Yuuri wasn't quite sure what to expect as he walked the last few meters to Viktor's house. Two emergencies had apparently already arisen and been dealt with, and he inferred that one or (more likely) both of them revolved around Yurio. Viktor seemed to deal with his own crises by smiling at them until they slunk away or went nuclear, his well-intentioned meddling doing more to hinder than help the situation, and Otabek, with his quiet, serious demeanor, was too calm and grounded to invite disaster.

(He'd mentioned as much to Phichit while leaving the apartment, and received a dumbstruck stare in return. "What? He can't be as bad as Viktor and Yurio. Or, I mean, not bad, but, um, exciting?"

"… He has his moments," Phichit had eventually replied, and Yuuri silently wondered if Otabek was capable of matching the flat-out absurdity of a) assuming a graduate student was a vampire hunter, b) proceeding to date said graduate student, and c) convincing a friend to don fake teeth and play the role of a sympathetic vampire.

Surely not, he decided after a moment.)

Yuuri shifted the bag he was holding to his left hand, ready to knock on the door, but it was pulled open before he could follow through. Viktor lifted a finger to his lips.

"Vitya… why are you touching my lips?"

"Shhh," clarified Viktor, leaning in for a quick kiss.

With a nod, Yuuri toed off his shoes and dropped his bag of food off in the fridge, stopping to scrawl a quick note that Otabek should help himself. He was turning into his mother, and he was proud of it; Otabek's face held a gaunt shadow that Yuuri had seen often in dancers who pushed their bodies too far on too little, and his happy (if subdued) acceptance of everything Yuuri had offered did wonders for his self esteem. Phichit, bless his heart, was either too picky or too cautious to eat everything Yuuri cooked.

Yuuri glanced into the living room as he made his way to the stairs. In the dim light that filtered through from the landing upstairs (Viktor had gotten into the habit of switching it on for him when he came over, finally remembering that Yuuri barely had normal vision, much less night vision), he could make out two figures on the couch – Otabek, curled up with his head in Yurio's lap, both asleep. He turned away quickly, unwilling to intrude, but not before one green eye glinted in the darkness.

Fuck off, Yurio's expression said, but without any aggression or bite. He didn't look like someone who'd had a night bad enough to ruffle Viktor's feathers; he looked worried, protective. Yuuri nodded in acknowledgement, hoping that Yurio didn't see his presence as an invasion, before joining Viktor in his room.

When the door clicked shut, Viktor's mask fell away – he sighed, shoulders slumping, and rubbed at the lines of stress that feathered across his forehead.

"Long day?" Yuuri asked, though he could see the answer in Viktor's eyes.

"I don't know how to do this," admitted Viktor. "When I'm supposed to step in, when I should let them work things out themselves. I've never done this before."

"This?"

Even during their… argument, Yuuri had never seen Viktor so raw and open, so unsure of himself. It should have looked wrong, the uncertainty shrouding his form instead of the usual cloak of cheerful confidence, but maybe this was the only thing that could like behind all the faces Viktor showed to the world.

"Have a- a family. Be responsible," replied Viktor, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Yuri and I have made it work, most of the time, but Otabek… I'm not sure. I don't know who he needs me to be."

Yuuri set his backpack on the floor and sat next to Viktor.

"It looks like you do a great job when you're just you."

"Thank you." Viktor nudged the bag with his toe. "Did you bring work? I can look over the translations."

"No, I brought, um, pyjamas," Yuuri stuttered, feeling his face heat up. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but his faded, poodle print pants were more than a stone's throw from presentable. "I thought I might end up sleeping over, and, I mean, I don't have to, I just didn't know how late I'd stay over-"

Viktor was grinning at him, lips curved into a soft heart.

"- and you said you were watching soap operas so I brought my laptop, because I have a bunch of k-dramas downloaded and that's what I watch when I'm stressed-"

Ten minutes later, Viktor was wearing a striped flannel shirt and had named all the poodles below Yuuri's left knee.

"This one has to be Druzhok. He looks reliable." Viktor traced the poodle in question, and Yuuri squirmed, ticklish. "Hey, don't move, I'll lose track and miss one."

"They're all the same dog, Vitya," Yuuri protested, trying to keep his leg still.

Viktor pouted.

"Not in spirit. They're all special."

"Okay." Yuuri considered his leg. "This one's Yasuo."

:: :: ::

When Otabek rose in the late morning to throw himself back into the dragon's mouth, Yuri watched him go, sent a quick text, and knocked on Viktor's door.

Viktor answered after a few seconds. It was impossible to tell whether he'd been asleep or not.

"I need a distraction," Yuri said bluntly. If he spent the entire period thinking about what else Mila might say to Otabek, it would take days to get his anger back under control. He couldn't let himself get lost in the knowledge that he was trapped inside by the midday sun, that if something went wrong, he could stay put or turn into a pile of ash.

"Of course," whispered Viktor. "Movie?"

"Whatever."

The soft, steady rhythm of breathing in the background was interrupted by a yawn. Yuri heard Katsudon mumble something, and wondered if Viktor, too, found some sort of peace in the hypnotic beat of a living heart, a reminder that the world was still turning.

"Everything okay?" Yuuri asked, voice raspy with sleep. Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but Yuri got there first, kicking the door open (gently, despite Viktor's sigh of dismay. It didn't even slam).

"Maybe," he said, surprising himself. He didn't dislike the Usurper, even if he was annoying, overly-sincere, and all too encouraging of Viktor's weirdness. Yuuri was… nice, he supposed. Tolerable. "We're gonna watch a movie. You could too. I guess."

"Okay," agreed Yuuri, sitting up and squinting – his glasses were on the bedside table, and he peered around in confusion before Viktor stepped over and dropped them into his hand. "I have some good movies on my laptop?"

Said laptop was on the table next to where his glasses had rested.

Myshónok was sleeping in a laundry basket. Yuri scooped up the orange cat and marched over to the bed.

"Move over," he told Yuuri, letting Viktor pull out the spare pillows they kept in the closet for movie days when getting out of bed and going downstairs was more than Yuri could handle. Yuuri, too groggy to argue, shifted over to the side.

There were two options here.

First, Viktor could sit in the middle, getting the covers that were pre-warmed by Yuuri and the prime view of the laptop screen.

Second, Yuri could steal the center before Viktor was done setting up the extra pillows, and get both of those benefits as well as preventing them from kissing too much and ruining the movie. And maybe it wouldn't be too bad to sit next to Yuuri, who was warm (if not as warm as Otabek) and could provide the extra physical contact that always helped Yuri stay grounded.

He picked his spot.

"Deal with it," he told Viktor.

:: :: ::

Yuuri woke up around what he assumed, with the windows sealed shut to block all light, was sunset. His phone told him that he didn't need to meet up with Phichit for their interviews for another three hours.

He'd dozed off during the movie, and Yurio had left at some point. Beside him, Viktor was already awake (or hadn't bothered to go back to sleep) and buried in a book with the oddly uncoordinated orange cat sprawled across his chest.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Viktor said, noticing Yuuri's movement.

"Mnngghhh," replied Yuuri, grabbing for his phone again. It couldn't be morning, he hadn't slept for almost an entire day, he couldn't have misread the time. 16:35, the clock informed him. "Ugh."

Viktor chuckled as Yuuri rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away the crust of sleep. It would be so easy to roll over and put consciousness off until later, and the bed was so soft…

"Thanks for coming over," Viktor murmured. "It really helped, having someone here."

"'Course," Yuuri mumbled. English was too hard. Just getting his lips to work was a struggle. "Are they, um. Good?"

"Yes," Viktor told him. "More or less, for now. It went well."

"Okay. Good. That's good," he replied, kicking away the blankets and their lure of sleep. "Nggghhh."

"Otabek's making coffee. There's tea in the kitchen too."

Consciousness was almost a thing.

"I didn't expect Otabek to be the one with crises," Yuuri admitted, trying to smooth down his bedhead. "He seems so… calm."

But, if Yuuri took away the signs, the nervous babbling and fidgeting, folding in on himself to take up as little space as possible, and focused on the rest of his behavior, it didn't look so much like confidence anymore.

"He's had a rough time," Viktor said softly. "It's… he's a good kid."

"Yeah." He had to be in his early twenties, Yuuri thought. A kid. But now wasn't the time. "Is there any way I can help?"

"You already do," replied Viktor, eyebrows arching in surprise.

"I do?"

"You make him feel welcome," he explained. "You're… it's nice being around you, Yuuri. You make people feel like they belong."

"Oh." Yuuri thought his brain might have short-circuited, because it was never him that people enjoyed being with. It was always Phichit, ever-social and bubbly, or Mari, with her wry humor and loyalty, or Minako, or Yuuko and Takeshi, not him. "Um."

:: :: ::

"Hey." Otabek wasn't surprised when Other-Yuri wandered into the kitchen with sleep-mussed hair and tired eyes. "Would you like some coffee?"

He poured himself a cup, trying to hide the unsteadiness of his hands that threatened to spill milk across the counter. Otabek hadn't managed to sleep after coming back from the city – his conversation with Mila had taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality. Instead of replacing years of stress and pain, the relief mingled with it, sending jolts down his spine as memories surfaced and replayed.

"Um, no thanks," replied Yuuri. "I- I try to avoid most caffeine. It makes my… my anxiety worse."

Other people understood the irrationality of nerves, Otabek knew, but it was always an odd comfort to hear that he wasn't the only one with a mind insistent on cataloging every possible problem, and then creating some more to fill the gap. He managed to get the milk into his coffee instead of on the floor.

"It helps me," he said slowly. It was hard not to hide what so many interpreted as weakness, but it was even more difficult to conceal it. "We have a lot of tea in the cabinet beside the fridge."

"You're from, um-"

"Kazakhstan," Otabek supplied. "Almaty."

"Right. Tea is really popular there, isn't it?"

"Very," he agreed. You could drown in tea, if you weren't careful. When Yuri visited for Aisulu's wedding, every friend and relative had cornered him for a cup of tea and a chat, and Otabek was fairly certain he'd gotten buzzed enough on the caffeine that he didn't sleep for most of the week. "It doesn't taste the same anywhere else, though."

With a start, Otabek remembered how Zhibek had spent days complaining about the tea in London, and how the British were so convinced that their traditions were perfect in every way – despite the fact, she added, that Kazakhs had been drinking tea for over thirteen centuries, whereas the English had it for a mere three hundred years. That had been two years ago – two years since they'd actually talked, since his little sister had acknowledged she had a brother.

He couldn't fix it, Otabek reminded himself. He couldn't put his family through more than he had already. They might not have time to forgive him. If he told them everything, they might not ever want to.

"There's an Ethiopian restaurant in Prenzlauer Berg that Phichit wants to check out," Yuuri said absently, digging through the boxes of tea stacked haphazardly on the lowest shelf. "It would be nice if you came along. I know Viktor and Yurio aren't, um, really into restaurants, obviously."

"Sure, thanks." Otabek made a note in his phone – he wasn't sure if his memory had gotten worse recently, or if it had only become clear once he was no longer by himself, drifting through the days with distraction as a welcome relief.

It was okay, he told himself, he wasn't forgetting anything important. Only the little things, unimportant items at the grocery store, when he'd last done laundry.

How much blue is in Yuri's eyes, his mind whispered. You forgot that. The date of Aika's wedding. What else is gone? No wonder they think you don't care, if you forget them so easily.

Yuuri was looking at him strangely. He must have said something while Otabek was lost in his thoughts.

"Sorry. I missed that."

"It was nothing," Yuuri replied. "Just saying thank you for the tea."

"Of course. Yeah," he mumbled. "Excuse me, I have to- to go."

:: :: ::

"Are you sure you don't want a lift back?"

"It's fine, don't worry," Yuuri said again. "I'll let you know when I have another free night, and we can do something that's just us."

Viktor felt his soul ascend as Yuuri winked, quick and playful.

"You can't just do that," he breathed. "I need a warning."

"Do what?" Yuuri blinked innocently. "What did I do?"

"Your flirty thing, mоё солнышко."

"I don't have a flirty thing," insisted Yuuri, tipping his head. "I'm not… good at that."

Viktor flashed back to the video Phichit had shown him, the one with Yuuri in nothing more than briefs and a tie, twining himself around a pole. The memory subverted decades of inhuman grace, and Viktor tripped over his own feet.

"You're doing great, Vitya," Yuuri murmured. "They don't need you to be anyone except yourself. No one does."

As Viktor said goodbye, he wondered what it would have been like to meet Yuuri earlier, when he was still the Vitya who started another life without a word, who skipped his best friend's wedding and thought himself a hero anyway. That thought carried him back into the library, where Otabek was flipping absentmindedly through a book.

He waited for a moment, until he was sure Otabek was aware of his presence.

"Those aren't accurate, you know."

"Hmm?"

"Those books," he said, gesturing to the volume in Otabek's hand – one of the first trashy romance novels from Chris, and in Viktor's opinion, one of the best. "That's not how vampires… work."

Otabek stared at the paperback as if suddenly realizing he was holding a large and potentially venomous centipede. He put it down carefully.

"Talking to Mila was very brave," he added. "No one expects you to feel okay with it right away."

"I put it off for years," countered Otabek. "I was selfish. I could have- it could have been better."

With a height difference of a dozen centimeters, it was difficult not to loom over Otabek. Viktor snagged a chair from the table and sat down.

"Yuri and Mila made mistakes too. Do you think that makes them bad people?"

"Of course not." Otabek frowned slightly. "I understand why they did what they did. They had reasons."

"You're not any different, Otabek."

He had no illusions that his words were anything new or revelatory, that Yuri and Dr. Schäfer hadn't told him exactly that a dozen times already, but Viktor hoped that the repetition would make them feel more real.

Be yourself, Yuuri said, but there were so many versions of Viktor that he didn't know which one was him. Maybe all of them; maybe none.

"You said you found out what it was," Otabek said suddenly. "I- I want to know now."

"Are you sure?" Something in that encounter had pushed him out of his home and away from his family, had halted and undone every bit of healing. Otabek might have survived, but the last bit of his hope had been left to die on the cold, rocky beach. "You don't have to."

It must have been right after returning that Otabek came to the conclusion that he was living on borrowed time.

"Yes."

Viktor took out his phone and opened the portion of the email he'd copied, handing it over without a word.

:: :: ::

A patch of saltwater, but its essence is something more. Without thought, without feeling, tendrils of want slither out, reaching, grasping for an open mind. It's an invitation. A siren call.

The hook sinks in.

An accident, a fall, a slip over the edge of the ship into icy water below.

They try to save the victim. That's human nature, after all. Maybe it's what it means to be human.

It's too late. It's always too late. Something else is there now.

But still: hope.

They crowd around, trying to force out water, to coax another breath of air, another heartbeat. They pray. They say goodbye.

The ship has not stopped sailing. It continues on, rushing towards the infinite horizon.

With bowed heads and tear-blurred vision, they don't all notice when eyes open to reveal ragged edges of black and icy, empty gray.

Those that do see think of miracles and second chances.

They don't notice fingertips that have melted into claws, shaped from inside by saltwater veins, or the broken, jagged teeth.

Then, they do.

Then, it's too late.

It was too late before. Where would they go, surrounded by miles of open ocean?

The ship is still sailing when it begins to spread.

It creeps into their bodies, a poison, a virus, into now-hot blood.

A frozen heart can't beat, so it doesn't.

It grows into the new emptiness and begins the cycle anew.

Eventually, the hosts begin to fail, but their purpose is fulfilled – they fall back into the water, one by one, knot by knot, letting their essence escape into the ocean and wait.

There is no one left to sail, but the wind pushes it onwards, empty. The ship was nothing more than a host for its crew and now it, too, has been used up.

A ghost ship.

All boats will either sink or come to shore, with no hand to guide them, leaving the last of its cargo trapped in a shallow harbor.

It waits, it reaches, and finally, the bait is taken – but this isn't right, is almost human but not quite, and it doesn't fit. The body itself, absent of its true inhabitant, is fighting the invader, tearing itself apart. It will die here, on dry land, mere meters from the water.

Still, it tries. There is no thought, no decision, only instinct that runs deeper than its own survival. But the next isn't human at all, even while bearing the nature of humanity, and no hold can be found.

It fails.

There is no one else. It forces itself towards the water, to wait again.

Maybe it succeeds.

Maybe it doesn't.

But then, this is all a guess.

The celeste do not leave many survivors to tell their stories.