Residents of the imperial castle:

Royal family:
- Victor
- Yurio
(Mila, Georgi, Lilia, and Yakov live in another castle)

Noblemen:
- Celestino
- Otabek
- Phichit
- The squires
- The knights
- The teachers/educators
- Some of Victor's councilors (All of them are nobles but the majority of them do not live in the castle)

Ones of common birth:
- Minako
- Sara
- Leo
- The handlers
- The handmaidens
- The guards
- The cooks
- The dancers and entertainers
- The clergymen

Sex Slaves/Concubines:
- Yuuri (chosen)
- Bianca (chosen)
- The concubine in chapter 3 (non chosen)
- The members of the harem

Regular slaves:
- The girl in chapter 2
- The cleaners
- The gardeners
- The stable boys


Life's suddenly far away, no mistaking

It could be you

I think it everyday if we're the same

If that could be true

x

We could be on the floor

On our backs screaming 'more!'

x

I know you want me

But I've come close enough for now

Oh god, you haunt me

I'm scared you'll leave me in the ground

x

Crywolf - Weight


A long, long time ago, in an empire Yuuri could never forget, yet can hardly remember, everyone who had lived in a certain period of time witnessed of the horror of Aki, and only the few who had survived had lived to tell about it.

Aki, a princess born on a lovely autumn afternoon, was everything that Japan's imperial family had hoped for in a child.

She was obedient, intelligent, handsome, and polite, and held a grace in her that only a few could compete with. She learned everything there was to learn about the empire, about its people, history, traditions and culture, so easily that many wondered if she had been granted the knowledge from a previous life.

At the mere age of twelve, people were already proud to have a woman such as Princess Aki to claim the throne and become the empire's first female ruler, an empress that shall lead Japan to its ultimate prosperity when her father shall pass away.

Their hopes and dreams, however, were suddenly crushed on a similar autumn afternoon, which was anything but lovely.

Aki fell in bed, ill, powerless and overtaken by a mysterious disease that threw all the alchemists around the empire into confusion and helplessness.

A cure was never found, the illness was never identified, the Buddha never answered to her family's prayers, and before her thirteenth birthday, Aki closed her eyes and never opened them again.

Merely days after her tragic death, certain individuals around the palace displayed the same symptoms, and in similar fashion, died within weeks.

Soon, other servants and commoners were captured in that inevitable net of death, and it didn't take much longer until the Emperor of Japan announced that a deadly plague had hit the empire.

Aki, as the plague was later called, did not know a peasant from a noble, and continued to spread like a monster, killing anything and everything in its path without showing any mercy. And as the days went by, citizens all around the capital were falling one after another like flies.

The funerals in the imperial family were held rapidly, and with so little intervals in between. Yuuri's parents, who were relatives of the Emperor, had no other choice but pack at once and head to the capital to serve their duty, leaving a seven and fifteen year old Yuuri and his sister, Mari, respectively, alone in their palace in Hasetsu, safe and far from the plague.

It was so long ago that Yuuri couldn't even recall their words of farewell; couldn't recall what his mother had said while patting his head, a kind and amused smile on her face as she watched her son hold on tightly to her legs.

'How long will they stay this time, Ane-sama?' Yuuri remembered asking as he and his sister watched the carriages leave in dust, for they were used to their parents' frequent trips.

Mari had shrugged, 'It wouldn't take longer than a fortnight, I reckon.'

It did, however, it took much, much longer than that, so much longer that Yuuri would forever regret asking, that Mari would forever regret answering.

Yuuri didn't know why he was thinking about Aki then, of all things.

Nonetheless, to him, it eventually came to symbolize many things other than the infamous disease, or the legendary princess.

Whether it was punishment, or fate, it did not matter. He merely realized that everything he had done so far since his escape was running, and running, and running from the aftermath of Aki.

But Aki was waiting this whole time, never intending to sit by and let him run too far.

And eventually, Aki returned after taking so much from a seven year old Yuuri, to take back the remaining of her debt.


People were suddenly scattered all over the entrance, men and women rushing in all directions like a swarm of bees, bees that weren't heading to collect their nectar, but to run away from a danger.

Maybe he was the danger, Yuuri thought, spotting a group of servants heading his way, their postures shaken, but faces determined.

The last thing Yuuri saw before being escorted by the handmaidens was Bianca's devastated expression, no longer holding any sort of venom or bitterness, just pure sorrow.

Yuuri liked to believe that she understood what she had done to both of them, and hoped, beyond sense, that the devastation would remain rooted deep within her and never fade away.


Yuuri didn't understand many things.

He didn't understand why four people had bathed him when he was capable of doing that on his own, or why they had insisted on it in the first place, even after Yuuri repeatedly told them that he had showered merely half an hour earlier.

He didn't understand the scented soaps being rubbed against every corner of his body by eight wandering hands, the herbal balms and oils dipped into his wet hair, or the thin blades running across his chin and cheeks that he had already shaved prior.

He didn't understand what that one servant was heating in the corner. All he knew was that it smelled like burned sugar and wax, and that it made him feel nauseous.

He didn't understand why they had dipped a stick into that burning, heavy mixture, spread it on his skin, and removed it instantly when it dried, without a warning, without a word to describe the overwhelming amount of pain that came with that simple action.

He didn't understand how they were able to ignore his screams as they continued on and on for what seemed like hours, removing every single hair on his body with harsh pulls, not one spot remaining untouched and violated.

"Knock on the door when you're finished," Yuuri distantly heard one of the handmaidens say, "Prepare yourself thoroughly. Don't cause yourself too much pain." She instructed, then said as an afterthought under her breath. "Or too much pleasure."

He turned his head ever so slightly to see that she was merely a couple of inches away from his face. Yet, he swore that he had imagined her far, far away, not that close to him, not that insistent, not that real.

He didn't feel his arm anymore when the woman pulled at it, the entire limb numb from their excessive brushing, from their unbearable rubbing, and from whatever they had inflicted on him that felt like he was being skinned alive under their hands.

She placed a small, crystal bottle in his hand, and ushered everyone else outside without any further words; Yuuri didn't need any clarification, nor did any of the others.

"Shouldn't someone stay and watch him?" came a whisper.

"No need." The woman answered knowingly. "He's very well trained. He can do it better than all the rest if what I heard was true."

It wasn't true. He glared at their backs. None of it was true. None of it.


He stared at the bottle in his hand, the steam of the washroom heavy and scented in his lungs. The blurriness of his surroundings were the only comfort to his situation, the monochrome of that closed space an illusion of protection. But the bottle stayed fixed, clasped within shaking fingers, the thick liquid inside of it barely moving.

He had been acquainted with that bottle far more times than he could count, its use and purpose were not an unfamiliar concept.

The lubricants they made him use were always oily, yet they smelled of some sort of flowery fragrance. Strangely enough, its exact ingredients remained a mystery to him even after all these years.

He wondered if it was a poison; if he could open the lid, shove the head of it into his mouth, and drink it to his death.

Yuuri wasn't certain of the outcome, however, and didn't necessarily want that risk to fail and leave him with too many complications.

Thus he stood on wobbly legs, kicking the small, makeshift seat aside, bracing one hand against the tiled wall, and arching his back in defeat.

The lubricant was slick as ever against his fingers, and thankfully, when he entered one of his digits inside himself, it didn't feel as cold and harsh as it usually did.

Yuuri then proceeded when he was confident enough, adding a second finger, then a third, opening himself up thoroughly as the handmaiden instructed, without much pain, and of course, without too much pleasure, or any pleasure.

There was a spot, he knew, a spot that Yuuri had avoided purposefully since the first time his fingers hit it without knowing.

And since then, he made sure to never, ever touch it again. He didn't need that feeling associated with his torment; he didn't need to feel any pleasure to reconcile his constant suffering of the identity he was forced upon against his will.

He clenched his teeth, resting his forehead against the dripping condensation of the washroom wall, trying his hardest not to make any sound. He wouldn't do it, he would never do it, he would never give them the satisfaction of seeing him succumb to such urges.

It was hard, he remembered once again - a fact he always tried to ignore and forget, it was hard because it wasn't only the spot that made him feel that strange, unwelcome, contradicting euphoria.

'You are quite sensitive,' any Madam who had detected it would say, 'That's very good.'

For his first time preparing his hole to be taken and not just for usual training, Yuuri had done everything he could. The fear of physical pain accompanying his inevitable trauma driving him to stretch that ring of muscle as much as it was possible.

It would've made the Madams proud.

In a moment so consumed with hatred, disgust, and bitterness, Yuuri brought the tip of one of his fingers inside the bottle, then ran it against the front of his tongue.

And he held so much more tears back, because it definitely didn't taste like poison.


Sara moved her hands very delicately.

Yuuri didn't know if her touch was so faint because she had done this many times before, or if she was too scared to touch him directly and was trying to keep her hands away from any actual contact.

The gown was pretty; it was pretty in every way that could mock and degrade his figure. It was made of three pieces, loosely sewn together and requiring an expert hand to dress him with it correctly.

Sara fastened the middle piece around his waist with a golden belt, clasping it as tight as possible to show how unhealthily narrow he was under his clothes. Yuuri had the desired thinness that the Madams had punished him many times before when he couldn't maintain it, denying him meals, and extending his dancing practices 'til they nodded their heads in approval at the resulting shape of his body.

Next, Sara draped the remaining two parts around each of his shoulders, without anything to support them other than the belt they were tucked under, letting their ends fall behind his naked back, ready to let loose any minute if he as much swayed to the side.

The gown was white as snow flakes floating in the air, untainted, unlike the ones that touched the dirt on the ground. He found the likeness very poetic, and imagined himself falling from the sky, pure and innocent, only to soil when he reached the earth, when the night was over and the Tsar would do whatever he wanted to him.

Ancient Greek men wore this, too. Yuuri tried to convince himself, tried to ignore the fact that they were disregarding him as a man and dressing him, yet again, with something so unmistakably feminine. Something that did not cover anything other than the front of his torso and a portion of his shoulders and legs. It was an evidence of literary and scholarship.

Yet, he knew that it was not true, that with his current state, he could easily be mistaken for a woman by anyone who saw him, because so little could prove otherwise at this point.

Yuuri remembered a time when he craved to dress in such styles, as he was being constantly awed by the elegant fashion of women's wear. He dreamt of a day when he could finally be free to wear anything he wanted, to dance with face paint on his features, smile with lips red as wine, and twirl with a mesmerising spin of his colorful skirt.

He couldn't pinpoint when, exactly, it had turned into such disgrace.

The white of the fabric symbolized innocence, he supposed, so it can be a clear canvas to the Tsar's act once a concubine leaves his quarters with little stains of blood proudly shown.

Yuuri wasn't a female, not fully, at least, yet he found himself fearing that he might leave there bloodied as well, his virginity taken away painfully. He expected everything and didn't allow himself to see any snippets of mercy anymore.

He was let down by those positive thoughts too many times to ever be foolish enough to consider them again.

Yuuri should have gone with his parents to the capital thirteen years ago, he reflected, if he had begged hard enough to go that day, if he had clutched on his mother's yukata more tightly, if he had cried like a spoiled child, everything leading to this night would've been erased from existence and would have never happened.

But alas, Yuuri was still in that room. Now somehow finding himself seated on a chair facing a dresser, with no memory of actually walking there and sitting down; everything was an indistinguishable blur since he heard the royal horn of the Taking hours ago.

Something was in his hair, he felt, something wooden and hard. Yuuri dared a glance at his reflection, ugly, pathetic, and weak looking reflection, and saw Sara neatly combining through his now shiny hair, pushing all of his wet strands back against his scalp.

With a kind smile, Sara placed the comb on the dresser, and gently secured a jeweled headband on the crown of his head, golden, of course, and matching the leafy design of his belt, keeping his short hair slicked in place. She then smeared a balm against his frozen lips before picking a tool that resembled a painting brush, running it against a black piece of chalk then carefully stroking it against his eyelashes with lifting motions, leaving them even thicker and longer than they already were. She was grabbing a small tube next, and rubbing its head on the line of his neck, the action unleashing a very pleasant smell into the air and against his pulse point.

Yuuri let her do anything she wanted to him without any resistance; at least Sara was more gentle than the others. He didn't have any other choice on the matter, and all fight had already left him after he had used his energy screaming at the handmaidens to stop.

Said handmaidens were patiently standing behind them, waiting to escort Yuuri to his doom.

Frowning uncertainly, Sara grabbed a round packet, opening its lid and dipping a sponge on the powder inside. The handler patted it on one side of his cheek before she stopped, smiling slightly and putting it away.

"You don't even need it." She whispered, and Yuuri didn't understand what she meant by that statement. "You are ready."

He looked at himself again and wasn't surprised. Even after all of their efforts, Yuuri was still ugly, he was still pathetic, and perhaps looking even weaker than he already was before.

The golden armlet, after such a long time of being concealed and forgotten, was now sparkling with the brightest shine under the lights. Proud of its presence, wicked, and mocking Yuuri for his stubbornness and wasted efforts, of useless dreams and foolish desires of keeping his pride.

Beside his frame on the reflection, Yuuri saw a singular, strange expression taking over the faces of everyone in the room as they stared at him, from Sara, to the handmaidens, and even to the two guards standing by the door.

Widened eyes, uneasiness, and a slight dust of pink on their cheeks.

Yuuri didn't understand the cause of that sudden shift, he didn't want to ever understand.

The door of the dressing room was suddenly pushed open, revealing an angry figure that observed the surroundings with a scowl, before she opened the door and pointed to the other side.

"Out." Minako barked, her tone filled with authority. "Out. All of you."

In a matter of seconds, the room was clear, save the two of them, eye contact avoided from both parties, the air even more suffocating than it had been prior to her entrance.

"Yuuri," Minako looked down in shame, as if this whole thing was any of her fault. "Yuuri, I-"

"It was all my doing." Yuuri finally admitted, surprised by how hoarse his voice was, how empty, lifeless and resigned he sounded even to own ears. "There is no one else to blame but myself."

If he hadn't followed Bianca like an enraged hound, if he had not threatened her, if he had swallowed his pride and dignity the same way he had been doing for four years, Minako wouldn't have looked so ashamed, Minako wouldn't have been that distressed, or sad.

Poor Minako, he thought, glancing at her terrible burns once again. She didn't deserve any of this.

"I always wondered," Yuuri said, awfully calm, awfully unnatural. "What happened to that servant girl four months ago? What did the Tsar do to her?"

Minako pressed her lips into a thin, barely there line, and looked away. "I don't know; no one knows. Who would care?"

"I would." Yuuri frowned. "He killed her too, didn't he? He killed her merely because she called Mila a duchess."

"Yuuri-"

"Would he kill me as well?" Yuuri asked, hopeful. "Would he kill me if I stared at him in the face and called him a peasant? Can you guarantee it?"

"Stop." Minako whispered, "He's not a monster, he will be very gentle with you."

"He hanged two slaves for nothing." Yuuri turned on his chair, facing her with a look of disbelief. "He has been waiting to choose me for months. Why do you think he wants me so badly, for my ethereal beauty?" he snapped, his tongue sharpening with sarcasm.

Minako looked at him, mournful, as if he was losing his mind right in front of her.

Perhaps he was.

She wasn't answering, so Yuuri allowed his rage to take over, allowed himself to voice his loudest thoughts. "He did this to you, didn't he?"

Minako's good eye narrowed, "Did what?"

"Burned you. Denied you from becoming the dancer you always wished to become. Enslaved you and took away your freedom." Yuuri raised his voice, suddenly feeling the streak of the very dark emotions he tried to keep at bay for so long. In a blink of an eye, all of his guilt for making Minako feel distressed had faded, and was now replaced with something he couldn't name. "And you… and you treat him like he's your son?! Where were you when I needed you? When I needed a mother?! You used to serve our house, bow and call me Yuuri-sama when we weren't alone. And now… now you run this man's whorehouse, cover his murders for him, and you're trying to convince me that he wouldn't hurt me?! What else did he do to you so you could even believe that?! Did he-"

Suddenly, Yuuri's line of sight shifted til he was facing the other corner of the room. His head had whipped to the side, and his cheek were warm and throbbing.

Minako's slap, compared to the many he received before, was the most painful and lasting in its pain.

"You are wrong, Yuuri-sama, you are wrong about many things." Minako choked, her voice breaking. "I know you are going through so much, but please don't pour your anger on me. I, I tried, I tried so hard..."

I'm sorry, Yuuri wanted to plead. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. You were there for me when no one else was. You've given me a reason to keep on living. You were my ray of hope. Don't hate me. Please don't hate me. I need you. I need you. I need you-

"Don't call me that. You don't have the right to call me that!" Yuuri spat, his unreasonable fury at her not diminishing so any of his reasoning would surface, "I will never be that person again! I'm not your innocent master anymore! I'm not even a concubine; I'm below that. I'm merely a sex slave! Nothing more!"

Minako sobbed, and even if he couldn't see her, he knew that the tears had collected and were falling. He didn't want to look, he didn't want to witness what he had just crumbled with his own hands and words.

Minako. Strong, willful Minako. The woman with so much grace and power that people in wherever nation she was in envied her. Minako who didn't flinch or submit to even an emperor, Minako who didn't let anyone look down at her, was now crying from hurt, crying because of Yuuri.

He wasn't surprised. Self destructing, after all, was the only thing he knew how to do.

She was at the door now, opening it with a quivering grip. Yuuri straightened himself again and did not turn, yet he could feel her gaze on his back, intense and pained.

"I did become a dancer, little one." Was her last words to him before she exited.

Despite everything that he had done, despite all the numbing pain, he let that statement wash over him. He let it deliver the little bits of joy that she wanted him to feel, no matter how underwhelming it was compared to the rest of his mental turmoil.

She had forgiven him in an instant, he knew, but Yuuri would never be able to forgive himself.


The walk from the harem to the north wing was humiliating.

Yuuri had his own attendance now, he noticed, four handmaidens, a handler, and two guards following his trail.

The many people surrounding him did not give Yuuri any strength or importance, it only served to highlight how he was a captive under so many people.

Whomever they passed by tried to take a peek, their curiosity terrible and ever present. Everyone wanted to know who it was: the concubine that the Tsar had been waiting for for all these past months.

Who was that beauty, that majestic creature, that sorcerer, that managed to cause such a ruckus?

Yuuri didn't blame them. If he was in their shoes, he would have wanted to know too.

But he wasn't in their shoes, no, he was now in the center of the spotlight, a pariah that people pushed each other to catch a glimpse of.

He didn't want to count how many he had disappointed that night.

At least the ones he worked for and helped constantly did not seem to recognize him. Yuuri, after all, looked like an entirely different human being then.

Perhaps his life wasn't over, perhaps only a part of it was.

The north wing - the part of the castle that was reserved only for the Tsar - was massive and perhaps three times as big as the entire harem, even with only the tiny glimpses he was able to see.

The door of the private quarters could fit a gigantic mythical creature, Yuuri thought, remembering all the dragons he read about in countless books and making estimations in his mind.

He was doing everything he could, begging his thoughts to steer away from all the fear for the time being, and focus on anything, anything other than his destination.

He was good at it. He was good at numbing himself. He always did when it required, and perhaps this was a new form of punishment, but nothing he hadn't expected and saw beforehand. He could surpass it; he could survive it if he was obedient enough and followed the thousands of instructions that he was fed for years, all preparing him for this particular encounter.

It would hurt, it always does. He knew that.

They won't care about your own needs and pleasure, that's not what you're there for. He memorized that.

You are a tool, a vessel. He accepted that.

"Yuuri," Sara's voice awakened him from his revision. She slid her hands under the fur coat they draped on him, and collected the warm material in her arms, leaving Yuuri bare to the cold. "Take off your slippers, would you?"

He did. And she took them calmly, smiling as if Yuuri's life wasn't flashing in front of his eyes as she did so.

"I'm your handler, so whatever you do tonight will be a proof of my own skills and training." She winked, and the secret she implied between them was something Yuuri did not recall at the moment. "Be yourself, Yuuri. I know what you can do just by being that. The Tsar had chosen one of the best, if I may say so myself."

You are crazy. Yuuri wanted to shout. You are crazy, don't you see what I am?

"Don't forget to kneel once his majesty acknowledges your entrance. Don't deny him anything, and give him all he wants." She hummed, reciting her thoughts. "Be obedient, and don't talk unless he allows you to." Her smile turned reassuring, "He will reward you handsomely if you were good, dear, which I don't doubt you will be. You are one of the lucky ones, so make sure to be grateful."

If he killed me, Yuuri considered, I will be.

"Sara." Someone hissed behind them.

Sara did not seem fazed at the guard's warning, and continued to smile that warm smile at him and him alone.

Somehow… somehow Yuuri began to feel that she was aware of the storm inside of him, and was trying to stall the time on purpose, giving him space to breath and not break right then and there.

The mere thought, although it had no evidence of being true, was almost enough to send the waterfall of tears that threatened to break out all night down his cheeks.

But he held them back, and without thinking, held Sara against him.

Her frame was petite between Yuuri's arm, the fur coat she was holding acting like a soft pillow between them.

"Thank you." He buried his face into her shoulder, breathing in into her familiar perfume and using the embrace to give him enough strength to go through the night.

It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. But it was, sadly, all what he had.

The guard called her name again, the second warning dressed with a thicker tone of threat, and it was time for Yuuri to let go.

There were, strangely enough, two pairs of purple eyes on his back as Yuuri entered the Tsar's private quarters, one awed, and the other murderous and spiteful.

But Yuuri did not see it, he did not have time to anticipate what that reckless action would cause him in the future.


Despite being barefoot and barely covered with anything but cool silk and jewelry, Yuuri felt very warm the moment he stepped inside, perhaps the warmest he was since the day he entered the frozen empire of Russia.

The master bedroom of the castle was massive, far bigger than Yuuri had anticipated, but he didn't dare look at anything but the view in front of him, which was the biggest, fanciest bed he had ever seen in his life.

He sensed a movement at the far end of the room, and had to fight against his loudest instincts that were telling him to open the door behind him and flee, but he didn't, he couldn't. Unfortunately, he wasn't stupid enough to do that, not suicidal enough, not yet.

Yuuri gulped, cupping a hand on the strap of his dress that was slipping down ever so often, and reluctantly allowed his being to be consumed with fear so great that his heart felt as if it was sinking down his ribcage and into his middle.

He was so scared. He was so scared. He was so, so scared.

Despite everything telling him not to, Yuuri slowly, and fearfully chanced a glance to the right.

And that's when he saw him, his body turned sideways to face where Yuuri was standing, one of his hands resting on the base of the window behind him in a tight, shaking fist, his face too far for Yuuri to see what exact expression was taking over it.

His lips were slightly parted, Yuuri saw, not daring to look any higher than that.

He should kneel, Yuuri reminded himself, remembering what Sara had told him, trying his hardest to break the paralyzed state he had found himself in.

The Tsar's eyes were on him, he felt, so intense, so haunting, so demanding, and so, so terrifying.

Yuuri tilted his head downward, grabbing the sides of his gown and praying that he did not look as shaken as he felt, and slowly bent his knees to kneel on the floor as dutifully as he could muster.

It happened so fast, it might've been because Yuuri was taking too long, or because the Tsar was so quick to make his move, but Yuuri couldn't tell, he had lost any track of time long ago.

All he knew, was that the sound of rushing footsteps filled his ears before they were replaced with heavy, unstable breaths.

Two warm, burning hands were on each side of his face, covering his temples and the skin behind his ears, forcibly pulling Yuuri up before he was even halfway gone into kneeling.

"Yuuri," his name, once again, was uttered so lovingly, in such a breathy manner that it almost didn't sound like his own. The Tsar's thumbs brushed back and forth against his cheeks and the sides of his lips, lifting Yuuri's head until their eyes met. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, however, because the Tsar's eyes were extremely unfocused, quickly moving from one spot on his face to the other, examining, checking, and perhaps memorizing. He almost seemed hurt and wounded when Yuuri first looked at him, until he would realize, long after that night, that this was what adoration looked like. "You… you look like a dream."

He speaks French quite nicely, was one of the thousands of thoughts that swam in Yuuri's mind at that moment, one of the few that weren't related to pain, misery, or Aki.

The taller man's eyes almost looked green from the faint light of the candles, not the same bright hue of Yurio's, although similar in shape, but a bit more unique in their hue, darker, yet more vibrant. It made him understand, for a moment, why the residents of this castle never agreed on which exact color they were.

His hands released his face, only to slide down to his neck, then to the exposed parts of his shoulders, the touch gentle and sparking a harsh trail of burns in their wake.

Yuuri's nose filled with the man's lovely scent, a mix of the finest of fragrances; of roses and lavender. He would've been completely lost in the way the Tsar's eyelids closed shut, the way his head swayed in random motions, taking in Yuuri's presence with gratification. His cheek moved against Yuuri's, his nose brushed against Yuuri's ear, his jaw against his forehead, his mouth against his hair. His breaths were loud, sensual, and too much.

Yuuri would've been completely lost, almost, only if the voices and alarms of danger inside his mind weren't so loud and dominant, reminding him repeatedly of where all of this gentleness was going.

Yuuri tried to close his eyes and dive into the hyperactivity of his senses, so overwhelmed by the simple actions of the man in front of him. But he couldn't, not when the loose part of the gown was almost going to fall completely and leave his shoulder naked and with no cover. Simply following his instincts, Yuuri hand grabbed on the fabric, trying to quickly tuck it back in place.

The Tsar opened his eyes, beautiful, sharp, and knowing eyes, his head pulling away from his ever so slightly, his gaze following Yuuri's hand.

Slender fingers tapped on Yuuri's knuckles, commanding him silently to pause his action, which Yuuri didn't. The ghostly touch turned into a rough grip, surrounding Yuuri's hand and forcing it to pull down the silk, exposing his shoulder entirely.

Yuuri bit back a gasp when cold lips landed on the soft skin of his shoulder, kissing it once, twice, thrice, and slowly moving upwards, leaving a trail of wet kisses all the way to his collarbone. The Tsar's hand held the back of his neck, restraining any movement as he latched on Yuuri's throat, his lips turning harsher with each kiss and suck.

The Tsar's lips attacked one, tiny point that Yuuri knew existed somewhere on his neck, but never predicted how it would feel to be touched. The sensation was enough to force his eyes to close and his lips to purse together tightly, holding off any noise that would indicate how overwhelmed he was. But the Tsar must've sensed the shiver that ran down Yuuri's spine, inviting him to continue, rougher and with more persistence until Yuuri let out a loud, shaky breath.

The movement finally stopped, and the man's mouth paused its ministrations. Yuuri opened his eyes, and a flash of silver was the last thing he saw before the Tsar's hold on the back of his neck tightened, and Yuuri's lips were suddenly covered by the same, cold ones that burned every part of him that they touched.

The Emperor of Russia kissed better than any concubine and Madam that Yuuri knew of. Yet, he wondered which one of them had better skill, for Yuuri was always praised to be a remarkable kisser.

He wouldn't know, not when he was so petrified, his lips frozen, his eyes wide open, and his heart punishing his ribcage with such brutal friction.

He hadn't cried in front of anyone since the first time a Madam trained him. He had never allowed himself to, no matter how harder his life became the following years.

The Madam didn't care about his tears, the nobleman didn't care about his tears, nor did the merchant ever care. They never stopped their continuous torture. If anything, his tears only served to make them more adamant on ruining him 'til there were none left to shed.

But Yuuri, pathetic, weak Yuuri, couldn't stop the single tear from escaping. The Tsar probably couldn't see it; it was so small, thin, and barely visible, but Yuuri felt it, felt the tremendous weight of that one drop, felt every bit of his dignity falling with the salty liquid from his eyes and down to the soft, expensive carpet under their feet.

Yet, the Tsar opened his eyes, wide, and pulled away instantly as if Yuuri was caught in flames.

Only when he saw that the other man was a few feet away did Yuuri breathe again, taking in a sharp inhale, feeling the tortuous pound against his ear, the soreness of his lips, and the unreliability of his balance.

It wasn't a single tear anymore, he realized, observing the width of the Tsar's pupils. The tears were pouring down and nothing could stop them anymore.

If there was anything he hated the most in the world, it was looking weak. He had known, from experience, that the weakness he always felt and saw in himself was sometimes overlooked by others, that his stiffness and reluctance often appeared as arrogance rather than vulnerability. Thus, his weakness was never shown openly, not when Yuuri had never allowed it to.

But the instant the Tsar stepped forward again, one hand raised as if to strike him, Yuuri, as hard as he could, flinched back and tried to show his weakness in its most deliberate display.

Yuuri wrapped his arm around himself, one hand closing over his naked shoulder and his head turning to the side. He bent his spine, his form shrinking and his eyes sending a pleading look of an animal about to be beheaded toward its butcher.

Please, please don't hurt me. Don't hurt me like the merchant. His form was begging, I'll be good. I swear I'll be good. Please don't hurt me.

Yuuri clenched his teeth, the tears continued to stream down, and he didn't want to stop them anymore, not when they were helping him.

After several moments of anticipation, of waiting for his owner to punish him, Yuuri's vision finally cleared, his eyes landing on the Tsar's raised hand, only to see that they were both raised together.

Looking closely, it almost seemed as if the Tsar had lifted his hands to reach out to him, not to beat him like Yuuri's mind had automatically predicted at first.

It couldn't be, Yuuri brushed that thought away immediately. He was being an inconvenience . A Tsar wouldn't tolerate that from anyone, let alone a sex slave that was too terrified to do his duty.

"Don't," the Tsar whispered, so low in tone that Yuuri nearly missed it. "Don't cry."

Yuuri shivered at the command, straightening his back to its normal position, having expected it to be voiced any second. Thankfully, his tears had dried then, and he knew they wouldn't be triggered again for a long time.

The Tsar was clearly startled; he must've not witnessed a slave so incompetent before in his entire reign, Yuuri guessed. If the other concubines of his harem were anything to judge from, then he was, indeed, as Bianca always pointed out, someone who was giving the harem a bad name.

Yuuri wondered how soon he'd be exiled. He hoped it wasn't too soon, he didn't want to part ways with Minako so abruptly.

The mere thought made his blood run cold, the realization of what he had done to his former teacher barely becoming clear.

The Tsar ran a hand through his silver locks, clearly not having anticipated this outcome. He crossed the room, stopping in front of a small round table and pouring a drink into a large glass made of colorless marble.

The man swallowed an entire serving of rich, red wine with three massive gulps, tightening his hold around the glass when he finished. He was shaking, Yuuri could clearly see, from anger and rage, most likely, which served nothing but make his fears grow back.

He was going to make him pay for it, Yuuri knew, he was merely trying to decide which punishment was painful enough.

Another glass was chucked down faster than Yuuri could follow, and he began wondering if the drunk Tsar would be as cruel as the merchant when he drank.

"Ah, Yuuri," the Tsar suddenly spoke, and the bitterness in his voice was something Yuuri couldn't miss. "That concubine who attacked you… Mila said that she had left you unharmed, but I want to be certain. Did she hurt you? In any way?"

Yuuri felt himself quivering under the piercing gaze of the Tsar behind his shoulder, as if he was ready to dig the girl's body from the grave and hang her again if Yuuri confirmed that she did.

Or perhaps, her highness had said something different, and the Tsar was merely waiting for him to lie so he could have a reason to hang Yuuri as well. It wasn't like he would favor Yuuri's statement over a member of the royal family, anyway.

Nevertheless, Yuuri shook his head, not trusting his voice, and remembering Sara's warning not to speak unless he was allowed to.

"Are you certain?" the man asked again, more bitter with his tone, as if there was anything to be done if Yuuri said otherwise. The girl was dead, dead. "Because I could…"

He left it there, not continuing that statement.

He could what? What was he implying? And why was he asking him this after all this time? Even if she had managed to cause him any physical injury, Yuuri would've been healed by now.

Yuuri shook his head again, and from the Tsar's reaction, it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

He poured himself a third glass, groaning when he drank it to its last drop.

With a fourth glass in hand, the Tsar made his way into a chair facing Yuuri, his form less stiff, yet more revealing of how irritated he was.

He smiled, nonetheless, forced and cold, then glanced at the side of his bed and back to Yuuri, "Oh," he took a large sip, his plastic smile widening as he placed the glass on the nearest table. He bent his body as he reached out to grab the item resting on the spot he was looking at. The movement made it clear that yes, the rumors were true, and even when he was dressed in a loose tunic and trousers, made of the finest of black silks, the Russian Emperor's form was as impressive and well built as the stories said. "Would you do something for your Tsar, Yuuri?"

He placed a wooden case on the mattress, unlocking it to show a beautiful violin inside, elegant as its owner, and shining from the undeniable quality.

The Tsar turned to him, wrapping a hand around the neck of the violin and holding the bow in the other. "Would you dance for me, Yuuri?"

His question must've been a mock, as if Yuuri had any other choice but to comply.

Either way, when Yuuri didn't answer, the Tsar sighed and ran the bow against the strings experimentally, fast and without elegance, just enough to make Yuuri hear what he wanted him to dance to.

"Yes?" the Tsar looked at him again for confirmation, and of course Yuuri knew that melody, no matter how different the tunes were coming out of that lone instrument, for he had only heard it from orchestras before.

It was one of the most sensual pieces that were ever created, a piece that almost every concubine knew how to sway and move along to, dancer or not. He had learned how to dance to that piece of music not even months after his slavery; Yuuri had perfected every single movement, had repeated them so many times in so many nations that it was almost engraved into his bones.

He didn't completely understand the Tsar's character yet, but with his choice of music alone, Yuuri already knew what he saw him as.

A tool for pleasure, a person that pleased, and nothing else.

Yuuri adjusted the shoulder piece of his gown, wondering how he will be able to move without ending up partially naked.

But he would try, because this time, he wasn't dancing in front of a crowd to entertain. He was dancing in front of one man, for his life .

Tsar Victor placed the chin rest of the violin appropriately in place, resting his fingers on the neck's strings, and the bow above the bridge's, making one eye contact with Yuuri then preceding to play.

If Yuuri didn't have to stay in form, prepare to break his pose and dance accordingly, he would have been awestruck by how well the Tsar actually played.

The man proved that the sample before was just a fragment of what he could do with that instrument.

Yuuri had heard that composition countless times, but somehow, somehow this man had played it better than any musician he had heard before.

Why, Yuuri thought hard, disbelief almost showing on his face and breaking character. Why would a Tsar practice such a cheap piece of music so many times?

Yuuri wasn't ignorant; no matter how talented the Tsar might be, to reach such perfection, he must have practiced it endlessly.

God knew how many other concubines he forced to dance with that particular melody.

Yuuri grabbed his invisible partner, locking them in his embrace.

He did not want to know. The thought alone was enough.

It wasn't a challenge, Yuuri had to admit. For a normal concubine, that dance should be spontaneous, sways of hips and soft hands running through their body sensually, whatever move that came in mind that would attract and please. But to Yuuri, it was a product of many practices, of many repetitions, and of many efforts to memorize the steps until the spontaneity faded and only the ability to train and apply had remained.

The Tsar, for the most part, had his eyes closed so he could focus on his playing. But occasionally, Yuuri would turn in an angle and see the man gazing at him with a stare that held so many intentions, intentions that Yuuri was too scared to decipher.

With a tilt of his head, Yuuri caught a glimpse of a black and white painting resting in a corner on the ground and leaning against the wall of the room. It was blurry, but even Yuuri was able to see that it was placed upside down, neglected, unfinished, and not meant to be displayed.

There was something strange about that portrait, something that made him feel uneasy about the person drawn on the canvas, and the person that drew them.

There were no major mistakes in his performance, if Yuuri could recall, save the occasional grimace as he broke his character a few times, a little untimely sway from the weakness that swept in some particular moments. Yuuri's expressions were as good as he could manage, the spins were steady enough, his hands touched the places they were required to, his smirk might have been believable, and all the attempts of keeping his outfit whole were successful.

The song had ended, and Yuuri almost mourned the loss of such pretty melody, until he was reminded of where he was once again.

Yuuri breathed normally, his cheeks warm and the heavy pants involuntary. He tightened his arms around himself, not breaking the final pose and glancing at where the Tsar was sitting, only to see that he was on his feet, tossing the instrument carelessly on the mattress.

He smiled wide, completely genuine this time, making his way slowly to where Yuuri was still standing, "Yuuri, that.. that was-"

Yuuri stepped back the moment he came too close, his fear returning to his core when he saw that the Tsar was about to touch him again. He looked pathetic, he knew that, but he couldn't help it.

The Tsar's smile instantly vanished, his jaw tightening and his dismay more intense than it was the first time.

That was it, Yuuri closed his eyes. Knowing that he had pushed his luck the furthest he can.

He would grab him, he would ignore his screams, he would throw his body into the bed, and he would have his way, as painfully as he could.

The Tsar was done with entertaining the whore that wouldn't do their job.

"You are dismissed."

Yuuri's eyes opened in shock, spotting the Tsar, with a hand covering the side of his face, walking to the table to retrieve his glass of wine, then heading back to stop by the window, the place he was standing on when Yuuri had first entered the room.

Sensing that Yuuri was still behind him, the Tsar placed both of his hands on the window's base, his shoulders tense from anger. "Didn't you hear me?" he spoke impatiently, "I said you can go."

Yuuri immediately turned, somehow managing to gather enough wits to figure out how to open the large wooden door.

"Oh, and Yuuri," the Tsar said in a dark tone, making Yuuri freeze in fear. "Tell the guards not to disturb me tonight."

Yuuri slipped outside as fast as he could, his breaths hitching and his heart resuming its violent beat.

He had almost reached the end of the corridor separating the Tsar's bedroom from the rest of the quarters when Yuuri heard a crash, an unmistakable sound of glass shattering against a hard, uncarpeted surface, a wall.

And Yuuri ran to where Sara was waiting, trying his hardest to ignore the look of disbelief on the guards' faces, who no doubt heard their Tsar's rage as clearly as Yuuri did.


It was a frequent occurrence for Yuuri to be unable to sleep for most days, his insomnia a problem he learned how to bear with for so long and without any complaint.

But that night, it was terrible.

Sleep was the only escape he could think of to forget about that day's events, even if it was accompanied with nightmares and unpleasant pictures. At least, at least they were fragments of his imagination and not concrete memories.

Yet, as usual, his body betrayed his wishes and forced him to lie as consciously as he feared.

He couldn't wrap his head about what happened; there were too many paths and destinations that his actions might lead him. But Yuuri was certain of one thing; he had entered a course that would shape his destiny into something horrific and there was no return from it.

It was only a matter of time before the consequences would dawn on him in the most terrible of ways.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and that was it, Yuuri had imagined it so vividly not a while ago, someone waking him in the middle of the night, covering his head with a sack, and leading him to his death. Perhaps to be beheaded, tossed into the ocean, or so that history could repeat itself, get burned until he was crippled.

Instead, when Yuuri opened his eyes, he didn't meet the villainous guards he saw in his imaginations, but it was a young, handsome face, expressionless and composed.

Yuuri sat up slowly, not making a sound, yet shocked all the same.

Otabek nodded his head into the exit of the harem, and held a hand for Yuuri to take.

Reluctantly, Yuuri allowed the knight to pull him to his feet, following the younger man until they were walking through the long corridors of the castle.

While Yuuri was trying to rub the blurriness out of his eyes, Otabek chose that opportunity to speak to him about what was happening.

"He couldn't sleep all night," the knight said, in a tone which suggested that Yuuri was already aware. "He wants to see you this instant."

Puzzled, Yuuri entered the door of the practice room after Otabek, spotting Prince Yurio, dressed in a sleeping attire with his back to them.

Yuuri bowed, even when Yurio couldn't see him. "Your highness-"

"Pig." Yurio grumbled in irritation, "If I had ever said something that offended you, I want you to know… that I wholeheartedly meant it."

Yuuri blinked, clueless to where the conversation was heading, yet knowing very well where he will find himself when it was over.

He had predicted that as well in his thoughts, when Yurio would realize that he had been tainted and not worthy of teaching him anymore. When he will realise how Yuuri upset his cousin, and take it upon himself to punish him for his arrogance.

Yurio might have not been perfect in his manners and his treatment of him, but he was a perfect student nonetheless.

Yuuri would lie of he said that he wouldn't mourn the loss of their lessons, which turned from something that fueled his anxiety to an activity he looked forward to at each dawn.

"You, you are an idiotic, infuriating, and repulsing man!" Yurio turned, his eyes glassy under the light of the moon as he quickly made his way to Yuuri, his teeth gritted and an index finger stabbing Yuuri's chest in anger. "You are all of those things, but you're not a whore! I won't allow you to become one!"

Yuuri's mouth hung agape. On his side, Otabek was nodding stubbornly along that nonsensical declaration.

"I am the Tsesarevich of this empire, I can - I can -" Yurio pushed his finger harder on Yuuri, struggling to find the right words to say. "I free you. I - you should get out of this castle - I don't - I don't want to see you here again. Do you understand?!" the Prince stuttered, "There's a village near the borders of Japan. Otabek will accompany you-"

"The trip would last five hours if we take the horses," Otabek confirmed, voice firmer than Yurio's. "If we leave now, we can reach our destination by the morrow, and find you the first ship to sail across the sea."

"You have my permission, then," Yurio quickly nodded, turning to face Yuuri with determination. "Go, pig, go home! Pass the borders and return to your kingdom! Victor doesn't understand, he will never understand, but I know, I know you don't belong in this whorehouse-"

Silence.

Yurio was small, no matter how big his words sounded or how loud his statements were. He was small, young and clueless, and Yuuri embraced him tightly, hoping he didn't notice how his face was crumbling with every phrase.

"Thank you, your highness," Yuuri smiled into his shoulder, a smile that radiated most of his sadness and despair. "But I am a criminal. I was stripped of all my titles when I escaped; I am not considered a citizen any more. By Japanese law, I would be killed the moment I pass the borders."

Yurio was twelve years old, soon to turn thirteen this spring. Even his capable knight, his most trustable counselor, with his mature and level headed character, was barely sixteen. Sometimes Yuuri would forget that fact when interacting with them, and see them instead as two adults who understood how the world worked, how most lovely thoughts never applied to reality.

"All my belongings were taken when I was enslaved," Yuuri continued, patting the Prince's back. "I will not be able to survive if I decided to go anywhere else, either."

Yurio pushed his chest, breaking the embrace violently.

However, Yuuri put both of his hands on the boy's shoulders, hurting both of them by his explanations.

"I am honored, your highness," Yuuri said, "But you're not the one who owns me. The only person who can free me is his majesty. Nevertheless, if the Tsar did release me one day, it would do more harm than good, for I will find myself in a worse situation."

It took Yuuri half a day of tasting freedom before he was captured; he did not want to know how long the second time would take, not when the outside civilization proved so hard and cruel.

He did not want to meet another man like the merchant. Never again, he chanted in his head, never again.

"Bloody hell." Yurio hissed, rubbing a hand so tightly against his face that he was almost squashing it. Yuuri would never admit to the Prince that he had seen his angry tears. "Damn it all!"

The boy rushed to exit the room, running, leaving Yuuri alone with Otabek for a couple of short instances before the knight went after him.

Before he left, however, Otabek had bowed his head slightly, wordless and yielding.

It had been so long since anyone had bowed for Yuuri, yet, it was the first time someone had ever bowed to him out of pity, and pity alone.

He stared out of the window, the skies foggy and dressed with condensed clouds, the moon coloring them with a radiant color of grey.

As a slave, he had thought of it before, so many times and during every waking moment, even as recently as his arrival to Russia, imagining a universe that did not exist out of his mind.

The sky was the only place that Yuuri would have an essence of the freedom he desired, and he wondered how much longer he needed to endure before he could find a place high above and never come back.


Yuuri wondered how many eyes could possibly be on him now, how many envious and hateful looks could be cast his way whenever he moved inside the harem walls.

They were many, they were so, so many.

Yuuri now had his own jewelry, a golden headband and a belt that signified that he was chosen, that he was currently above in rank than the other concubines that were never picked.

Normally, he would have been expected to carry twice as much when he came back from his night with the Tsar, since their emperor always left his concubines with fancy gifts upon their leave, but none of them knew what Yuuri had done, and perhaps none of them would ever know.

He no longer had to sleep alongside so many others in the sleeping quarters, for he now had a room on the second floor of the harem, reserved only for the chosen ones, warmer, more private, and isolated from the buzz of the first floor, with a small bed that wasn't attached to a dozen of others, and with a tiny dresser and a window he couldn't reach.

Yuuri didn't want any of it, he never wanted any of it, but they did not know that.

They didn't know anything. No one knew anything. But all sorts of news circulated nonetheless.

He began wishing that half of those stories told about him were true, if he were that powerful, confident witch that had held the attention of the most powerful man in the empire, an attention that did not leave his life hanging on a thread, a thread that could be cut at any moment.

He was a show puppet, dancing only with the movement of the master's strings. And Yuuri could only hold on for much longer until his owner decided to pull him behind the curtains.


After a few loud knocks, the person inside had given him permission to enter, and thus Yuuri did.

"Lord Chulanont?" he called softly, "You summoned me?"

"Oh, Yuuri!" the person sitting on the desk waved his hand excitedly, "Come in, come in! I'm almost done."

Silently, Yuuri shut the door behind him, entered the Grand Doctor's quarters, and walked his way to stand next to the desk.

Chulanont was a handsome young man, a few years younger than him and close to Otabek in age, but with an opposing character; so vibrant that it filled every corner of the room. The smile almost never faded on his face, and as talented and as intelligent he was, his features gave nothing of that away, but instead showed a playful being, friendly, agreeable, and easy to converse with. Yuuri could count on one hand the number of people he met in his life that were so comfortable to be in their presence like that.

"I used the same measurements we took for your first lenses," Chulanont said, a tongue sticking out on the side of his mouth as he tightened the tiny screw on the spectacles in his hands. "But if your sight had worsened since then, we can change it. The frame is brand new, however, and is in a different shape. This one's harder to break."

Yuuri knew that even if his sight, indeed, had become worse, he would never confess it. It was enough bother to the doctor and his apprentice as it is.

"Here you go." He pushed the magnifying glass to the side, and blew on the spectacles before handing them to Yuuri, with a smile as bright as the sun. "Ah, we used different materials, as commanded... "

When Yuuri examined them closely, he understood, in a horrifying realization, what he meant by that.

The lenses weren't round, but rectangular, and the body of the frame was made with something far shinier and smooth than to be considered a regular type of metal; it was silver, pure silver. The tips were coated with an unmistakable glint of gold, and two stones, each on one side of the frame, were sparkling so stunningly that it almost gave Yuuri a stroke.

Those aren't diamonds. His hands almost dropped the eyeglasses on the floor in shock. They can't be diamonds.

"I chose the diamonds myself!" Chulanont beamed carelessly, as if they weren't more expensive than Yuuri's entire existence, as if it won't take him the rest of his life to pay for them. "Take my word for it, Ciao Ciao does not have taste in such things. He even let me forge the golden parts, it was much enjoyable!"

"My Lord," Yuuri pleaded, nearly throwing the spectacles back to him, "This - I can't - There is no way-"

"Oh, call me Phichit!" he responded, neglecting the remaining of his plea. "I am not even a doctor yet, and Russian honorifics still sound strange to me. Oh, and speak to me in English, would you? I think we have butchered their language enough for today."

"Lord Phichit-"

"Phichit."

"Phichit-kun!" Yuuri snapped, "I can't afford this! It took months of my allowance to pay for the last ones!"

Phichit's thick eyebrows rose to the top of his head, Yuuri almost thought that he would either mock how poor he was, or scold him for raising his voice.

Instead, Phichit grinned, chuckling as he said, in perfect English, almost matching Yuuri's: "Yuuri, it's a gift. I don't need a single coin. I told you, we made them per command."

"Who's command? "

"Why," the younger man exclaimed. "His majesty's, of course. He even wanted us to put rubies on It's a wonder how Ciao Ciao managed to convince him that it would make them uncomfortably heavy. And Yuuri, do you know how fast we had to work? Goodness, he wanted them made overnight and wouldn't settle for less."

"Huh?" was all what Yuuri managed to utter.

What does that mean? What does that mean? Yuuri's mind raced. Why is he giving me gifts? Why is he doing this? What does he want to prove? What does he want from me?

"Oh, Yuuri," Phichit laughed with closed eyes, "You're so amusing! Nothing like the stories."

Yuuri pursed his lips, somehow managing to shut his mind and form a coherent reply to that strange, and sudden observation. "Stories?"

"I…" Phichit's laughter died down, making Yuuri feel guilty at the loss of such lively sound. "I am sure it's nothing you haven't heard before…"

Yuuri clinched his free hand, turning his head away in shame.

"I had no idea, I apologize." Phichit continued, "People from the harem always talk about that… that evil witch. The whole castle had heard about your alleged wickedness. But I didn't know it was you , I always saw you helping people around and took you as a kind servant working under Miss Minako. I and Leo talk about you all the time! Even Cia Cia was clueless. I saw you at the infirmary many times before, tending to your own injuries, I thought... I thought that you were clumsy when you worked, that's why you were there so frequently. I tried to approach you and help you, but you always shied away. I only knew the truth yesterday morning when we started working on your eyeglasses. It's such a strange thing, isn't it?"

Yuuri sighed, "I wouldn't know."

"They are only stories, Yuuri," Phichit assured him. "Everyone knows that the concubines tend to exaggerate. I only found out by chance."

"They are." Yuuri found himself saying.

"Sorry?"

"They are only stories," Yuuri repeated, hoping he could cleanse his image to him, at least only a little. "I mean, Phichit-kun, take a good look at me."

Phichit shook his head, "From what I've seen, you are not wicked, and certainly not practicing any witchcraft. Maybe you are a bit too shy and reserved," he giggled, "But not everyone is like me, I suppose!"

Yuuri blinked. That might have been the kindest, truest thing he had ever heard about himself in a long time. "That's-"

"Leave you from that," Phichit waved, uninterested in what Yuuri had to say. He reached to the end of the table to grab a pad of papers and a small, sharpened piece of black chalk. "Now, let me see how this masterpiece looks on you."

Carefully and slowly, as if his own hands would shatter the eyeglasses to pieces, Yuuri put them on, noting how comfortable they were on his nose, and the bigger coverage they provided than the first ones.

The world, once again, was sharp and bright with detail. Yuuri had definitely missed the stunning clarity.

"Goodness!" Phichit cheered, loud as ever. "He was right, this shape does suit you more!"

Yuuri glanced at the young lord, his fingers fastened around the piece of chalk that now began to move against a paper with fascinating speed.

"Phichit-kun?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Phichit turned, his focus breaking. "Can I draw you? I sketch really quickly, I will only take a few minutes."

"Of course." Yuuri replied, awkwardly standing still and wondering why Phichit even bothered to draw someone like him.

"I am no Russian emperor with silver hair, per se," Phichit smiled as he worked, "But I can't go through the day without drawing at least a dozen of random sketches."

"The Tsar paints?" Yuuri wondered aloud.

Phichit hummed in confirmation. "I heard he drew countless masterpieces when he was young. There's a painting of her highness, Princess Mila, on the grand corridor. It is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever seen. Though, I heard he has not drawn in years."

Yuuri looked at nowhere in particular, remembering that one black and white painting he saw resting on the floor of his majesty's bedroom.

"Is he as charming as they all say?"

Yuuri frowned, "What?"

"The Tsar," Phichit clarified, distracted by his sketching. "All the concubines describe him as such a symbol of charm and elegance that I find it hard to believe."

"It's not false, exactly." Yuuri whispered, not knowing how to describe that man with justice. "He's so…"

"Hm?"

Yuuri recalled the Tsar's raised hands, how he wildly drank his wine, how beautifully he played, how he moved from one corner of the room to the other in such long, fast strides, how he bent to grab his violin, how carelessly he threw it when Yuuri finished dancing, how upset and angry he was when he dismissed him, and how he shattered the marble glass against the wall once Yuuri left.

"He's-" he paused, barely registering how true his conclusion was. "He's less graceful than I imagined."


Yuuri felt a hand shaking his shoulder, and with a startled jump, he found himself leaning on a chair in the grand library of the castle, nearly pushing it until he fell on the floor.

"Son?"

In a haze, Yuuri glanced in front of him to see one of the librarians, a worried expression on his face.

"It's half past midnight," the old man said with a kind smile, "Go rest. You have been in here all day."

Yuuri nodded, ashamed of falling asleep, yet again, on the pile of work he had for that night. He didn't know when, exactly, he had finished all the translations, he only knew that the tiredness hugged him like a bear the instant he wrapped the last letter.

Bidding the man goodnight, Yuuri arranged all of the letters on the empty corner for Minako to find them in the morning, feeling the little doses of guilt when he realized that almost two days had passed and Yuuri still did not have the courage to confront her after what had happened.

Lazily, Yuuri walked out of the library and into the corridor that trailed to the harem, briefly passing the staircase leading to the north wing with a sudden rise of awareness. The mere reminder of the night he climbed them to the Tsar Victor's private quarters was still too recent to overlook.

Yurio did not want him to be a whore, Yuuri thought back with a sigh, but even that wasn't set on stone.

If the Taking had gone per ritual, Yuuri would have stayed in the harem for a few months before he was transported somewhere else, so another young, beautiful, fresh concubine could take his place.

The place he could be sent to was not to be decided until more concubines arrive, but his role will be undeniable. He won't be considered pure and untouched any longer, and would be treated as such, as a whore who would be passed from one man or woman to another, whoever paid best, with a price a lot of people could easily afford.

But Yurio did not know that the Taking had not gone per ritual, and Yuuri was, as ever, clueless to his fate.

Lost in thought, Yuuri failed to notice how dark, silent, and isolated the path was, failed to notice that he was not alone.

For Yuuri was distracted, feeling the weight of his eyeglasses almost crushing his nose from their worth, from what they signified.

Maybe, he thought, taking them off to rub the hem of his tunic against the lenses, cleaning them for the hundredth time that day even when he knew they were as clear as they could be. Unconsciously, he worried that his mere skin might ruin them. Maybe the Tsar gave me that handsome gift because he had forgiven me?

Or was the Tsar setting a trap? The more dominant part of his mind supplied. Was he making Yuuri feel safe and assured, just so he could punish him at the least unexpected time, and mock him for ever daring to feel secure?

It was only then that he had sensed it, a mere silhouette in the darkness, their head held upright with a gaze directed solely on Yuuri with purpose.

Even with the little light in that narrow corridor, that person's eyes were so vivid and crystal clear, providing the only color he could see in that small medium, two large irises painted in a shade that only one other individual in that castle had.

But those ones weren't round, bright, and pretty. They were cut into dangerous slits, holding eye contact with him in a look he had come to recognize over the years.

Yuuri held the spectacles in a clenched hand before raising his head, and it did not take much longer until it happened.

It was almost written prior, that particular scene. He could have worded the exact outcome on paper, with every little detail only short moments before what he wrote would come true. It happened to him so many times before, that predicting those scenarios were now fairly easy.

An angry, clutched fist connected with Yuuri's face, solid, sharp knuckles digging into his eyeball with so much force that it threw his entire body to the side.

The back of Yuuri's head hit the wall beside him with a loud thud, the impact as hard as the punch that caused it, or perhaps even harder and much more painful, and for one, fully conscious moment, Yuuri thought that during his entire stay in Russia, no one had ever hit him like that before, no one had ever come close to, many as they were.

The anger that radiated off of his attacker, however, was something he was far more familiar with for it to be a surprising encounter.

He didn't know whether to laugh at what his life had become, or cry a waterfall. It did not matter, he was incapable of doing both of those actions, anyway.

"I will kill you the next time you lay a hand on her. Do you understand?!"

No, I don't understand! Yuuri wanted to shout back, but he might have swallowed his tongue on accident when he was hit. Why don't you do it now?!

But alas, nothing happened after that, the deed was only halfway done and his attacker had already walked away with rapid footsteps that echoed all around him.

Yuuri slid against the cold wall, a pitiful, loud moan escaping his throat from the pain.

His balance was in shambles, and Yuuri could barely feel it when he had reached the floo. His legs extended before him, useless and resigned.

The infirmary was too far, his body was not moving, and Yuuri was slowly forgetting where he was. The last candle in the corridor was slowly extinguishing with the hurried whiffs of the wind, careless to his dilemma.

But Yuuri saw them, he saw a glimpse of their evident sparkle with his good, uninjured eye, in a hazy view that resembled a mirage before everything turned into darkness, from the absence of light, or the loss of the last bits of his consciousness, Yuuri did not know.

The eyeglasses aren't broken. He thought before closing his eyes in surrender, relief washing over his every bone. Victor would be mad if they were broken.