"I'm going to fall flat on my face," whimpered Yuuri. He looked vaguely ill, and the greenish cast to his skin contrasted nicely with his warm brown eyes, which were brimming with horror.
"Yuuri, babe, you're a professional dancer-"
"A retired dancer."
"A highly experienced dancer who could bring mere mortals to their knees by falling over."
Phichit smiled as Yuuri let out a soft laugh – slightly strangled, but a laugh nonetheless. After a year of friendship during their studies at Waseda University's social sciences graduate program, he had grown used to his friend's anxious moods.
"Viktor said his brother and his brother's friend would be here too, right?" Phichit wasn't exactly calm himself, but his own case of nerves bubbled through his body, leaving him breathless and burning with energy. He clutched the bag that contained his skates with trembling hands. He was on the brink of finally entering a world that had consumed his thoughts from the moment he learned of its existence. Out of the two of them, Yuuri was probably handling this better, if all he was worried about was remembering how to ice skate (of course, it was his second encounter with the supernatural that night).
"Mhmm. Yurio- Yuri is, uh, like Viktor. I don't know his friend."
"Right, right. You said he was there earlier."
"Just so you know, Yurio can be a little… prickly." That was a step up from Yuuri's earlier response, which had been a frantic text message that read 'im about to get murdered by a teenager (not literally) help.'
"I knew a Yuri like that once," murmured Phichit, and Yuuri wrapped an arm around his shoulders, noticing the uncharacteristic traces of sadness in his voice.
"The one..?"
"Yeah. I wish I'd had a chance to talk with him more. He seemed like an interesting kid."
They walked in silence for a couple of minutes.
"This is the place, right?" A large, slightly dingy sign adorned the front of the building, which looked like an old warehouse to the untutored eye. Eisstadion. The front door swung open as they walked up, and Phichit caught sight of the tall man he'd seen leaving the bar the night before.
Any remaining doubts about whether this was for real, if Yuuri had been mistaken in his earlier analysis, dissipated like smoke. Viktor Nikiforov (exactly why did that name sound so familiar?) was eerily still as he stood in the doorway, none of the static of life blurring the outlines of his form. His skin was ivory, almost translucent, the lack of undertones shading his face into a portrait in monochrome.
Viktor's face lit up when he caught sight of them – well, actually, when he caught sight of Yuuri. Phichit received a welcoming (though close-lipped) smile and a firm handshake.
"It's nice to meet you, Phichit..?"
"Chulanont. Likewise, Mr. Nikiforov."
"Oh, please, call me Viktor," he said with a chuckle, his eyes fixed on Yuuri once again. "I look forward to hearing about the progress you've made, but let's find you some skates first."
Phichit might have minded being the third wheel to a very unprofessional research arrangement, if he hadn't noticed the flush that darkened the tips of his friend's ears, so instead of commenting, he just raised his gear bag.
"I have my own, actually. Why don't you, uh, help Yuuri, and I'll start warming up?" There wasn't an ounce of shyness in Phichit's entire being, but it didn't seem like the right time to add I was a world-class competitive figure skater until last year, you lovebirds just go do your thing.
It was also clear that Viktor didn't actually invite them over to talk about research, so Phichit ignored his ever-growing curiosity and pushed through the second set of doors that led from the lobby to the rink itself. It was almost empty, aside from two people skating on opposite ends of the room. Phichit tugged on his skates, watching glittering flakes fly as the nearest figure completed an exquisite combination spin, long blond hair fanning out as their lanky, androgynous form almost skimmed the ice. Viktor's brother, he assumed.
Phichit stepped onto the ice. His muscles were still stiff and aching from the long flight to Germany, and the recent nocturnal schedule hadn't allowed him to skate since arriving in Europe. His hip voiced its complaints as Phichit made his way over to introduce himself to Yuri. The young man – he looked like a teenager, but who could tell – was now standing motionless, back to Phichit, but pivoted neatly as he approached.
Standing in front of him, wearing black leggings, a long (and tacky) t-shirt emblazoned with a roaring lion, and a scowl, was Yuri Plisetsky.
Yuri was about five shades paler than Phichit remembered. His hair was longer, falling just past his shoulders. Most shockingly of all, he wasn't dead. Or rather…
Phichit's jaw dropped. He squeaked. Yuri's eyes widened.
"Oh my goodness. Yuri, you're a-"
His shout, however, was cut off as a hand was clapped over his mouth, the wiry strength stifling the words.
"Not here, okay?" His voice was flat and low, the Russian accent a bit thicker than it had been when they'd last met. "I'll explain later."
Phichit nodded, struggling to contain his shocked, jubilant laughter when Yuri released his grip. He opened his arms, but paused.
"Can I?"
Yuri rolled his eyes, shooting a glance towards the lobby. "Fine."
The boy was immediately wrapped in a tight hug. He froze awkwardly, muscles tensing under Phichit's embrace, but he didn't pull away.
"Shit, Phichit, you're like a damn octopus."
Viktor gave the laces one more firm tug, ensuring that the skate was snug around Yuuri's foot, before securing the knots.
"How does that feel?"
"Good, I mean, fine, thanks," stuttered Yuuri. "I haven't really skated since I was a teenager."
"Don't worry. It's just like riding a bike." Viktor desperately wanted to believe that the shy young man in front of him, who blushed and teetered unsteadily on the thin blades, was the real Katsuki Yuuri. With the extra height added by the boots, they stood almost eye to eye. It was hard to imagine the kind face masking the dark, calculating mind of a slayer. As they walked slowly out of the lobby, he kept one hand pressed lightly against Yuuri's back in case of a slip or stumble.
He wasn't afraid, not exactly – fear wasn't an emotion that often found itself crossing paths with Viktor Nikiforov – but he was wary. Hunters were rarely opportunists. Their targets were never random, but borne from a hunger for revenge that had been tempered into steel, although that rage didn't always stem from the killers themselves. Nevertheless, no one would take on an assassin's fee without good reason. Whether that reason was real or imagined was another question.
Yuuri didn't trip. His movements, although uncertain, were suffused with the same balletic grace that had filled his excited gestures earlier that night, as they pored over Viktor's collection of books after dinner.
Yuri was still mad at him for that, he knew, and Viktor didn't want to scare the younger vampire more by admitting that he had wanted the two Yuris to see one another. Experience was necessary to survive, and no matter how much he wanted to protect Yurio from more pain, it was important to learn how to recognize danger and hide from its roving eye. And as for Yuuri… well. Even in Berlin, there were only so many vampires, and most were not minor celebrities with a real knack for drawing attention to themselves – and, when someone was supposed to be dead, no scrutiny was good scrutiny.
Viktor sat down next to the rink entrance to put on his own skates, allowing Yuuri to step onto the ice ahead of him. He could see the thin, tight lines melt away from around the man's brown eyes, half-forgotten training taking over the shaky movements.
"I guess I'm not quite as rusty as I thought," said Yuuri, both elation and relief visible on his face. His gaze was directed up and across the room, instead of fixed on his feet like so many beginners.
Yuri was behaving himself, at least, sticking to languid figure-eights and basic footwork, keeping his distance from the other skaters. He had scoffed when Viktor reminded him to 'act human, please,' but his eyes had the same sly glint as when he'd offered to walk Yuuri to the station. It also gave Viktor the same pacing, trembling anxiety, but at least this time he could worry about Yuri while keeping the boy in his sight.
Perhaps it was more accurate to say that Viktor hadn't been well acquainted with fear before he had someone else to look after.
Phichit Chulanont appeared to be attempting to introduce himself to Otabek, who managed to deftly sidestep every meeting in a manner that just toed the boundaries of chance, all while maintaining his air of stoic absorption.
Viktor joined Yuuri on the ice.
It really was like riding a bike. After a couple of minutes adjusting to the extra inches lent to him by the borrowed skates, his body remembered the subtle shifts in balance and form he'd thought lost. Viktor's hand still hovered a hair's breadth away from the curve of his back – he must have noticed Yuuri's lingering anxiety and attributed it to fear of falling. His spine tingled every time the tips of Viktor's fingers brushed against his skin through the thin cotton shirt, as if every nerve ending in his body had rerouted themselves, drawn towards the soft touches.
"You said you haven't skated since you were a teenager?" Viktor's questions always held a duality. His interest was obviously genuine, but Yuuri had the impression that the words were a second choice.
He doesn't like to talk about himself… not in that way.
"Yeah. I entered a couple of competitions – just regional stuff, nothing big – but after a while dance took up too much time."
"A dancer, hmm? You do have many interests."
"Retired now." The thought didn't sting as much as it used to, before he'd set down his ballet shoes with a sigh and thrown his soul into graduate studies. "I used to wonder if I made the right choice, whether I should have stuck with figure skating, or maybe ice dancing."
Yuuri couldn't say why he let that slip, other than the indisputable fact that something about Viktor broke his barriers down, brick by brick. If he was being honest with himself, however, it was an offer of exchange, of vulnerability. Yurio had warned him not to use Viktor, and Yuuri could see the line between professional and personal approaching at light speed. More than he wanted to know more about what Viktor was, he wanted to know Viktor.
Phichit hadn't approached them yet, even though Yuuri had expected his enthusiastic research partner to explode with questions the moment they entered the building, but the bubbling curiosity barely contained in the slight body seemed to have shifted into a more subdued reflection. Yuuri hoped that Yurio's surly demeanor hadn't conflicted too badly with Phichit's gentle cheer.
"I always wanted to try pair skating." Viktor's eyes sparkled like snowflakes, and Yuuri's heart dropped to approximately his knees. It didn't flutter so much as flop around like a dying fish as he answered the voiceless request with a tiny nod. Viktor pulled him to a slow stop, settling his other hand on Yuuri's hip. "It's never too late to start."
Their steps were unchoreographed, out of synch, and the most fun Yuuri had felt in years. A brief stumble as both tried to lead the dance, quick breaths and playful grins as their bodies drew together.
When Viktor raised him into a simple lift, it felt like flying.
Things didn't change overnight, but a subtle shift had altered the fabric of their lives by the time the sun broke over the horizon, shrouded in thick November clouds.
Two men retreated to their closet-sized bedrooms in the tiny Berlin apartment, each listening to the buzz of early commuters and exhausted night workers, life pulsing through the veins of the city. Yuuri rolled over under the duvet, thoughts whirling and dancing across a battleground. Beyond the thin wall, Phichit looked his phone for what seemed like the hundredth time, checking and double-checking his contact list, before typing the only sentence that formed in his exhausted mind.
Several miles away, a basement door was left unlocked. Pale fingers traced the wooden frame, pulling back as the hairline crack around its edges widened under the light touch. Yuri's new phone buzzed in his pocket, its tone unfamiliar and demanding.
"I'm glad you're ok."
In the library, Viktor turned page after page, every letter slipping across his vision like drops of rain, falling and falling away.
Otabek's exhaustion pulled his head to the soft pillows, where he dreamed of glittering ice and green eyes.
