards his fingers through Victor's hair, silky strands curling between the digits as the older man continues his path downhill. Once Victor parts to take off Yuuri's leggings, his own discarded long ago, he catches sight of his sex, erect and standing proud between his legs with a thick girth, the root engulfed in silver curls.
He feels his cheeks flush at the sight and turns his gaze to the moonlit plaster to distract himself from what is to come. Victor's shadow and the tree branches coiling at their window draw out a monster of the ceiling. Yuuri stares back at its burning slits, withered arms and bandy legs as Victor pounds his fingers into him, gaze empty and breath coming out in short gasps.
Do you see what you do to me, he longs to ask the monster surfacing from beneath paint and flesh. Do you see me? Do you enjoy this so much, having me under you like this, Yuuri wants to yell.
He yelps when the fingers retract, replaced by something much larger that almost tears him apart with a single thrust. Victor drowns into him with a groan, almost as if he were the one in pain, cock pulsing and swallowed whole by Yuuri's tight walls.
Victor doesn't sound like a child when he takes him. Only guttural noises escape him when he's on top of him, devouring him with his hands and lips and tongue. Yuuri digs his nails into the meat of his back as Victor rams into him, the bed creaking under their weight and the violence of Victor's thrusts.
His pace quickens and Yuuri's toes dig into the mattress, knees caging Victor's hips. He plunges into him back and forth, creating friction between their bodies that makes Yuuri grit his teeth. Victor takes notice of it and pushes back his head harshly, his mouth colliding against Yuuri's and forcing the betraying noises out of him.
Yuuri screams when Victor twists his wrist around him, making him come and throwing him back agains the pillow. Victor follows suit not longer after, biting hard into the pillow and scratching the sheets enough to tear them both as he releases inside him. He falls onto Yuuri, heavily panting and mouthing at Yuuri's breast, head resting over his frantically-beating heart. Yuuri wraps his arms around him, messing the silver locks with his fingers.
Now that his bed – their bed – has been christened, he wonders whether this is really the end or just their beginning.
Victor kisses his ear in the morning when he is busy at the counter preparing their breakfast. The light nibble, though mirthful, comes with a half-lidded gaze on his person that seems overly fond.
Yuuri accepts gracefully the brush of lips on his own while his gaze strays back to the window. The greenery stutters in the distance, a sign of forthcoming movement. Victor's tongue pries into his open mouth as a car penetrates the estate in the distance, haltingly pushing in the driveway.
Yuuri reaches for the knife from behind Victor's back as he leans into the kiss.
They don't stand a chance.
