[A/N]
Hello dear readers! I'm sorry for the long wait but here's a GIGANTIC chapter for you! And I just want to leave a little tiny note. This fanfiction is available on Ao3, and there I leave very important notes and links (pictures, gifs, fanart, translations etc) and it makes me guilty knowing that you're missing out on that experience, so I'll recommend you to take a look at it (it's by the same title and author name). I answer all the comments in there so please ask me if you have any questions! Enjoy.
Lie awake in bed at night
And think about your life
Do you want to be different?
Try to let go of the truth
The battles of your youth
'Cause this is just a game
x
It's a beautiful lie
It's a perfect denial
Such a beautiful lie to believe in
x
Everyone's looking at me
I'm running around in circles, baby
A quiet desperation's building higher
I've got to remember
This is just a game
x
30 Seconds To Mars - A Beautiful Lie
It was the hardest thing to do to figure out the exact orientation of his body, let alone process all the noises echoing around him, loud, vexed, and filled with panic in all forms and from various sources, all of them so hard to tell apart and decipher.
Yuuri had been tossed over someone's shoulder, the position causing his abdomen to ache terribly. The collision of his head against the person's back revived the overwhelming pain on his face, his senses barely registering its intensity with every rushed stride.
"Hand him to me!"
Yuuri felt a hand brushing his back, and an arm sliding across his shoulder blades, holding him tightly, then another, resting under the back of his knees.
Yuuri's body flipped upside down, his head hanging toward the floor from the lack of support.
The shouting came back, louder this time and even more panicky. Yuuri wanted to beg the man holding him in his arms to stop, because the throbbing in his head was becoming unbearable.
His neck was starting to sting, and whether the person sensed the discomfort or not, he shuffled Yuuri closer to him so that the back of his head was pillowed on his arm.
Yuuri's face was now against the man's chest, and he couldn't help but appreciate the familiar scent that filled his nose, sweet and heavy with roses and lavender.
"Yuuri," a gruff voice called as Yuuri's consciousness took its time to fully return. "Ah, finally. Here you are."
The throbbing in his head continued, so painful and harsh against his skull. He just wanted to know who was stabbing so many needles into the side of his head, and why.
Instead, no one was. When he opened one of his eyes, he found Cialdini's face in front of him, his brows joined together in a crease of concentration as he covered Yuuri's other eye with bandages, leaving something very cold underneath them.
"We wouldn't be able to find anyone at this hour; the whole castle is asleep. We have to wait until the morning at least. "
"She's right, your majesty. We cannot do anything until we know what exactly happened."
His eyelid weighed kilos and he was tired, he was so, so tired from the pain, from the loud racket in the background, and from the punishing bright lights of the countless candles in the room. He was so tired of it all. He just wanted to surrender to the exhaustion and go back to the painless nothingness, and perhaps never recover from it.
"Yuuri," Cialdini called again, more insistently this time. "Stay with me. What's my name?"
"Nekola," a call came from behind them. It was as loud as the rest of the voices, yet, that one was overly calm and composed. In a way, it made the command sound more terrifying and authoritative. "Nekola?"
"Y-Yes, your majesty?"
"Where's Crispino? He's the one who found him. Where's he?"
"Cialdini..." the mere amount of concentration Yuuri needed to remember was about to make his head explode. "Phichit… Phichit calls you Ciao Ciao."
"Yes, yes he does. Very good." The doctor smiled, wrapping a bandage on the uninjured side of his head to fully block his eye. "And what is yours?"
"Yuuri."
"Your mother's?"
It took him a moment. "Hiroko."
"What a lovely name." Cialdini fastened the bandages with a small metallic clip. "Do you remember what she was like?"
"No… no I don't." From Cialdini's worried face, Yuuri clarified. "She passed away when I was young. I can..."
Yuuri stopped talking the moment he realized what he was about to offer. He was going to say that he can tell him about his sister instead, only, Yuuri wouldn't have been able to tell him much about her, either.
He could barely remember anything about Mari, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his head injury.
"I… I did not see anyone else in the corridor, your majesty. It was very dark-"
"How did you let this happen?" the one eerie voice returned, making Yuuri twitch in his spot. "Did I not tell you to keep your eyes on him?"
"Your majesty, Michele and I were changing shifts at the time of the attack. This was entirely my fault."
"No, Emil," the response was an angry whisper, "It's mine, and no one else's."
"No, no need to say anything. Your memory seems perfectly fine." Cialdini said, relieved. "Do you know who attacked you? And if not, describe them for me."
Yuuri tried to organize and differentiate all the vague memories and voice them, but it was all in vain. "Give me a minute..."
"Listen carefully," loud thuds of footsteps echoed around the room. At that, Yuuri allowed himself to finally look past Cialdini's shoulder. Minako was there, he saw first, unable to remain still and moving back and forth rapidly, only stopping to watch the person who passed her and headed to the two men standing on the other side of the room. Yuuri recognized both of them, for they were the same guards that stood in front of the Tsar's door at the last night of the Taking. The Tsar's footsteps stopped in front of the shorter guard, and Yuuri felt a cruel shiver running down his own spine when he saw that cold smile on the Tsar's face. Yuuri had only seen something that resembled it when he talked to that servant so long ago. Yet, this one, this one almost radiated death itself. " I'm in no need of two useless guards. If you don't find the culprit and bring him to me, by god, I'll have both your heads on a spike instead. Do I make myself clear?"
Yuuri hissed, one of his lids burning as he tried to keep it open, the other one in flames from the pain.
"Yuuri," Cialdini's tone sharpened. "Where does it hurt?"
"My head." He whined, cupping the back of it, "My head."
His complaint came out louder than he intended, enough to notify everyone of his presence. The conversation instantly dropped and the sound of two different sets of footsteps neared to where Yuuri was sitting, one soft and almost inaudible, while the other was quick and robust with its movements.
Rapid questions were fired toward the poor doctor, who seemed quite taken aback and overwhelmed by their amount, and more evidently, by the person who was asking them.
The Tsar couldn't decide on what to inquire first, and was demanding to know everything from how long Yuuri had been conscious, to how bad his state was, and to what exactly Cialdini had done to him. All at once. His sentences were tangling together from the quickness of his speech, which was barely making any of his words sound clear.
Cialdini collected himself and stood from where he was kneeling in front of Yuuri. The doctor tried to respond to each question calmly, but as soon as he realized that his Tsar was not focused enough to pay any attention, he directed his answers toward Minako, who was now standing next to them and nodding to each word.
The Tsar's blue eyes held Yuuri's in an unbreakable, uncomfortable gaze. They were telling so many statements by their width and sharpness alone, yet none were verbal for anyone to hear, just for Yuuri to sense and quiver under.
All he said to him aloud was a combination of three, simple words that meant nothing other than a death sentence. "Who was it?"
Yuuri drifted his line of sight 'til it spotted the person standing in the back, looking at Yuuri as if he was the reaper himself, holding the end of a scythe above his head, ready to end his life with only one answer.
He is one of your own guards.
He has a slightly dark tone of skin.
Brown hair.
Exceptional violet eyes.
He's most certainly related to Sara.
He is standing right behind you.
His name is Michele Crispino.
"I don't know."
The Tsar blinked. For a few moments, no one spoke, no one even moved or breathed aloud. Disbelieving eyes pinned Yuuri down, a hair away from causing his resolve to break and the truth to unleash.
But it didn't. Because whenever Yuuri stole a quick glance toward his attacker, the man's face would become more pale, his posture more shaken, and his pupils wider. If Yuuri as much leaned back and allowed his mind to drift, he would see Michele surrounded by darkness and death, with crimson blood running down his mouth and jaw, with colorless hollow in his eye sockets, and with skin even paler than it already was, so pale that he wouldn't be able to differ it from clean sheets of paper.
And Yuuri didn't want that. Yuuri would never want that.
Sara would be sad, and Yuuri didn't want Sara to be sad.
The Tsar's eyebrows furrowed together, irritation seeping in into his face slowly at the unsatisfying answer, "Do you not remember?"
Yuuri shook his head.
"Can you at least tell me what they looked like, Yuuri?"
He shook his head again. "I don't know."
"Where did they go after they attacked you?"
"I don't know."
"Why did they attack you?"
"I don't know."
In a matter of seconds, the Tsar was standing right in front of him, his hand resting on the side of the chair, and his body leaning in slowly until he had Yuuri in a cage under him.
From the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw the Tsar's hand trembling as he spoke, "Don't lie to me, Yuuri. Who dared to do this to you?"
He looked down to his lap, his chest hurting by his irregular, suppressed breaths, his ribcage shrinking torturously, only serving to add additional pain into his body. Yuuri's surroundings smeared in foggy clouds of blurriness, his vision getting deprived from any pivot,
"He will kill him." Yuuri choked, using his mother language so only one person in the room can understand his pathetic plea. "He will kill him too. I have enough blood in my hands. Please. No more… No more."
"Your majesty." Minako instantly interfered, because of course she would. Because she would never waste a chance to jump to her student's rescue. Because she was the only one who was able to see how bad his state was.
Because she was all the hope that Yuuri had. Now, then, and always.
"This was the second time he was attacked right under my nose." The Tsar said, then paused to glare at Yuuri. "Unless… there were more which I'm not aware of?" he whipped his head toward Minako. "What did he say? Who attacked him? How much does he rememb-"
"Victor," Minako rebuked in horror. "Victor, good god! You're scaring him!"
In an instant, Yuuri was released. And only then did he exhale the large breath he was holding against his will.
The Tsar had detached himself from his side and had stepped back the same exact way he did the night he saw Yuuri crying. This time, however, his hands weren't raised in the air. They were now flat on his sides and slowly disappearing behind him, as if the man was trying to hide them out of sight; Yuuri's sight.
Minako had taken his place and was rubbing comforting circles on Yuuri's back, in a way he did not deserve after what he had done to her.
"Oi, little one," she whispered gently, talking to him in Japanese. "Calm down. He's only angry because he cares about you, don't you see? I am angry too. Who wouldn't be when you're this hurt?"
"You don't..." Yuuri whispered back. "You don't kill people when you're angry."
Minako winced, standing upright and directing her next words to the Tsar. "He says he did not see anything. Michele, do you vouch for this?"
The guard blinked a few times, as if the sound of his name plucked him out from another dimension of thoughts. "It was… It was very dark."
"The servants don't change the candles after midnight." The other guard - Emil Nekola - added. "The attack must have taken place after the lights died out. It's a moonless night, too; no one would have been able to see clearly at that time."
"Forgive me for saying this," Minako said, her words sour and her burned jaw tightening with dismay. "But your majesty, you like to forget the fact that Yuuri is a concubine in your harem. These things are deemed to happen. It never happened before because you had never given anyone special attention. I warned you about this."
The Tsar did not retaliate, only chose to dart his eyes dangerously toward the two guards, as if their presence was a mere nuisance to him.
The men stiffened at the scrutiny, and that look alone was enough for them to understand whatever he silently commanded. They began heading toward the door instantly after an echo of the Tsar's honorifics.
Minako nodded "I shall escort Yuuri to the infirmary myself-"
"He's staying here!" the Tsar finally snapped, making all the other five people in the room jump by the angry tone of his voice alone.
Yuuri swallowed a heavy bile in his throat, clutching his hands tightly against his thighs, fearful of raising his head. Amidst all the haze and confusion, he did not take time to notice his surroundings or tried to pinpoint where he was exactly. Yuuri dwelt more on why Michele, his attacker, had crossed such a long distance with Yuuri on his shoulder, only to bring him to the man that could end both of their lives, rather than where he had taken him.
One careful look around the room, and Yuuri had to hold back a whimper.
He was, once again, in the Tsar's private quarters. In his bedroom. And he was sitting on a chair that was attached to the wall at the right side of the room.
And next to him, he knew too well, leaning on the same wall, neglected, mysterious, and sinister, was the wretched black and white painting.
A soft clack forced Yuuri's eyelids to twitch.
His consciousness fought against his state of oblivion, both sides engaging in an unmerciful battle, paying him no mind as Yuuri was juggled between the two, rapidly and without care.
He was only waiting for it to end, helpless and resigned, until one of them was finally victorious.
Yuuri snapped his eye open and noticed that the lights had gone fainter, the room quieter, and his pain duller; almost gone completely. The only thing he could feel was the numbness from the bag of ice that rested between his lid and the bandages.
The sheets were so soft, the mattress so comfortable and accommodating his form in such a perfect fit that it seemed like it was begging him to return to his previous slumber.
Until he heard that voice again, caressing the syllables of his name gently, carefully, forcing his awareness to reach its peak without falter.
The mattress dipped down from an additional weight, and Yuuri did not dare to look up and face the Tsar.
"You're awake." He whispered, keeping his voice low, like he was not certain of his own statement. At the same time, he was raising his hand with caution to reach toward Yuuri's side.
Yuuri squeezed his eye shut, turning his head away. Even in his powerless state, he ran away, even from something as trivial as a single touch.
The contact never happened, however, and the Tsar's hand had returned to its place.
"I know what you're thinking." The man sighed, "I couldn't protect you. Is that what you want to hear? An Emperor of a great nation admitting that he couldn't keep a single man safe?"
Yuuri's eye widened at the ludicrousness of it all. The Tsar, saying such things to him. The Tsar, wanting to protect him. The Tsar, thinking that Yuuri was vain enough to evenconsider that line of thoughts.
This is a dream, Yuuri thought, finally allowing himself to look at his owner, who was sitting at the side of the bed and facing away from him. This is a damn dream.
"I can, however, guarantee that the culprit will be brought to justice." The Tsar continued, determined. "Half of my guards are looking for him; it won't take much longer."
But I don't want him to be brought to justice. Yuuri thought desperately.
"You won't be violated ever again, Yuuri." He turned to him, a lethal glint in his eyes. "I promise you this with my honor."
Yuuri wanted to laugh hysterically.
Violations. Honor. Promises. When did they matter? Not once. Not ever.
The Tsar was on his feet, crossing the room with quick strides as he spoke. "It's good that you had woken up." He stopped in front of the large shelves near the wall. "Celestino said that it's not safe for you to sleep through the night."
Yuuri merely blinked, still convinced that this version of the emperor was a product of his imagination.
The Tsar grabbed the spine of a book at the far end of the top shelf, giving it one sharp, hesitant look before heading back to the bed.
"Celestino gave you some very strong painkillers. But I need to keep you awake for a few more hours, at least." He sat next to Yuuri's legs, "So let me-"
The Tsar clipped his lips together in silence when his gaze landed on Yuuri's outstretched hand.
Yuuri did not understand why the Tsar seemed so shocked. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? Yuuri couldn't dance or move, but he could read for him. It was the least he could do to entertain his owner with the current inconvenience.
Silently, the Tsar handed him the book and didn't take his eyes off of Yuuri as he opened its leaves with numb hands.
The book opened by itself in half, and resting between two wilted pages, was a single rose that was dried up to a point where its petals crumbled at the exposure. It must have been scarlet red at some point, Yuuri noted, looking at the mixture of dirty browns that it was currently layered with.
A part of Yuuri wondered, almost too curiously, who it was that gave the Tsar that rose, for it must have been very important to him. He had kept it hidden so carefully, tucked somewhere that no one else could find it, where no one else could touch it.
Yuuri wondered if it was a past lover; someone who had the Tsar's heart in their hands at some point in his life, for the man must have lived countless of passionate romances before.
Or perhaps it belonged to someone much more important, someone who had a bigger role in his life. Maybe a mother who had gone ahead of her time, or a father who had neglected his son for decades.
Yuuri calmly turned the book to the side and opened the first page, not showing any further interest in it so the man wouldn't think that he was meddling with private matters that did not concern him.
However, it was snatched away from him in a blink of an eye.
Gulping, Yuuri glanced at a very irritated looking Tsar, who had plucked the rose out quickly, only stopped to give it one angry, helpless look, then tossed it on the nightstand before giving the book back.
"I've tried to get rid of this rose many times before." The Tsar confessed, like he was telling Yuuri a filthy secret. "But I enjoy the pain, it seems."
Without thinking, Yuuri asked: "Pain?"
The Tsar raised his head, as if he was surprised to hear Yuuri's voice. "Yes," he whispered. "Pain."
He wondered, almost surprising himself by such strange interest, if the Tsar will ever tell Yuuri the story behind it. For Yuuri wanted to know who was it that hurt a man like the Tsar, who had left such an impact on someone who seemed so invincible.
'Who do you think you are?' Bianca laughed at his arrogance, 'You are no one! You are worthless!'
Yuuri surrendered to her, like he always did, and ignored his newly formed headache as he squinted at the small French letters.
"You need your spectacles, don't you?" the Tsar's tone almost, almost made him believe that he was actually concerned. But no; he was only going to point out that Yuuri couldn't put them on while his head was wrapped with so many bandages. He was only going to point out how useless Yuuri truly was. "If you do then-"
"No." Yuuri lied, afraid of hearing what he would say next. "No, I don't."
"You're nearsighted, then?" the man furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, as long as it's not a bother – Ah, speaking of which… It was most fortunate that they did not break."
Why? Yuuri wondered, not trusting himself to voice his question aloud as he watched the Tsar reaching out for the nightstand. Because it was too precious of a gift for someone like myself? Because breaking them would have been careless and ungrateful of me? Because you would have-
"Yuuri," the Tsar lowered his voice, narrowing his eyes as he held the eyeglasses in front of him. "If the lenses broke while you were wearing them, god forbid, you could have turned half blind."
Yuuri only stared at him in utter bewilderment.
A dream. He chanted. It's definitely a dream.
The Tsar folded the spectacles and put them away, the action allowing Yuuri to see how the muscles of his shoulders rippled under the soft fabric of his tunic. The Tsar glanced at him, then suddenly and without warning; he unleashed a gentle smile that made Yuuri feel more sedated than the medications had made him.
"The thought is very unpleasant, indeed." The man said, as if he had any idea on what was circulating in Yuuri's mind.
Yuuri gave him a firm shake of his head. In all honesty, going half blind did not seem too bad. Perhaps if one of them was deformed, people would then stop noticing how strange his eyes were, like how they always overlooked Minako's and only found Yuuri's peculiar.
He secured the neglected book steadily on his lap, in an angle where the candle light could reach it the most, and began reading 'La Chute du Prince Charmant' as lucidly as he could muster.
Yuuri didn't know when, exactly, he had allowed his eyelid to close and his back to rest against the feathery pillows. He did not know how long he sat there, reading and reading until his throat felt dry, then read some more, afraid that he shouldn't stop even when he wanted to.
All he knew was that the Tsar watched him the whole time, for hours at the very least, without looking away for even a second, without letting that gentle smile drop from his face, a smile that Yuuri had only seen fixed his way.
He found himself sitting on the corner of the Tsar's bed early the next morning, the memories of the night before still feeling like a complete and utter dream. The only thing that managed to convince him otherwise was the pain in his head, the continuous throbbing that did not seem to cease since the sedatives had worn off.
Though, Yuuri assumed, the young man in front of him that was tending to his wound would've been a more convincing element.
Phichit was talking animatedly, almost never pausing to take a breath as he changed Yuuri's bandages with skillful hands. Yuuri was certain that no room would ever be soundless with the presence of that lively noble, and he was thankful for it.
"I must say," Phichit said with a sly smile, "I've been living in this palace for years and this is the first time I've seen the Tsar's quarters. It's ten times as big as mine, and so very warm."
Yuuri looked around the room, his gaze lingering in the darkest areas where the sun did not reach, fearing that the man would appear from the shadows at any given moment. "Do you know where he is?"
"Ciao Ciao said something about a trip to Moscow. In case you aren't aware, the Tsar travels around Russia quite often." Phichit informed, rubbing the ball of his thumb against the skin under Yuuri's eye with an ointment. "They left at dawn. Though, his majesty almost made Ciao Ciao stay behind."
"Why would he do that?" Yuuri asked, curious as to why an emperor would travel anywhere without his Grand Doctor in tow. Furthermore, he wondered why that man had bothered to stay awake the whole night, knowing that he had a tiring trip ahead of him. The Tsar did not even touch the bed, Yuuri knew. He must've not gotten a minute of rest if the party did leave that early.
And that… that is very concerning for a ruler of a nation, isn't it?
Phichit grinned. "I heard that his precious needed medical attention, and his majesty was reluctant to leave them under anyone else's hands."
Yuuri frowned. "Who?"
Phichit's smile dropped dramatically. "You're surely jesting…"
His frown turned into a glare. "I'm not his precious."
"Yuuri," Phichit said in disbelief, his thumb stopping its movements. "Yuuri, your attacker is being sought out by every remaining guard in this castle. Do you think his majesty would do that for just anyone?"
"It's against the law to attack a concubine." Yuuri didn't know whether he was trying to convince Phichit, or himself. "A concubine is a property of the Tsar… attacking one is more degrading to him than anyone else."
"A law?" Phichit's lips curled in amusement. "A law that's almost always overlooked? Yuuri, do you know how many other concubines had been assaulted during his reign?Countless of them. And do you know how many he actually punished so severely for it?"
Yuuri feared the answer. He was starting to imagine a cemetery filled with dead corpses until Phichit quickly answered his own question.
"None." He said with emphasis, "Well, that's assuming that the last death sentence wasn't because of you, which I know it is. And if so, then one."
Yuuri was about to tell him to stop bluffing when the door of the bedroom opened with a creak, revealing a mass of disheveled brown hair that belonged to a man who, at first glance, looked completely miserable.
Whatever calmness and assurance Phichit had given him, Michele had managed to absorb it all, inviting his fears and anxiety to take their place almost instantly.
He's going to finish what he started, isn't he? Yuuri thought, his heartbeat escalating. No one would want to leave a witness to their crime, not when so many people are ready to catch him.
Michele's golden armor was replaced with a silver one, Yuuri noted, hoping with everything he had that the Tsar didn't actually take away his position as a loyal guard; Michele would resent him even more because it. And Yuuri honestly didn't think that it was worth it to take away so much from him for that trivial of a reason.
"What is it?" Phichit asked with a casual tone, his hands carefully cleaning the collected fluids around Yuuri's ruined eye.
"Sir," to his utter shock, Michele wasn't addressing Phichit – who deserved the title for his high status. No, Michele, with his clenched jaw and reluctant violet eyes, was talking to Yuuri. "By his majesty's orders, I shall be your guard starting from today."
Yuuri didn't know how long had passed, his disbelief so overwhelming that it was unclear whether it was slowing down everything around him, or making everything speed up. He wasn't sure.
Michele waited for a response, which he did not receive. Phichit's playful expression – as if he was silently telling Yuuri he was right – was starting to turn into obvious concern.
He didn't know what possessed the Tsar to do that; to choose his own attacker out of every other man in this whole castle, in this whole empire, to keep Yuuri safe.
Yuuri wasn't a noble anymore, he was a slave, and slaves didn't have guards, shouldn't have guards. Not even Minako had guards unless she went somewhere out of the palace. Phichit had a guard with him occasionally. Celestino had two outside his quarters. Yurio had half a dozen that he always escaped from. And the Tsar himself, of course, had almost too many to count. But no concubine ever had one, why would a concubine even need one?
Were the gods practicing a cruel joke? Was Michele coming up with an excuse to get Yuuri alone so he could finally end his life and cleanse himself from all the remaining evidence of his act? Or did the Tsar know that it was Michele who attacked him and found the whole situation amusing?
For some reason, even Yuuri didn't believe the last of his thoughts; not with what his majesty had told him that night, and not when he remained awake despite having a long trip the next morning, just to follow Cialdini's instructions. And not when the man seemed willing to kill the culprit with his own hands.
Yuuri knew almost nothing about Victor Nikiforov, but the one concrete fact he was sure of, was that the man wouldn't allow anyone to hurt Yuuri. Anyone but himself, at least.
But why? Why did the universe enjoy being so ironically cruel when Yuuri only wanted to be left alone to suffer from his own sins?
He didn't notice when Phichit finished wrapping a fresh bandage securely on Yuuri's head, replaced the tiny bag of melted ice that Cialdini applied prior with a new one, and was already collecting his things and speaking to Michele with an authoritative tone.
"… Keep a very careful eye on him. God knows this man needs protection-"
"Phichit-kun." Yuuri pleaded.
"Am I wrong?" Phichit blinked at him, "You get attacked almost every day. Do you think I don't see you spending more time in the infirmary than even myself and the nursemaidens? This needs to stop."
It won't stop. Yuuri thought, glancing at Michele and feeling anything but safe and protected. It will never stop.
The Tsar was a liar like all the rest of them, he concluded later that day when Michele and Phichit had left him alone.
He had promised him, but even a Tsar's honor wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to withhold against Aki, and all the misfortunes that she had condemned him with.
It was later that night when Yuuri, for the first time since he moved to the second floor of the harem, stood in front of the small dresser in his room to actually examine himself.
He hated any form of mirrors. He hated seeing his own reflection. He hated the reminder that no matter how hard he tried to seem transparent and disappear out of everyone sight, his features managed to prove themselves as his greatest enemy and prevent him from doing so.
He looked like a wreckage; an aftermath. Half of his head was concealed with dirty bandages, making him look like the deformed monster he truly was; like a creature who was an offence to people's eyes.
He wrapped his neck with the thickest scarf he owned, donned the coat with the highest collar, and covered his head with the most unflattering headwear he could find, all to hide his pathetic state; his ever present weakness that was now in display for everyone to see if they took a careful look.
The Tsar's white handkerchief lay abandoned and untouched on the corner of the dresser, shining more brightly than even the candle that rested right next to it, demanding attention. The tiny letters knitted on its edge, reading V. III. N, were almost glowing.
With a heavy sigh, Yuuri ignored it and exited his room, hearing faint footsteps that quickly faded away once he emerged.
He saw a glimpse of Bianca's chestnut hair before she shut the door of her own room across the hallway. Yuuri wondered if she had seen his appearance, if she had smiled and laughed in satisfaction, or if she was trying to come up with new ways to degrade him.
Yuuri would wait for her, for he was always waiting for that addictive venom to be injected into his veins.
He descended the stairs carefully, trying to keep his feet steady instead of focusing all of his energy on the waves of pain that stroke his head in random intervals. He had refused to take any more sedatives from Phichit, because it was already humiliating enough to appear that physically vulnerable in front of the Tsar and his guards. He didn't want the rest of castle to see it, especially the members of the harem.
The members of the harem that Yuuri escaped from as fast as he could once he reached the first floor, ignoring all of their whispers that must've not stopped since the news of the attack was made public.
They must have been laughing with themselves, cheering that he deserved it, that it was waiting to happen to him sooner or later, and that his attacker should have done far more than just give him a black eye and a head concussion.
Yuuri did not hear any of their whispers, for his thoughts were much louder. He did not hear the terror in their voices, their prayers to god, or the heightened fear for their own lives.
As he suspected, the moment Yuuri was out of the harem and into the cold hallways of the castle, Michele had followed his every trail. The clacking of the metal of his sword against his armor was sending shivers down Yuuri's spine each time it came too close.
He could almost feel the resentment radiating off of him, all directed to where Yuuri was walking in front of him.
Having Michele so close to him terrified anyone who passed by Yuuri. It was as if he had a beast following his track, ready to tear apart any daring individual that crossed its path, but Yuuri knew that he could also be one of those individuals. Yuuri might even be the only one that he was ready to tear apart, given the chance.
Thus, he stayed alerted, so alerted it was utterly exhausting, physically and mentally.
He only wished for it to end, for things to go back to the way they used to be when he was a clueless, young boy who was unable to see the blood on Mari's hands.
But it never went back to the way it was. Life was progressing, and Yuuri tried to ride on that carriage. No matter how many times they kicked him out of it and into the road, only for him to run again and jump his way back, sustaining more and more injuries each time.
Eventually, Yuuri had enough of people giving him odd looks and walking in the opposite direction, away from him, whereas they would have normally stopped and requested Yuuri's help enthusiastically.
They didn't know who he truly was; no one knew who he was outside of the harem walls. Yet, Michele was slowly starting to ruin that careful cover that he and Minako had worked so hard to create.
And Yuuri wouldn't let him take that away, not so soon.
Taking a deep breath, Yuuri stopped on his heels and turned around to see Michele merely two feet behind him. The sudden movement surprised him, causing the man to halt his movements and stare at Yuuri with narrowed eyes. His chin was raised in anticipation, his lips pressing together as if there were heavy words on the tip of his tongue that were waiting to be voiced.
With an expression that revealed nothing, Yuuri slid his index finger through his scarf and pulled it away from his mouth, parting his lips to puff warm air into the chill of his surroundings. Michele gulped when Yuuri's eye connected with both of his, though, Yuuri didn't understand why the guard tensed so visibly.
"I should have told you this earlier today," Yuuri started, his voice as curt as he wished it would sound. "But I want you to know that-"
"Please-"
"- I'm very sorry for disrespecting Sara." Yuuri frowned. The two had spoken at the same time and he wasn't focused enough to hear what Michele had said while interrupting him. Michele, however, didn't repeat or continue, so Yuuri overlooked it. "It was unconsciously done, but I should have considered the consequences of my actions. It will never happen again; I'm not that sort of man."
Michele's eyes went impossibly wide at the practiced apology. Yuuri was certain that the guard did not believe a word that he had said. He was probably going to start laughing because a male concubine had just told him that he wouldn't sexually provoke his handler again, or any other individual, for that matter.
Because that's what Yuuri was supposed to do in his every waking minute, wasn't it? Sexually provoke any creature that showed the slightest interest.
But he wasn't, god knows he wasn't. Every word Yuuri had said was genuine. The memory of how he had dissed Sara on their first session still lingered in his mind and repulsed him.
Michele still did not respond and wasn't laughing yet, so Yuuri went on.
"I know I deserved it, so I won't allow you to be punished like that." He brought the scarf over his mouth again, "And please don't walk so closely to me. I don't want people to know that you're my guard;" Yuuri then turned with a heavy heart, hoping Michele did not notice how his hand was trembling, and continued his way. "It makes me more anxious than safe."
Michele did not move for several moments, and Yuuri thought that he might have heard the man release a loud, shaky breath before he started moving again.
Almost a week had passed by and things went back to their relative normalcy.
Yuuri did not need to put iced bandages around his eye any longer, and was finally able to wear his eyeglasses again. The nasty transition of colors on his injured skin; starting from black, then to blue, crimson, then green, was starting to return to its formal pale shade. And Yuuri was thankful for that, because at last, he was able to breathe with less layers of coverage, and was allowed to resume the chores that managed to put his mind at ease.
That day – the day Yuuri started his normal tasks again – he made sure to finish his work quickly and efficiently before heading to the grand library once again. Michele was still following his every move, but was watching him from a far enough distance so that people would not notice his presence.
Michele was very dutiful, Yuuri had to admit. So far he hadn't been cornered even once, for the guard seemed to always sense any sort of tension and appeared by his side in a blink, surrounding them both with a threatening aura that managed to cast away aggressive concubines like a spell.
Yuuri found that that made him indebted, somehow. At least, his tasks weren't delayed due to such inconveniences anymore, and Phichit didn't need to scold him for going to the infirmary so often.
Almost every night since he had been hit, Yuuri found more time to stay in the grand library, but for purely selfish reasons that had nothing to do with Minako or any other castle resident.
Michele was sitting in the same chair he always sat on while watching Yuuri, which was making him feel more nervous by the day, since he hasn't seen the man touch a single book the entire week. He must have been fed up with such a boring task, watching a man read for hours to no end, and Yuuri did not blame him. Neither of them had asked for this, neither of them even wanted this. Yet at the same time, Yuuri did not care enough to entertain him, and Michele's hate toward him was still apparent.
Nevertheless, Yuuri went back to the same aisle that he was frequenting lately, an aisle that was certainly given more attention and care compared to the others. He stopped in front of the newest section, yet the largest, and picked the remaining and only collection of scrolls he hadn't touched yet.
Yuuri made his way to the nearest chair, opened the first scroll carefully, and engrossed himself in any new information he could find about his owner.
The Tsar was rumored to come back in a few days' time, and Yuuri was almost finished with learning all he could about his life, everything that was available for public viewing.
Yuuri was more immersed than he could have ever predicted, especially regarding such a dangerous domain. But the moment he started with the first book in Tsar Victor's section, he couldn't stop. Every piece of writing revealed stranger content than the one before it.
At some point, Yuuri came to doubt half of what he had been reading, because the ones who wrote the Tsar's achievements spoke about a living legend, not a young, twenty four year old, bad tempered emperor.
The Tsar was the nephew of the ruler before him, not his son. The previous emperor had three wives and bedded countless female concubines without having impregnated a single one of them. The former emperor had denied being impotent on several occasions, yet even the ones who wrote that part of his personal life did not seem to believe him. Thus, the throne was passed down to Victor the Third, who was merely sixteen when his uncle passed away.
His uncle was not only terrible with his wives and harem – whom all described him as a cruel man – but he had also left the nation facing both civil war, and tension between neighboring nations. All rested on his nephew's shoulders at his young age.
Regardless, during his first two years of ruling Russia, the nation had managed to conclude the war and the number of losses was described as miraculously low, considering the massive size of the two radical groups that engaged in battle. Russia had already fallen in love with her Tsar by then.
The next period of his reign, which came as the biggest surprise to Yuuri, was called the golden years of the nation, and it was said that Russia had prospered more rapidly in five years than it had in decades.
Foreign relations were strengthened, poverty was reduced, architecture was on its way to an impressive development, the Faith in Russia lost most of its influence, and not a single citizen denied their love and respect for their Tsar.
Learning all that in only a couple of nights, Yuuri couldn't help but feel amazed, despite himself. If his relationship with the Tsar wasn't so personal and hazardous, he would have started to admire him.
So little was known of his personal life, however. And all what was allowed to be revealed was that the Tsar's harem was established on his eighteenth birthday, the only imperial harem that had such a large ratio of men. Royal concubines were preferred to be female, but that wasn't the case there.
The things that Minako had told Yuuri regarding his unwillingness to father children were not mentioned at all, understandably so. What was mentioned, on the other hand, was how effective his regimen regarding his harem was.
They talked of the horrors that most concubines had caused each other during the reign of previous rulers. There were reports of concubines poisoning pregnant lovers and forcing them to miscarry, others that wounded themselves then framed innocents of the act, and some who drugged and raped each other. Lots of them influenced other castle residents to ridicule their rivals, in more obscene and disgusting ways than Bianca would ever dare to, even going as far as having lots of them murdered. It did not stop there, because notably, half a dozen had even killed the children of their nemesis so that their own would claim the throne.
Victor Nikiforov's harem, however, had not faced a single one of the mentioned issues since he had been crowned. He had never selected any of his concubines twice, made sure to not keep chosen ones in the harem for too long, had never made any woman pregnant, and did not forgive any harsh ridicule that came to his notice.
Phichit's words did not sound like exaggerations anymore, because Yuuri kept looking for concubines that had been punished by death, and found none. The most severe punishment prior to the woman who attacked Yuuri was exile.
"That's what you do?" Yuuri jumped the moment he heard Michele's voice addressing him all of a sudden. "Every single day?"
Yuuri looked up from the last scroll he was reading, folding it cautiously in place. He didn't know what Michele was expecting of him. Did he think that he spent his days practicing witchcraft and seducing people left and right? Yuuri wouldn't be surprised if he did.
"More or less." He answered aloofly, still feeling apprehensive around that particular man. It was the first time that the two exchanged words since his apology, and Yuuri wished it would be the last.
He gathered all the writings in his hands and noticed that the place was deserted, save for him, Michele, and the librarian who stayed there very late. He walked by the table where his guard was sitting, his expression laced with confusion and uncertainty.
It was the first time Michele had seen him work around the castle normally, and Yuuri assumed that he was agitated due to how abnormal his behavior was.
The other concubines, after all, almost never left the walls of the harem, where it was always warm, where food was always served on time, where they did not need to lift a finger, and only spent their time taking care of their physical attributes, learning romantic poems and songs, and practicing seductive dances, as they should.
Yuuri didn't dwell on that, nor did he give Michele any other chance to question him as he gathered his bearings and called it a day.
The last of his discoveries lingered in his mind, and all that he could do was try to convince himself that his case wasn't special; it was only odd, that's all it was.
Yet, in the scheme of things, there weren't so many differences between the two words, were there?
He chose a plain outfit.
A boring gray tunic and even duller trousers made up the garment that Yuuri wore that night, their size still a tad bit too small, their cuts still overly feminine, but plain all the same compared to the dazzling dresses and ensembles the rest would certainly wear.
He ran a hand through his hair, moving it aggressively against his scalp until it turned into a mess. He wore his eyeglasses and did not bother to worry about the slight greenness that still dressed the skin around his eye.
It might have only been his imagination, but the crowds that were all heading to the entrance of the harem seemed to unconsciously pull apart as Yuuri walked by.
He hadn't had a blink of sleep the night prior, his destructive thoughts never muting, never failing to supply him with potential outcomes that were horrifying to even consider. But they made sense. Whatever would happen this time, it would be the final nail on the coffin, the resultant of what he had done the last time he was chosen for the Taking, and the final concrete answer to most of the questions that ran in his mind without rest.
You will never be chosen again, a voice inside his head said. You are not worthy enough. You are going to become a whore and no one will even consider your purity anymore.
But he didn't take you the last time, another voice disagreed. He won't leave you alone until he does. He won't leave you alone until he teaches you a lesson.
He didn't know which one of those possibilities was worse.
He picked the farthest corner of the harem entrance, and felt his heart sinking down his torso when he heard the royal horn of the Taking.
Bianca – who was once again standing next to Yuuri – turned toward him then instantly away before the Tsar entered. In all of the four months he's gotten to know that woman, he had never been more clueless on what the expression on her face was supposed to mean.
They were all bowing by the time Yuuri heard the same echo of footsteps around them, which paused for a couple moments before moving again, their sound getting louder and louder the closer they became.
He saw a pair of boots in his limited vision the moment the echo halted, filling the entire space with eerie silence once again. All he could see was tight, black leather trousers, and all he could hear was a soft sigh.
"Yuuri."
Instead of focusing on what this whole encounter signified for him and every other member of the harem, Yuuri found that he was more curious as to why the Tsar stretched the first syllable of his name in such exaggerated manner, voicing it in a way that no one else ever did, as if he was claiming his name and reshaping it in a way that suited his tongue alone.
He felt a hand pressing on his back. Bianca's sudden touch returned Yuuri to the present and made him realize that his majesty did not raise his chin with his fingers like the last time.
Gulping, Yuuri lifted his head to see that the Tsar was searching in the pocket of his trousers, slowly producing another handkerchief that was identical to the one that still rested on Yuuri's dresser. The Tsar smiled brightly, blindingly, before putting the handkerchief in Yuuri's hand. Though, this time, he did not touch him directly while doing so.
It was as if he was being careful not to.
"I will be waiting for you." The Tsar said, lowering his voice so only Yuuri could hear. Though, the sound of the sharp, dismayed intake of breath that came from his right proved that Bianca did as well. He wasn't aware that she understood French.
Yuuri watched him leave, staring at the man's back and noticing the black undercoat and brown vest he was wearing. It only took a few seconds for disbelief to slowly start overflowing his mind in heavy doses.
It was a couple of minutes after the Tsar disappeared, when Yuuri heard a woman wailing as loud as she could.
People were throwing vile words his way, as expected, cursing him in rage and distaste, their hatred reaching its very peak.
They didn't know, however, not them, not Yuuri, that this was only the beginning.
He didn't know what possessed him to do so, but Yuuri broadened his shoulders, straightened his back, and gave them the widest, darkest smile that he was capable of giving.
His life was slowly falling apart, all the deities he prayed for had forsaken him, and the ghost of Aki was sneering sinisterly behind Yuuri, satisfied by his misery. But at the very least, the people who were consistently turning his life into a living hell were suffering, as he once hoped they would. It was a slight consolation, and Yuuri took a wicked pleasure from it.
Needless to say, they quieted after seeing that.
Yuuri made sure he was out of everyone's sight when he finally allowed that smile to drop and the pained expression to take over his face; where it belonged.
It wasn't only Yuuri and the other concubines that were shocked senseless of what had taken place.
After they had taken him back to the dressing room, the handmaidens did nothing but stare at him in wonder, as if they did not have a single clue on how to proceed.
Eventually, they recovered from the shock and drew him a warm bath, doing exactly as they did the last time he was under their hands.
At least, they did not remove any of his hairs like they previously did; none of it had even grown back.
The scalding hot water burned his skin, the smell of perfumes and ointments suffocated him, and his hand was numb by the time he finished opening himself up thoroughly.
Not knowing what else to do, Sara had dressed him with the same white gown he wore the last time, explaining to Yuuri that it was a ritual. But none of them knew he was still a virgin, so what was the purpose of it all?
"I see that you are now acquainted with my twin brother." Sara told him, smiling. Again, she was trying her hardest to steer his mind away from his darkest thoughts. "I'm the pretty one. Michele's the imbecile." She sighed, clueless. "You must've realized that by now, anyway."
Yuuri didn't think she wanted to know exactly how he did.
She was decorating him like a toy, setting him with a fresh set of golden jewelry, covering the remaining of his hideous injury with makeup, brushing his hair until it looked like a tiny waterfall, letting it fall around his face this time instead of pulling it back.
"You're beautiful either way," she said, "So let's try to make you look a bit different tonight."
I am different, he thought, ignoring the first part of what she said. I'll always be different.
Yuuri didn't know what he was expecting when he entered the Tsar's bedroom yet again, but he certainly did not think he would find him on the bed, lying with his dog obediently sitting by his side.
"Here you are." The Tsar looked up, his fingers running through the fur on the poodle's back in gentle strokes. "Come, let's finish what we started."
Yuuri stilled, his eyes almost popping out of his skull at the command. The presence of his pet almost assured him that nothing obscene would take place.
The Tsar raised an eyebrow, noticing Yuuri's sudden reaction to his words. His hand pulled away from Makkachin, who whined lowly at the absence of his touch, and instead reached out for the book that was lying on the nightstand.
"Don't you want to know what happened to the prince?" the Tsar asked, his tone light and playful. "I'm almost overwhelmed with curiosity."
Yuuri merely froze, his mind a muddle of suspicions, doubts, and incredulity. The Tsar kept staring at him, his posture not changing, yet his blue eyes losing their shine the more he waited for a response, a response that was taking its time due to Yuuri's astonishment regarding the whole thing.
All of a sudden, Makkachin straightened herself from her resting position, jumping swiftly out of the gigantic bed and pawing her way toward Yuuri.
Yuuri's eyes slowly drifted down to see her circling him, sniffing at his garment ever so often, as if she was processing his scent. A few moments later, he heard an enthusiastic bark and Makkachin's front paws were on his torso, her tail wagging back and forth as she looked up at Yuuri with a pair of round, charming black eyes.
She was impossible to resist, Yuuri decided, even though he had no clue what she wanted from him, but whatever it was, he'd give it to her.
"You have met the love of my life before, haven't you?" the Tsar spoke up, shooting another gentle smile their way.
It was the first time he talked to him in Russian, Yuuri noted, nodding to the question even though the Tsar wasn't looking at him anymore.
It took a second after calling her for Makkachin to return to where she was laying before. The Tsar's hand returned to stroking his pet lovingly, as if nothing and no one else in the world mattered more. "Such a brave girl, protecting Yuuri better than my own inadequate guards. I bet you'll put Crispino to shame if we knighted you."
The conversation was so painfully endearing that Yuuri was conflicted, suddenly doubting every single thing he knew about the man; the man who had killed two people in four months and was eagerly waiting to kill the third.
"Why are you still standing there?" the Tsar looked up at him, switching back to French. "I still want to know what happened to the prince."
Obediently, Yuuri crossed the front of the room, standing at the foot of the bed and feeling helplessly clueless. He looked like a fool, he knew that, but the Tsar's actions were not making any sense and he had never been instructed on what to do in these sorts of situations.
"Well, go on," the Tsar curled his leg toward himself, making room for Yuuri. "Make yourself comfortable. I've been dying to found out about what Paulo did next."
"Pierre."
The Tsar blinked in surprise, "Yes?"
"The prince." Yuuri explained, sitting as far as he could from where his owner was, grabbing the familiar book carefully. "His name is Pierre."
"Oh, was it?" he could hear the smile in the man's voice. "Tell me what Pierre did next, Yuu-ri." Once again, he played with the pronunciation of Yuuri's name as it was the most interesting activity to him.
To Yuuri's surprise, the page he reached the last time was marked with a thick sheet of paper. He carefully slid it out of place, noticing the absence of the red rose, and began reading more coherently than his drugged self did the last time.
Now that he was more aware of what was happening around him, of whose presence he was surrounded by, and of the eyes that were once again digging holes into the side of his head, Yuuri found his hands sweating and shaking in nervousness. The tone of his voice changed noticeably every time he thought he wasn't reading well enough, only for it to sound even worse each time.
Was he reading too slowly, or was he too fast? Did his accent make anything sound comprehensible? Was he even pronouncing the words right? Did the Tsar hate that he didn't change his voice when he entered a dialogue? Did he want him to be louder? Or did he want him to be quieter?
"You look radiant tonight. Did I tell you that?"
Yuuri paused, his head ducking down from the lack of knowing what else to do, his cheeks reddening by their own accord. Admittedly, people didn't compliment him all of a sudden like that. How was he supposed to respond?
"T-thank you."
"Tell me," the Tsar was suddenly a lot closer to him than he was before. The proximity forced Yuuri to hold a heavy breath in fear. "Is Michele doing his job like he's supposed to? Just say the word, and I'll replace him."
Yuuri shook his head instantly, not wanting to provoke him to make things even worse.
After a few uncomfortable moments, Yuuri took the silence as a signal to continue.
He wasn't even halfway done through the first paragraph when the Tsar spoke again, this time leaning in even closer, making the hairs on the back of Yuuri's neck stand on their ends.
"You should have stayed here when I was away." The man lowered his voice, "For a few nights, at least. It would have been more comfortable for you."
It wasn't a question, so he didn't say anything back. Yuuri only stared at the letters in front of him, as if asking them to provide a solid explanation as to what the hell was happening.
Objectively, they didn't get a lot of reading done that night. The Tsar was very talkative, much to Yuuri's surprise, even though the conversation was entirely one sided. The man interrupted him so often that Yuuri got accustomed to the cue on when to pause or when to resume reading.
He knew that even Makkachin was more responsive when the Tsar talked to her, but Yuuri couldn't stop himself from thinking that the man didn't want his opinion from the first place. Because what would Yuuri even say that would be of any interest?
But what did he want? The more Yuuri looked at it, the more he saw it as a game the man liked to play; riling him up every two minutes, and enjoying how his terror showed so pathetically every time.
Yuuri had bowed respectfully, and was starting to walk toward the door in absolute relief when he heard his name coming from that mouth again. He turned around, finally allowing himself to look at the Tsar in the eye.
The Tsar had dismissed him only a few moments before, thus Yuuri was clueless as to why he called him again so quickly.
"I still want to know how the story will progress." Those blue eyes were strident, as if they were challenging Yuuri to keep staring at them. "Will you promise me that we'll continue this next time?"
"I promise." Yuuri said, instantly obeying the command. Because that's what the word of a Tsar meant, didn't it? He wasn't in place to refuse anything he said or suggested.
His majesty sighed before standing up, careful to not disturb the sleeping Makkachin by his side. Before he could blink, the Tsar was standing in front of him, his height once again intimidating Yuuri.
He looked up, keeping their gazes locked, his hands shaking in anticipation.
"I will look forward to it. Most eagerly." He whispered in the softest voice, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from Yuuri's eyes. The action reminded him of an old dream he once had, of someone doing the exact same so long ago in a dark, empty infirmary. Yuuri didn't notice that he had flinched back, but the sudden stillness of the man's hand told him that he did. The Tsar smiled the same gentle smile once again. But looking at it so closely now, Yuuri did not understand how he had missed the evident sadness that was lacing its corners. "Goodnight, Yuuri."
Yuuri breathed out, hurriedly heading toward the door, more clueless than he was when he first entered it from the other side. "Goodnight, your majesty."
At the corner of his eyes, Yuuri caught a flash of a familiar black and white portrait, calling him with a mystic sound, beckoning him near and begging for his attention.
Somehow, he collected enough will to finally take one good look at that painting.
He wished he hadn't.
Yuuri exited the Tsar's bedroom, horrified out of his mind, every nerve in his being pulsing with complete and utter fright.
It was him. It was a painting of him. It was a painting of a naked Yuuri that looked nothing short of the witch everyone described him as.
Although Yuuri was the one who promised to come back, the Tsar was the one who fulfilled it.
The next fortnight when the Tsar chose him again, Bianca was not present all together, which worried him immensely regarding what she was planning to do behind his back.
The Tsar didn't touch him that time either, neither did he say anything other than his name; loud, as ever, so not a single person present could miss it.
Everything else was a blur of events.
'Out of the way!' Michele had barked angrily when Yuuri and the handmaidens were heading to the dressing room. A group of commoners had blocked their path, curious and hungry to see the man that their Tsar had not only chosen twice, but thrice in a row, officially making him the first concubine in Victor Nikiforov's reign to achieve that.
He did not know what they were expecting to witness, but with each little glimpse they saw of Yuuri behind Michele's broad back, a louder gasp was released.
"What were you doing to him?" Michele questioned later, his eyes narrowed into slits. He was extra cautious and bad-tempered that night. "Why was he screaming so loudly?"
"He's not used to waxing." One of the handmaidens defended, quirking a thin eyebrow. "Would you like to try it, ser?"
Sara smiled at Michele's reddened face. "Don't compliment him, ma'am; he's not a ser yet."
Her twin merely glared at her.
Another handmaiden closer to Yuuri giggled, "You should see his majesty in his monthly sessions," she told them, "He doesn't even blink anymore."
Yuuri stared at the stinging skin of his arm, which was once again hairless after they plugged all of it out from the root, painfully so. He was not aware that the Tsar had to go through the same thing. He knew that the royalty groomed themselves in every way possible until their bodies reached absolute perfection, but somehow, he had overlooked that fact and only focused on his own pain.
Will Yurio have to go through the same thing when he was older? Yuuri wished he wouldn't.
He heard his name being called and he turned, finding Sara pointing at half a dozen garments that laid on the table in front of her. "We received instructions to dress you as you wish," she told him, "So what would you like to wear?"
Yuuri chose the only one that wasn't a gown.
Sara furrowed her eyebrows, obviously unimpressed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes?"
"It will be…" Sara put a hand on her chin, turning away from him. "Uh, it will be hard to take it off."
"You certainly think of all the important things, sister." Michele commented dryly.
"Michele, I will kick you out if you don't keep quiet. I swear it."
"I want to wear the doublet." Yuuri said, wishing he didn't sound too desperate. "And the Tsar… the Tsar likes leather trousers."
"He said he likes it on you?" Sara was instantly picking the garment without any further argument. "Why, of course. Of course!"
He didn't mean it like that. He was only trying to tell her that he had seen the Tsar wearing a pair the fortnight prior; it wasn't his intention to sound so conceited.
But as long as she wasn't going to dress him like a woman again, then Yuuri wouldn't mind. Nor would he care about the way everyone was staring at him now.
That only worsened when Yuuri finished dressing, the attire fitting him like a second skin. Michele was looking away, embarrassed; from him, or from himself, Yuuri wasn't sure. The room that was previously filled with chatter had quieted all of a sudden.
The white dress surely revealed more skin, but the current outfit looked overly sultry. It seemed so plain on the table when Yuuri first looked at; he should have known it wasn't.
The dark orange, sleeveless doublet was made of very thick fabric, and it had a plunging neckline that reached a little above his belly button, covering his chest with only three straps on its way. The black leather trousers, however, looked downright hideous on him, he knew.
"Y-you were right," Yuuri said, feeling ashamed, "I will wear something else. These trousers are way too-"
"Oh no, Yuuri," Sara said as she fastened a complimentary choker around his neck, glancing at his reflection with an approving smirk. "It's flawless."
That night in particular, the Tsar didn't talk as much.
Again, he asked him to read, and do nothing else. The tone of his voice was clipped, forced, and airy, and his clutch on Makkachin almost looked painful at some instances the more he watched him, his eyes never staying in one place as they raked over every inch of Yuuri's body, possibly doing filthy things to him in his imagination, things he should be doing right then in reality.
But he wasn't; he didn't even touch him once, in any way. And all what Yuuri could do was stay guarded and wait.
The next time the handmaidens received him, Yuuri found that they weren't so terrible after all.
The more they familiarized with Yuuri, the gentler they became, sparking conversations with him and asking him what products he preferred, as if Yuuri cared about any of it. Yet, the mere suggestions were enough to calm him, to assure him that he was retaking control, tiny amounts of it, but control all the same.
For some reason, he didn't react so badly to the waxing sessions anymore.
If the Tsar can take it. Yuuri thought stubbornly, clenching his teeth with every harsh pull of hair. Then so can I.
Yuuri didn't want to choose anything other than his previous attire. It made him feel exposed, yes, but at least it wasn't a dress. And for some reason, wearing it made him feel empowered. In control.
Sara never questioned him.
Something Yuuri had learned in his next visits to the Tsar's quarters was that the man liked to voice his compliments the second he thought of them.
And they were so many; Yuuri didn't think that even the merchant had complimented him so much.
Yet, the comparison felt unjust, wrong. Because the Tsar rarely commented about his looks after the first couple of visits, and now preferred to praise him about things that perhaps no one bothered to even notice before.
'You have such a pretty voice.' He once said, his hand reaching out to play with the ends of Yuuri's hair. It was such a faint touch that Yuuri didn't even flinch that time. 'Don't be so tense; it makes it less pretty.'
Yuuri didn't know how he couldn't be tense if the Tsar always sat so close to him. But the more he found himself in the same exact position, the more relaxed he became, and the stiller his voice came out.
It was as if Yuuri's body was following his owner's command by its own.
'I don't know what they bathe you in,' he had interrupted him once again while he read, 'But I've never smelled a lovelier scent. It must be your essence; don't you think so, Yuu-ri?'
Yuuri had only stared at him, speechless and embarrassed by such exaggerated words.
'You read so nicely.' He had said once, 'Your French is perhaps better than anyone I've seen in Russia.'
Yuuri had told him – completely bewildered by that undeserved praise – that it was only because he read a lot.
'Hmm? And that makes it less impressive?' the man smiled in amusement. 'Silly Yuuri; I could count the individuals who can read in this castle with my fingers. Lots of my people are illiterate. Though, I'm trying to change that.'
Yuuri knew all about it; he knew that the Tsar was working on building education facilities that were available for people of common birth all around the empire. Yuuri was aware of the whole plan, but didn't want the emperor to suspect his knowledge.
'You're a wonder, Yuuri.' He had said on his last visit, interrupting him again. 'I heard you speak four languages fluently. And you can engage in four more? I'm awed.'
'Only little bits.' Yuuri had answered briefly, not understanding why he seemed so impressed by something as minor as that.
The Tsar had chuckled, amused. 'You're so humble.'
He played with that next time when Yuuri visited, talking to him the entire time in English, in which Yuuri found, for some reason, easier to talk back with. He was now worried less about his pronunciations, finding English a lot simpler than French in more ways than one.
The Tsar seemed to pick up on it, and just like that, he switched to talking to Yuuri in English whenever they were together, like it was a game to him; an experiment. Like Yuuri was a toy that needed to be played with in a specific pattern, a toy that had particular buttons that needed to be pressed accordingly.
Countless people, for sure, wondered what was happening in that room every fortnight, yet they weren't aware that Yuuri was the one who was confused the most.
But as the days went by, as the harem quieted with fear and defeat, he found that he was content for the peace and quiet. Even Michele wasn't so bad; all he did was watch him from afar and never approached unless it was absolutely necessary.
And somehow, somehow his situation did not feel so unpleasant anymore.
'Don't get used to it.' A wise voice in Yuuri's head said, 'Don't be fool enough to get used to it.'
One night, Yuuri found himself completely alone in the imperial quarters. Emil had told Yuuri and his party that the Tsar would join him shortly after, and told him to wait inside.
The clock ticked loudly, its hands heavy with time that refused to pass quickly. Yuuri's gaze landed on the painting in the corner of the quarters once again.
Yuuri had witnessed many things in his twenty years of life that were unjustifiably scary, but that painting had a sort of air to it that made him shiver every time they faced each other.
A part of him believed that understanding that painting, discovering the reason why their owner painted it, would help him comprehend the reasoning behind the Tsar's odd behavior when it came to Yuuri.
Only if it wasn't upside down, then Yuuri might catch some details in it that would help him unravel the mystery that was Victor Nikiforov.
But it was still there, hidden by the shadows, unfinished and probably not touched in months, with Yuuri's pale face clearly painted on its canvas with breathtaking detail.
It was the eyes that helped Yuuri recognize himself the first time he looked at it properly, because he knew no one else outside of Japan had those eyes but himself and Minako. And that man in the painting was surely not his former ballet teacher.
There was something in his mouth, Yuuri saw, clasped between straight teeth in a playful bite: dark, thin, and linear, resembling a stick, or a part of a belt, he wasn't sure. Each option was more terrifying than the other, and nothing he thought of would explain why the Tsar would draw him – or any other person for that matter – with a foreign object in his mouth.
A part of Yuuri was aware that the Tsar wanted to do sinful things to him, if his stares were anything to go by. No matter how hard he tried, Yuuri honestly couldn't relate that item in his mouth with anything that wasn't sexual.
The painting covered him from head to torso, skin entirely naked and his neck and arms free of the jewelry he was constantly forced to wear. That all, of course, except for the armlet that was drawn with precise detail, on his right arm that stretched above him and outside of the canvas, like he was lying on the ground, laid out and bare.
If he was lying on a bed, Yuuri squinted, then that would explain why his hair seemed so disheveled, standing on top of his head in thin swirls.
But the more he looked at it, the more he doubted that it was him; that person who was drawn with such care must have been the most handsome Japanese man he had ever seen, and he didn't even need to look at it in an upright position to see that.
The clock kept ticking, the man in the portrait kept looking at him with that dirty look, the curiosity intensified with each passing moment that he was feeling it running with his blood, and Yuuri's control broke.
He wanted to know if it was truly him, and he wanted to know badly.
Yuuri walked closer, cautious, as if he was approaching a living monster, and began to examine it more closely. He tried to gather enough courage to grab it and turn it around, but something in Yuuri told him that if the Tsar knew someone had touched one of his personal belongings, he won't be pleased.
Yuuri had wondered to himself, ever since that day with Yurio, why he had learned to stand on his hands without actually needing that skill for anything. But it was almost destiny when the idea finally ignited, and nothing was able to stop Yuuri from going along with it until he got some answers.
Thus, with his less than comfortable leather trousers, Yuuri took a deep breath and planted one of his hands on the floor, bracing his body 'til it was adjusted to the shift, and joined his free hand next to the other to stand more comfortably, ignoring the rush of blood that instantly traveled to his head.
One look had Yuuri abruptly shifting back to his feet.
He took a few steps back, his heart beating so wildly that he felt its rampage at the opening of his throat. There was something wrong with it, something so terribly wrong with it, and Yuuri couldn't decide what it was for the life of him.
He knew one thing, however, he knew he would never make such a wicked expression; his face wouldn't be capable of pulling it.
Why did the Tsar draw him like that? What did he want to accomplish by doing so? What was going through his mind when he did?
Yuuri heard the door opening and instantly shifted his gaze toward the man who entered hurriedly, talking with massive excitement, not noticing how frightened Yuuri was by his latest discoveries.
"Yuuri!" he said loudly. It took a moment for Yuuri noticed the violin in his hand. "Did I make you wait for too long?"
Yuuri shook his head, although he wasn't sure how much time passed. Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell.
"Let's not read tonight." He told him, standing inches away from Yuuri. It made his breath hitch. "I want to play another piece I love. Would you like to dance to it?"
"Of course." Yuuri instantly said what the man wanted to hear. "Anything you want, your majesty."
The Tsar's smile faltered before he turned, walking away and giving Yuuri space until he was standing right next to the painting. Yuuri tried not to think too hard about it, but failed. Because seeing him right next to it reminded Yuuri that he did, in fact, sit down for a long time and drew every detail with his own hand.
When the music started playing, however, Yuuri was reminded of how well the Tsar played his music, as if he was making love to his violin with each passionate stroke of his bow.
Unlike the last time, the Tsar did not give him time to prepare for the dance or give him a sample to familiarize with. Not that it would have made any difference; it was the first time that Yuuri had heard such melody, even though in some instances, it did seem quite familiar.
Yuuri was stumbling from the beginning, every other move clumsy and unpracticed. He was almost overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame until he saw a glimpse of the Tsar's face. He was grinning – a pretty grin on a pretty face – and did not seem mad at all, which put Yuuri at ease.
Somewhere in the middle of the song, Yuuri stopped caring. He did not care about his elegance or swiftness, about the supposed beauty of the dance, or even about pleasing the Tsar, because the melody was breathtaking, and Yuuri was falling more in love with it after every tranquil tune. He performed a basic dance after he recovered from his initial tremor, and although it wasn't entirely bad, he knew that it did not belong anywhere near that song.
The Tsar was laughing when the melody ended, running his bow against the body of the violin one last time. It was a pretty laugh, Yuuri decided, like everything else about that man.
He looked at Yuuri with a genuine, warm smile for the first time, which should have definitely shaped his lips more often, for it was such an ethereal sight to withhold. "Yurio would have shrieked if he saw his teacher dancing like this."
Yuuri blinked, panting softly at the exercise and taking his time to process what he had just heard.
The emperor's voice was so steady, and his posture was so laid back. The corner of his lips was stretching upward in delight, and nothing he had said – nothing that Yuuri was able to detect – seemed anywhere near what Yuuri had ever imagined his reaction to be when he discovered those schemes.
He knew? Yuuri gaped, speechless at the sudden realization. He knew all along?
Yuuri instantly felt lightness on his shoulders. The burden that had once called Yuuri its home dissipated into particles, allowing him to finally breathe more steadily, knowing that the Tsar was aware of his lessons with Yurio – and did not even look slightly upset by it.
"Your majesty?"
The Tsar stilled, his eyes widening at his honorific. He turned toward Yuuri, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Yes, Yuuri?"
He thought of Yurio, who was progressing better than he had ever hoped for. He thought of the young boy distancing himself from Yuuri by each passing lesson they had. He thought of the many times the Tsesarevich had told him about his wishes to become the best dancer there ever was, restrictions be damned. He thought of bright green eyes that – similar to a pair of brown ones so long ago – were beginning to lose their shine and turn blank with emptiness, as if the more he practiced with Yuuri, the more his longing and despair grew.
"Can you play it one more time, please?"
The warm smile returned, gorgeous blue eyes narrowing in contentment after hearing the request. The Tsar's next words were soft and gentle as loving caresses.
"Anything you want, darling."
"Why don't we start practicing a full routine?" Yuuri offered the next morning as he watched Yurio stretch in front of him, ready for that day's lesson.
Yurio looked up, surprised by the sudden announcement. It had been a while since the two had exchanged anything outside of instructions and angry exclamations. "You mean… dancing to a song?"
"Yes." Yuuri put his hands on his hips. "So you can later perform it."
"For who?" Yurio grumbled, looking away. "For Otabek? He had already seen enough of my dancing to last him a lifetime."
"I will never mind watching you dance, your highness." The knight responded, his voice soft.
Yuuri pressed his lips together. "Why not a crowd?"
Otabek merely stared at Yuuri, curious.
Yurio halted his stretching, lifting his head to glower at him with pure irritation. "Pig, in case you have forgotten; I'm the heir of this empire. Victor might not mind it, but his godforsaken counselors would. His people would. The Faith would. Are you trying to strip away my titles too?"
"No, no! Of course not!" he brought his hands in front of him, his face reddening at the accusation. "Listen to me, your highness. I was not aware that his majesty approves of your dancing. If he does, shouldn't you take advantage of that?"
"How?!" the boy retorted.
"Your highness," Yuuri walked closer to him. "No one needs to know it's you who's dancing. I have seen so many dancers wearing masks in their performances. I do chores for the craftsmen quite often; I can ask them for a favor. And you can wear a wig if you want be to extra cautious."
"Can they-" Yurio suddenly jolted, jumping to his feet and practically sprinting to the other side of the room where Yuuri stood. "Can they make me a mask of a tiger?"
Yuuri couldn't help but smile in amusement. "Of course, and you can wear a large white wig, like a mane."
"Tigers do not have manes – but alright," Yurio turned toward Otabek, grinning. "I can build a reputation and people would know me as the 'The Masked Tiger of Russia'!"
Otabek smiled back. Yuuri had never seen either of the boys so expressive. "Your dancing would hold the kind of mystery to it that a normal performance lacks."
Yurio's eyes widened at the idea. "That- that sounds brilliant!"
"Your highness," Yuuri held a finger, trying his hardest to sound stern. "We will only proceed if you're granted permission from his majesty. Am I clear?"
"Pig," Yurio turned to him, grinning even wider. "That would be the easy part."
It was after the sixth consecutive time he had been chosen when it happened, unexpectedly for Yuuri, but predictably for many others.
All of the concubines were called to the entrance, and after minutes of suspenseful waiting, of eager eyes inspecting the harem gates eagerly, of hopeful hearts wanting a change to the current, devastating routine, a figure emerged.
It was not the silver haired man that many were expecting. Instead, Minako entered through the doors, looking like she would rather be anywhere else but that place, with a roll of paper clenched tightly in her hand. It was the first time that Yuuri had ever seen her inside the walls of the harem, and perhaps the last.
He had missed her, Yuuri realized, his throat tightening. He had missed the only pillar that managed to hold him together, and was now consumed with complete loneliness and desolation because of it.
But then Yuuri remembered what he had done to her; the vile, unwarranted words he had snarled at her that night, and told himself that he deserved her absence.
"Attention," she shouted, successfully managing to silence all the confused whispers before they even began. "I've come here to deliver an important announcement from his majesty."
Yuuri rested in a spot against the wall, curious, and trying his hardest to avoid all the glares that were sent his way, as if he had the slightest clue on what was going to be said.
"In here are specific instructions," grumbling, Minako held the roll of paper high in the air. "Stating that the concubines are not required to present during the Taking every fortnight, because there will be no more of the Taking until further notice."
Yuuri's eyes were almost going to bulge out of his eye sockets when he heard the last part of that statement. Nothing better could have been said about his peers, who almost collectively stood frozen, their jaws hanging.
"His majesty shall not accept any new concubines into his harem, either." Minako continued, her voice loud as thunder for everyone to hear. "However, he won't send anyone away," her face softened, as if she was sensing their rising panic and fear, "Don't fret. You're all going to stay under his care for now, and will be assigned somewhere else by the new year; that's an unusual long time, and a courtesy of his… But I'm afraid," she lowered her arm, "That the Tsar has no more need of you privately, until he states otherwise."
With an apologetic bow, Minako gathered her skirt and turned, not uttering any other word and avoiding the eyes of many that looked at her as she had sentenced them to death, and nothing worse than death.
'Why?!' Yuuri heard an angry, loud exclamation, coming from someone standing at the far end of the harem.
Soon, many other objections followed, the earlier statement only stocking the fire of the concubine's desperation and feebleness.
'What did we do?'
'Why doesn't he want us anymore?'
'Why is he treating us like this?'
'Tell us why!'
'That's the least you could do!'
Minako spun around on her heel, the movement accompanied with the grace of a ballerina. Yet, she didn't look like the beauty Yuuri saw when she danced; rather, she looked angry and fuming.
"Enough." She barked, and once again was successful in hushing them. "I know you are constantly being mistreated by the people in this castle," Minako said, "But I care about you, pretty boys and girls. I do; more than you think." She sighed, "All I wanted to do was spare your feelings, but as you wish ."
Everyone held their breaths when Minako unrolled the letter, spread it open in front of her, and began reading aloud.
"I feel as if the Taking had turned into an unnecessary hassle of late. And in all frankness, I do not wish to waste my time, the concubines' time, or give anyone hope, for that would be too inconsiderate of me. I am not blind to the faces of the concubines during the recent choosings, and I do not enjoy being purposefully cruel. " Minako paused, biting her lip, then continued after a shake of her head. "I do not, and will not desire anyone other than the man that had captured my heart: Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom. I do not wish to fuel the hate toward him, for any harm done to my Yuuri, by a concubine, a servant, a noble, or even a royal, no matter how severe, will be not be forgiven and its punishment is death. I do not take pleasure in ending my own people's lives, but as I have proven before in two occasions, I will not waver, either. Any attack on my Yuuri, will be considered an attack on myself."
Yuuri watched her leave with a storm of thoughts and emotions that only a single, short passage managed to deliver. He did not pay attention to all the eyes that were now solely focused on his, many of them teary, hurt, and hateful. Instead, there was one realization that had dawned on him all of a sudden, overshadowing every other aspect of the surreal condition he had found himself in.
Minako had said 'until further notice', whereas the Tsar never did.
What do you want from me? He asked, almost reaching despair. When will you tell me what you want from me?
Yuuri found himself, once again, alone in the Tsar's quarters the following fortnight.
It was somehow more calming; how he did not need to be present in the Taking anymore, under the scrutiny of so many eyes. It was more private; how he and Michele had managed to reach the dressing room without anyone stalling their journey. And it had more clarity to it, how his blood wasn't a constant rush from dread, how his breaths weren't shorter from anxiety, and how his eyes didn't blur terribly from the pressure.
He was trying not to succumb to the painting's eerie calls of attention, keeping himself as far away as he could from it, when he heard quiet footsteps approaching from the small door across the bedroom.
A frail handmaiden appeared, dressed fancier than any commoners Yuuri had seen, her hair secured tightly in bob above her head.
"His majesty is bathing," she said, grabbing a set of cottony white towels on the nearest chair. "I shall go and prepare his garment. So if you will?"
Yuuri blinked, staring at the white towels she was holding for him.
"You… you want me to-"
"Yes." She smiled, something mischievous lacing her tone as she threw the towels on him. Yuuri barely managed to catch them before they fell on the floor. "Thank you very much, sir."
Yuuri watched her leave, utterly confused by both the encounter, and the honorific that did not fit his status whatsoever.
He shrugged to himself, overlooking it as nice gesture, and opened the door of the Tsar's private washroom after freeing one of his hands.
He was even more impressed by the massive size of the quarters when he noticed that there was an entire corridor leading to the washroom, its air becoming moister the more distance he crossed.
There was no door to the actual washroom; the only thing that notified Yuuri of the Tsar's presence was the sound of running water and the dash of fog.
"Your majesty," Yuuri said as quietly as he could as to not disturb the man, rounding a corner at the end of the hallway. "I brought you the… t-towels, the towels."
He turned his head away in shame, cursing the humidity around the washroom walls that was suddenly overwhelming his face with sizzling heat and uncomfortableness.
"Oh, Yuuri." The Tsar's voice echoed all around the small space, bare feet stamping droplets of water under them as they approached. "Will you turn around?"
Yuuri bowed to his direction, his eyes cast down willfully as he stretched his arms forward, almost shoving the towels onto the man's naked chest.
Humming, the Tsar unfolded the items Yuuri offered, and only then did he realize that there was actually a bathrobe in his hands the whole time.
The Tsar took his sweet time donning on the robe, extending his arm and slipping it into the cottony sleeve with a graceful run of his hand, every movement of his body elegant and sensual. Yuuri wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or if it was simply spontaneous and natural for him to move like that with another man so close to his nakedness. The nakedness that he did not seem to want to cover completely; as the robe barely covered half of his shoulders and little bits of his abdomen, and was continuing to slip the more he moved.
"May I leave?" Yuuri asked the moment the Tsar retrieved the last towel, perhaps sounding too eager to escape.
"Well," the Tsar – who had just talked so animatedly a minute ago – responded with a tone as chill as ice. "If you so badly want to."
There were so many different smiles that that man's lips adorned, each for a different instance or mood, and Yuuri had to admit that out of all of them, the cold one affected him the most with its intensity and weight.
Yuuri should have jumped to deny the words. He should have apologized heatedly for the way the question came out of his mouth. He should have spent minutes assuring the emperor that he did not wish to leave badly at all, that being near him was a privilege, and that he would stay as long as the man wished for him to stay.
But Yuuri simply did not want to lie.
With a glare, Yuuri released himself from his bow and went toward the corridor, ignoring how the sound of a bucket getting kicked resonated behind him in fuming waves.
Yuuri sat on his designated spot on the bed, watching the handmaiden dress the Tsar with practiced hands and a kind smile. The woman was giggling ever so often as the two exchanged quiet words with one another. Yuuri did not hear what they were saying, but he did, however, hear how rapid, mutual, and unprompted their conversation was, providing a contrast to whenever the two men tried to communicate.
He looked away when his eyes connected with the Tsar's blue ones across the reflection of the mirror.
He wished Makkachin was there. He liked staring at Makkachin when he was clueless and did not know what was happening around him, which, admittedly, was a recurring theme whenever he was in that room.
That night, Yuuri did not respond in any way when he was interrupted. That might have been the reason why the Tsar released one loud sigh and dismissed him even earlier than usual.
Yuuri did not understand why he, himself, was so irritated when he walked back to the harem with Michele. Perhaps it was the strange way his guard stared at him, as if sensing the underlying tension that wasn't present before. Or because Yuuri had seen something that will haunt him for the foreseeable future, that might spur him to make stupid decisions that he will surely regret.
During his stay in Italy, Yuuri had to find ways to occupy himself after his daily sessions with the Madams had ended. They might have seemed like they took forever, but in reality, Yuuri spent the majority of his days reading and scarcely found any other interesting thing to do. He felt like an outcast in his own body, which was, day by day, turning into a foreign territory after every violation. Worst of all, none of them had ever touched him; it was his own hands that were doing all the abuse.
After catching a glimpse of the sculptors working outside in the palace gardens, Yuuri made it a habit to sit on a bench and watch them work every afternoon. There was something about the way they brought the shapeless, vacant boulders of stone and managed to turn them into pieces of art overnight that completely fascinated him, that gave him hope that one day he might be able to restructure his own body into something half as lovely, something that he did not completely loathe.
One of the sculptors that stayed later than the rest – Angelo, they called him – eventually invited Yuuri closer after weeks of spotting him in the gardens with his sad brown eyes fixed on their work.
Angelo was a kind old man who had a sharp, vile tongue, but the most gentle and loving hands, hands that created different breathtaking pieces of art almost every single day.
Angelo was lonely, however, and enjoyed explaining to Yuuri about every single thing that went behind the creation of each sculpture, which eventually sparked a new passion in Yuuri.
He remembered one time Angelo had finished creating a statue for the Italian King – Yuuri's owner at the time – and was grinning from ear to ear as he examined it, eyes filled with amusement.
'Did the King really look that in his youth?' Yuuri couldn't stop himself from asking, for his owner was very old, very plain looking, and so very big. Whilst the marble sculpture looked like a naked Olympian god, to say the least.
Angelo had laughed so loudly Yuuri was startled.
'Oh, slave.' He couldn't stop sniggering, even as he explained. 'I have never, in all my fucking thirty years in this donkey work, crafted a man based on what they looked like. You think any of those cunts look near as good as I make them? Exaggerate, Yuuri, we have to exaggerate to feed their egos as they sit on their fat arses all day.' Angelo snorted, 'Aye, those kings had never looked so godly, not in their youth, not in their fucking dreams.'
And now Yuuri, with the inside of his elbow covering his tired eyes as he lied awake at night, fighting off another wave of insomnia that refused to unloose its clutches on him, was wondering if Angelo simply worked for the wrong people his entire life.
He remembered the way Angelo's mallet stroke the chisel as he worked; carefully carving exaggerated muscles into the body of his statues: thick, visibly parted, and solid around the chest, as he taught Yuuri, leaner and sharper as he went downward toward the pelvic bone, looser yet evident around the thighs, rounder on the biceps, much larger in volume, and slim around the calves. All of it created what the man liked to call the ultimate male body that kings could only wish to have.
But Angelo, Yuuri wanted to say. I just saw a man that looked like you had carved him with your own hands.
Yuuri did not have a blink of sleep for many days after that.
His time in his tiny room was spent lying on the mattress, staring at the empty ceiling, his body tranquil and motionless like Angelo's statues as he allowed foreign cravings to course through his being slowly, but potently, until it felt like poison. A delicious, torturous, and sinful poison that he was susceptible to.
Sexual urges were always an abomination to him.
Since he was a child, Yuuri was taught to not yearn for anyone other than his future spouse and betrothed. Since he was enslaved, he was told to not dare want anyone but his owners; else they would have his head on a spike.
Not the fellow concubines, not any other slaves or commoners, nobles or royals; no one else but his owner was to be the object of his desire as long as he lived. So it was easy for Yuuri to never breach that wall; despising and blocking himself from his various owners came to him very naturally since the beginning of his slavery.
At some point, Yuuri had forgotten that he was a human being. A man. A young, inexperienced man who could have his own irrational desires, a man who would want to satisfy his own sick pleasures; a man who was attracted to other men.
Everything about his existence, for almost five continuous years, was sexualized, until at last, it stopped being so.
It was only irony that his desires had bloomed then.
Yuuri started laughing, allowing the hysterics to take over him.
He had seen countless people naked since his escape from Japan, for he had to shower in public baths ever since, mostly with other concubines that all had stunning bodies that people could not help but stare in awe at.
Yuuri had never denied anyone's attractiveness, male or female, but he had never felt such filthy needs that demanded to be sedated so powerfully, almost clouding his entire mind with every surge.
Yuuri didn't close his eyes; didn't want to close his eyes. Because all he was going to see, he knew, was a living, breathing statue; a memory of a naked Victor Nikiforov.
And he did not want to see that, to picture that. He did not want to feel the sudden tightness in his trousers again or the unwelcomed flush on his cheeks. He did not want to feel the unreasonable wanting.
Soon enough, he realized that he, in fact, was not laughing at all. Those were dry chuckles that came out of his throat, disguised sobs of agony that were not accompanied with tears, because Yuuri was incapable of producing any.
He smiled at his own foolishness, trying his hardest to silence himself as to not notify the rest of the harem that he, the oh so mighty and arrogant Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom, who seduced their Tsar and was playing with him like a toy, had just, for the first time in his life, felt sexual urges toward someone.
He chuckled some more.
Yuuri was starting to feel scared.
He felt scared of himself more than anything else. He was scared of some of the thoughts that ran through his head when he let them roam freely.
He had never wanted anyone before, never thought that he would after everything that happened to him. He was a sex slave; people were supposed to want him, weren't they?
His current owner, however, the first owner that had decided to keep Yuuri for himself, who had chosen him a dozen times thus far, who showered him with compliments and claimed he did not need any other concubine, seemed to want him in every way but the way he was supposed to.
It didn't bother Yuuri, not at all. But it confused him to no end.
The Tsar still seemed quite upset about their quarrel, Yuuri figured. Not that his smiles revealed anything other than a calm, charming persona. But something about his silence did not seem right.
But was it a quarrel? Yuuri was not sure what had happened the last time he was in that room. He only knew that he had left feeling extremely irritated, and the Tsar most likely disappointed.
Yuuri found himself noticing things that he hasn't before. Like how the Tsar's sleeping garment revealed his collarbones in clear display, sharp and sliding against his skin every time he moved. Yuuri noticed that said skin was not just pale as snow, but seemed extremely smooth to the touch. And his lips, he saw, his lips looked so glossy he was wondering if the royal handmaidens had applied something on them as they did on Yuuri's, or if they simply looked like that by their own.
He didn't know how long he sat there, with the closed book in hand and wandering eyes directed at the Tsar's form, discovering new things like it was the first time he had worn his eyeglasses.
His majesty did not seem to notice the unusual behavior, for he was also staring at Yuuri, as he always did when they were together. Though, the Tsar's gaze was always heavier, always more absorbed, always sadder.
Yuuri had been waiting for the command to start reading, but it seemed like the Tsar had forgotten it all together. Taking initiative, Yuuri opened the page where they stopped at and began their routine, wondering to himself on what was happening inside of the Tsar's head.
Was he so upset with Yuuri that he was thinking of ways to get rid of him at last? He wondered, his clutch on the book tightening at the unpleasant thought.
He felt warmth approaching, and a hand reaching out to play with Yuuri's hair that had fallen to the front of his face. Yuuri had to stop himself from exhaling loudly in relief.
I still have time. He thought. I still have time before it all ends.
Yuuri liked what the servants wore.
Unembellished white shirts that covered everything, black pants that were not in ridiculous sizes, and buttoned silver vests that provided elegance that only fit the people who worked in the imperial palace.
Yuuri liked the outfit, he liked it very much, for it must have been the most masculine garment he had worn in years.
"Thank you for helping again, Yuuri." Leo had told him frantically as both of them cleared one of the guests' tables. "But you didn't have to."
"I wanted to help." Yuuri said, balancing two plates on one of his arms easily. "There seems to be a lot of guests tonight."
He looked around the hall that was currently holding another massive banquet, merely twice as big as the attendance of the first ball he had danced in so long ago.
It was in the honor of China's imperial family, Yuuri heard, who were invited to Russia to reach a settlement regarding manners related to mutual exportation between the two nations.
"His majesty invited lots of people tonight," Leo informed, somehow managing to hold six plates all at once as they moved to the food carriages across the hall. He said the next part of his sentence in Spanish, knowing that Yuuri understood it quite well. "For god's sakes, half of those are not even Chinese!"
Yuuri chuckled, grabbing an empty plate before seeing who had finished it. "Oh, Phichit-kun," Yuuri smiled, "Hope you enjoyed your meal."
"Yuuri!" Phichit gasped, looking up from his sketchbook abruptly. "Don't startle me like that!"
Leo smiled in amusement. "Then maybe you shouldn't draw in the middle of a feast, Chulanont."
Phichit pointed a piece of black chalk at Leo, grinning. "I saw you gawking at some of the guests. At least I'm respectfully sketching them."
Leo coughed, hurriedly moving on after directing a playful glare toward Phichit, the tip of his ears turning red.
Yuuri followed after him, clueless to what the two were talking about it, but not curious. After all, he was not there for chatter. He was not even there to help, though, it was an advantageous disguise.
Michele had left him after he accompanied Yuuri to the harem, since outsiders were not allowed to linger there for too long, and most probably went to get some rest before he had to walk Yuuri again to the Tsar's chambers for the Taking - or rather, the unofficial version - which was supposed to take place later that night.
Yuuri knew the fact that he sneaked out would anger his guard, but nothing would be able to keep him from attending that banquet.
A familiar beat of music was released from the orchestra next to him, and a woman was singing along with one of the most angelic voices he had ever heard, and Yuuri was struck with awe when Yurio finally stepped into the center of the hall.
The boy's face was covered with a fierce, black and white mask of a tiger, his long, white wig covering half of his back, and his costume sparkling with its fineness.
After an entire month of hard work and drilling practice, he was finally going to see his student triumph with his own eyes. Other people would finally be able to see that talented being who will certainly astonish any audience he danced for.
That was something Yuuri did not doubt for a second; Yurio had worked harder than he thought was capable of for a boy his age, molding his body into the music that he had chosen with care, becoming one with the steps that he had choreographed specifically for the Prince.
It was a struggle at first, Yuuri remembered with a smile as he watched the gorgeous boy break his pose. The Tsesarevich had demanded to dance to the music that Yuuri had used in the last banquet, and he had to hold back a wince and come up with ways to change Yurio's mind, for the piece that Yuuri performed had steps in it that the boy had not learned perfectly yet. Otabek, of course, was the one who had convinced him, with gentle words and assurance that always seemed to work.
Yurio was dancing now, and he was dancing beautifully.
A critical side of Yuuri noted how the Prince had yet to grasp the emotional aspect of the dance, which he had pictured so vividly when he first heard the piece coming out of the Tsar's violin, but he ignored it for the time being.
Instead, he watched Yurio perfecting every move steadily and gracefully, not falling under the visible pressure, something which Yuuri would've crumpled under if he was in his shoes at that age.
Yuuri was clutching his hands together, so was Yurio, as the boy pointed his hands at the ceiling and waited for the melody to die down, his chest moving up and down rapidly. He was completely exhausted, Yuuri knew, for Yurio's endurance was limited, but oh what he managed to do with it.
It was a custom to wait for the emperor to clap first, but Yuuri was applauding as loud as he could before he could stop himself, his excitement and pride too great to care about prestige.
Thankfully, no one noticed, because at the same time, a woman was standing and clapping along, directing all the attention toward her.
"Bravo!" the lady's green eyes – similar to Yurio's – were soft and glassy, her sharp cheekbones tightening with the small smile she directed toward her son.
Yuuri had heard many things about the Grand Duchess Lilia, how cold, stern, and emotionless she was, but the woman in front of him mirrored Yuuri's delight more than anyone else present, and nothing about it was surprising.
Soon enough the Tsar was standing by her side, clapping as enthusiastically. Yuuri couldn't help but feel absolutely relieved, for he wanted that man's approval more than anyone else's.
The entire hall followed after him like thunder, and Yuuri looked around, perhaps feeling even more satisfied than Yurio himself at such ardent reception.
Yurio stood straight, taking a few seconds to catch his breath before he bowed elegantly toward the table where his family sat, who most certainly knew his identity judging by their loud cheers.
It was as hard for him as any of the previous dance steps, Yuuri recalled in amusement, for the Prince confessed that he had never bowed for anyone else in his entire life.
Yuuri's eyes locked with the Tsesarevich's green ones across the hall, and he nodded at his student in acknowledgment. He would have attended the banquet either way, but Yurio had threatened to behead him if Yuuri dared to miss his performance.
For the first time in a long while, Yuuri smiled sincerely, from the bottom of his heart, as he watched Yurio bow pointedly at his direction.
Yuuri stayed for a while longer, for he didn't have the heart to leave Leo all alone before the last service of wine.
The side that they were assigned to was the farthest away from where the imperial family was situated, so Yuuri did not hesitate to help. Yurio had slyly joined the royals' table, slightly reddened in the face under the secretive glances that his family shot his way, and the Tsar seemed too occupied with his guests to even notice that Yuuri was present.
The music commenced once again, various guests taking advantage of the lack of entertainers and heading toward the center of the hall to dance.
Otabek thanked him immensely, looking almost embarrassed when Yuuri served him the wine on the nobles' table. Whereas Phichit refused the drink and started walking alongside him to the food carriages, gushing over all the sketches that he managed to draw the night.
To be truthful, Yuuri was also gushing quietly as the noble flipped over them, admiring his skills that Phichit had so wrongly underestimated before. Considering how quick the young man sketched, the results seemed to have countless incredible details that caught Yuuri by surprise.
"Leo!" Phichit called, giggling as he spotted the servant standing against the wall, looking both exhausted and deep in thought. "Come, see! I drew this specifically for you, dear friend!"
It was a drawing of one of the Chinese dukes, Yuuri saw briefly, before Phichit shoved it in front of Leo.
Leo took one glance at the sketch and chuckled dryly, "You can be very inconsiderate sometimes."
"What?" Phichit seemed utterly confused, following Leo's line of sight until he found what the servant was staring at. He covered his mouth with a hand, scandalized. "Oh."
Yuuri saw it too, and was suddenly consumed with a familiar rush of unpleasant emotions.
This time, however, they were much more dominant, and much, much darker.
There was no wonder the Tsar was not aware of Yuuri's presence throughout the night. Because in his arms, he saw, was a man that was everything that Yuuri wasn't.
Yuuri understood why Leo couldn't glance at the young duke without blushing since the banquet had started, since the more he looked at the handsome pair, dancing gracefully and exchanging earnest smiles, the more he saw how beautiful the Chinese duke was.
He had thick brown hair, similar to Bianca's, and a slim, short figure that looked so devastatingly compatible next to the Tsar's tall frame and broad shoulders. He had eastern brown eyes that were similar to Yuuri's, but they were much more narrow and pretty to be compared with his wretched ones.
However, the one detail that managed to make Yuuri feel even worse, was the stunning blue Changshan he was wearing so freely.
"Don't you wish you were in his place?" Leo whispered next to him.
Yuuri was sure that even if his and Leo's answers were similar, they would have meant two entirely different things.
"Why don't we leave?" Phichit proposed all of a sudden, worriedly glancing between the two, as if sensing the dark shift of Yuuri's mood. "Let's get some fresh air! The hall is suddenly very-"
"I did hear that the Tsar is enamored by his new concubine," Leo interrupted, grabbing a half empty wine glass on the table to gulp it down. "Though, I'm quite sure he'll take this man as a lover. Who would be sane enough not to?"
"Leo." Phichit cautioned him, horrified.
Yuuri did not react as badly as Phichit, who knew his identity whereas Leo didn't. "You think so?"
"Trust me, Yuuri. I've seen his majesty in enough banquets to tell." The servant told him, "There was never a time when a young, handsome man of high status was present and he did not do that."
He followed Leo's suit, pouring himself what had remained of wine and gulping it down faster than it should have been healthy.
He was already in the process of drinking another glass when Phichit pointed at the pair in frantic waves of his hand.
"His majesty is clearly teaching him how to pair dance," he said, mostly to Yuuri. "He's laughing in embarrassment, can't you see?"
"Phichit, my innocent friend," Leo chuckled. "That's called seduction."
Yuuri finished another glass.
Phichit looked back and forth between the two, looking almost desperate to steer them away from that topic.
"Ah, well," Leo smiled at Yuuri, "Perhaps we'll finally stop hearing about that infamous concubine, no? I'm quite sick of it."
"Leo!" Phichit yelled, "You have never seen his concubine, stop making assumptions!"
"Oh," Leo blinked at the sudden exclamation, completely lost. "You might be right... But is he really as beautiful as they say?"
"No." Yuuri said briskly, putting down his third glass and heading toward the door, his hand clenched into a painful fist. "No, he isn't."
Somewhere along the way, Yuuri had forgotten that he wasn't the only one.
It was easy to forget when the Tsar did not seem to pay attention to anyone else, solely focusing on Yuuri since the very day of his arrival.
It was easy to forget when the Tsar never chose anyone else for the Taking.
It was easy to forget when he showered him with compliments at any given chance.
It was easy when he had announced to the entire castle that Yuuri, and only Yuuri, was the one who had captured his heart.
But Yuuri was still a slave; he was still significantly below the people whom the Tsar was surrounded by. He was still nothing compared to them. He was still, and always will be, forbidden from being seen with his majesty in public, denied from dancing with him in front of his extravagant guests.
Because Yuuri did not belong in such moments; in the arms of such men while people watched. He only belonged in the Tsar's bed, and even that, as atrocious as it was, was going to be taken away from him.
He remembered many months ago when he was in a similar position, resting against a cold wall in an empty hallway, trying his hardest to keep himself away from the grating noise and suffocating air of the banquet near him.
Back then, Yuuri was fearful and nervous. But now, now he felt nothing but anger.
With his jaw clenched, Yuuri detached himself from the wall and started walking away from the noise, not wanting to be anywhere near that place anymore; anywhere near that man.
Yuuri was about to ascend a staircase when he felt sharp eyes on him. Looking up, his gaze locked with the person who was staring down at him from the top, frozen in their spot.
Bianca swallowed thickly, as if she saw something unsettling on Yuuri's face. After she recovered from her initial shock, she gathered the hem of her black dress hastily and started to turn, obviously changing her direction as to not cross paths with him.
However, her dress was too long and as a result, her shoe tangled with one loose end of the gown and caused her to lose her footing.
And she was falling.
Yuuri reacted on instinct, his body moving by its own as he climbed four steps at once, his arms stretching forward to catch her tumbling figure.
Once she was in his arms, Yuuri turned both of them around and braced himself for impact.
Bianca screamed loudly when his back collided with the solid floor at the bottom of the staircase, his chest acting as a cushion for her body to fall flat against it.
Yuuri gasped, relief washing over him when he heard her whimper in fear, grabbing his vest with a weak fist.
She's not dead. He thought, noticing how far she would have fallen if he did not react so quickly. She's not dead because of me.
Bianca was the one who recovered first, pulling herself upright and using her knees to make distance between them. "W-why did you…" she shook her head, planting her foot on the floor to stand. "Are you-" with a sudden grumble, she went back on her knees. "Goddamn it!"
Yuuri sat up, ignoring the ache in his back and dusting off his sleeves. "What is it?"
She took off one of her shoes, wincing as she wrapped a hand around her foot. "My ankle."
Yuuri stood with ease, his eyes widening at what she said. "I-Is it broken?"
"No… I don't think so." She shook her head, putting her foot back on the floor and applying pressure on it. A grimace formed on her face. "It's twisted."
"I will call Phichit." Yuuri looked at the two sides of the empty hallway, not seeing anyone else in sight. "It would be more convenient if you sit down somewhere near the hall."
She looked up, glowering at him. "You stupid man, can't you see that I can't-"
When Yuuri moved to pick her up, Bianca had instantly shut her mouth. Yuuri put one arm under her knees and the other under her back, lifting her off of the floor and adjusting to her weight.
"You will say that I'm the one who did this to you on purpose, wouldn't you?" Yuuri commented knowingly, heading toward the direction of the banquet once again.
"It's not like his majesty would believe me if I did." Bianca retaliated, sounding resigned and bitter. "A useless concubine accusing his precious witch of harming her? What ajoke."
"I'm not his precious." He said through gritted teeth, more angry than he expected himself to be.
Bianca quieted after that, remaining as still as a stone while Yuuri carried her through the hallway.
The mention of the Tsar revived the searing anger in him, its source unknown but its strength undeniable. He remembered the night when Michele attacked him, how he shouted all around Yuuri's semi unconscious form, retrieving him from Michele and carrying him in his arms the same way Yuuri was now carrying his own nemesis.
He should have known it was nothing compared to a man's desire. After all, Yuuri was slowly beginning to know what it felt like to want someone for nothing other than one's selfish needs.
Lost in his destructive thoughts, Yuuri did not see the mysterious way Bianca was staring at him, which would have allowed him to understand many of her future actions, only if he would've looked down for one split second.
"I forgot my shoe." Bianca glared at him the moment he settled her down on a bench near the hall's doors.
Yuuri sighed, "You can get it back when you're able to walk again."
"You go get it back for me."
"I'm not your servant."
"Why, you're dressed like one, for sure." Bianca raised one of her eyebrow, her wit returning. "Why is that?"
"It's none of your concern." Yuuri responded coldly.
She averted her eyes, clearly not used to him being in such a dark mood.
Yet, there was something in the way she looked back at him again that had the same emotion he felt all those times the two had encountered one another, especially after the first time Yuuri was chosen.
She looked at him every now and then as if he had broken her heart.
It wasn't surprising, not really, but Yuuri allowed the realization to shock him a little. He was aware that the entire harem was in love with their Tsar, save for Yuuri, but he did not consider that Bianca's feelings could've been that deep rooted.
Her love for her owner was much more personal, stronger, and it would explain why her resentment for Yuuri outshined every other person in that palace. It would explain why she seemed so stoic, so defeated, and much gloomier after what happened.
He thought that Bianca was smarter than that; she should have known that his majesty broke hearts as easily as he breathed.
Yuuri had a desire to tell her that she had seen more of the Tsar during her one night with him than Yuuri had in three months, but he kept his mouth shut. There were only two people in the entire world that were aware of Yuuri's purity, and he was sure that the Tsar would like that fact to stay hidden.
Yuuri had thought that knowing his pride had remained intact would keep him sane, but it was starting to do the exact opposite.
His purity was an illusion, something only he seemed to believe its existence. No one knew, and no one would ever know, that he had kept his pride. Furthermore, no one would ever believe that a royal concubine who had been chosen so many times was a still virgin. The idea was laughable, even to him.
Yuuri narrowed his eyes at his own wretched thoughts, but Bianca was the one who flinched from it.
He turned away. "Stay here until I send someone."
"Wait." Bianca grumbled, as if she hated the mere idea of asking him anything. "While you're at it, would you find Miss Minako and inform her that I won't be able to attend?"
Yuuri frowned. "Attend what?"
"The concubines' performance will start shortly." She huffed, "You must be quite satisfied of yourself; how we're now reduced to mere entertainers because of you." She said begrudgingly. "Go on, tell her. Then laugh when I get in trouble for it."
A group of concubines dancing in a banquet was not unheard of, but Yuuri wouldn't call it real dancing, for it was nothing other than random seductive movements to any piece of music that was playing for them at the time. Yuuri was certain that none of them had even practiced it, since he would have noticed. Usually it was a selected group of new concubines, the most beautiful ones, who would dance at a night of the Taking to seduce their owner through their dance.
Tonight included one of these performances, although all of them knew that their owner was not going to be seduced. Yet, what Yuuri cared more about was the fact that one spot had just been left vacant.
"I will take care of it." Yuuri suddenly said.
Bianca's round eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean?"
Yuuri did not answer, instead turned around and walked away from her, a new sense of determination sparking inside of him in frenzied flames that almost made his own skin burn.
Because for the first time, Yuuri wanted to dance in front of a crowd.
He didn't want to leave Russia; he wanted to stay near Minako, to continue training with Yurio and watch the boy blossom in front of his eyes, and to keep feeling safe and protected from the constant violence in his life.
And to have that; to keep that, he had to hold the Tsar's attention, for as long as he could.
But the attention was slowly diminishing; the Tsar was not even talking to him anymore whenever Yuuri was in his bedroom, certainly because he was starting to feel bored, was starting to notice how the game he was playing with Yuuri was not that entertaining.
His majesty was still upset with Yuuri, and his attention might be gone for good if what Leo said came true.
Yuuri would lose the little influence he had gained, the Tsar will stop caring about him, Michele might not be required to protect him anymore if that happened, and Yuuri's life would return to the same hell he had to endure every day.
And to prevent it from happening, Yuuri had to keep that man's attention solely on him, and not anyone else. Not another concubine, lover, or a handsome duke.
If Yuuri had learned anything in those five years of continuous anguish, it was exactly that.
Yuuri donned a black dress; the only garment he could find in his room that was similar to the one Bianca wore.
There was something eerie about that piece, he knew, especially in the way it resembled the white dress he had worn so long ago. It might even be mistaken for the exact gown if not for the stark contrast of color.
He was not in control anymore, he was far from it. He was now submitting to the side of him that was created by all the people in his life, who had wanted him so desperately to turn into something he was not.
But Yuuri succumbed to his desperation, not allowing himself to see how he was planning his own fall.
Yuuri waited near the back doors of the hall, standing far away to remain unseen and watching a group of concubines get assembled. The dozen of men and women were nodding to the instructions that Minako was giving them hurriedly before she went back inside.
He might've not been able to see clearly without his eyeglasses, but he only needed to hear the familiar music to know that it was time.
Not only was Yuuri wearing a similar dress, with the exact jewelry, but the song was also the same one the Tsar played for him at their first encounter.
That was what surged him on the most after the concubines disappeared inside, starting their routine, clueless to what they were about to witness.
After deciding on what exact note of the song he would enter to, Yuuri approached with twitching anticipation rummaging inside of him. Only a short revision of his previous fears was encouraging enough before Yuuri took a deep breath and slipped into the doors like a shadow, a shadow that was about to detonate and spread around the entirety of the banquet hall.
He invaded the performance with a moving spin, twirling around himself countless times until he implanted himself in the center of the dancing circle, instantly claiming the performance as his own.
The guests were clueless, but the concubines were not. They watched in confusion and awe as Yuuri ran his hands down his body, tilted his hip to the side, and directed one of his perfectly practiced smirks toward the royals' table.
A pair of blue eyes instantly glued on Yuuri's moving figure, and that's all what he needed to know to begin a dance which he had perfected to its every last beat.
But artistic perfection wasn't enough, Yuuri knew, not tonight. Modeled movements wouldn't do, evident nervousness wouldn't do, nor any stumbling or rigidity.
If the Tsar, indeed, was going to take a lover for the night and dismiss him, then Yuuri had to dance in a way that would make the man regret it.
The other concubines were nothing but decorations after his entrance, for they all settled in a perfect half circle around Yuuri, submitting to him and directing all eyes around the hall toward him and him alone.
Yuuri smiled darkly with every movement, because he knew, he knew that when he danced in his full capability, he was the king, and everyone around him were nothing but peasants.
'You have to hold yourself in a way that won't make you look too easy,' he remembered the words of one of the Madams as she taught him that dance. 'One suggestive, tempting gaze to hold their attention, and not as much as a glance until they can't help but run after you.'
And he did exactly that, pretending that the Tsar did not even exist as he brought a hand to the corner of his lips, pulling them down with an index finger and extending his free arm in front of him, making a random woman across the hall blush when their eyes connected.
'It's your body that they want,' he recalled the words of another teacher. 'Every movement should highlight what they would miss if they did not have you.'
Yuuri entered into another spin, making sure it was much more forceful, allowing one of the shoulder pieces of his dress to slip down all the way into the inside of his elbow without attempting to pull it back up. He resumed dancing with half of his chest and his entire shoulder exposed.
'Focus your attention on someone else,' one of them had told him. 'Jealousy drives a man mad.'
He spotted a pair of widened dark eyes and Yuuri danced his way to the table Leo was standing next to, frozen in his spot with his mouth hung ajar.
Smirking, Yuuri grabbed the bewildered young man by the hand, pulling Leo toward him swiftly and noting the empty silver tray he was holding. Yuuri snatched the tray from his loose hand and threw it toward the ceiling, allowing it to spin above their heads.
At the same time, he grabbed Leo by the shoulder, whirling him around with a playful hand. He held the servant by his back when he faced Yuuri again, dipping him down toward the floor and looking up just in time to catch the tray gracefully.
Yuuri stretched the arm that was holding the tray to the side, but did not break eye contact with Leo, who was still looking at up Yuuri with disbelief. He grinned widely, and that was enough for the servant to break into joyful laughter, his entire face turning red.
Yuuri looked in front of him, wondering if Phichit was there to see such antics, completely forgetting that the apprentice was tending to the injured Bianca at the moment.
Instead of finding an amused stare, Yuuri's eyes found the Tsar's, whose table was so, so far away, his face blurred due to Yuuri's weak vision. But something so distinctly scary overwhelmed his senses all of a sudden, almost making him drop Leo by how weak it made him.
Only then did he notice that the music was reaching an abrupt conclusion.
No one noticed any abnormality, but Yuuri knew; he knew too well that the song had ended way too soon.
He carefully straightened Leo, his face falling when he heard slow, heavy, and almost forced clapping coming from the royals' table.
Roaring applause ensued, Yuuri guiltily realizing how louder it was than Yurio's performance. Leo was still laughing, even if Yuuri's ears were suddenly deaf to everything surrounding him.
Yuuri couldn't breathe; no air was passing through his lungs, and nothing about it was because of his physical exhaustion
What have I done? He asked himself, clutching one hand on his chest and feeling how his heart was pounding in fear. What have I done?
"Yuuri!" Leo exclaimed, holding him by the shoulder excitedly. The glare that was fixated on Yuuri only intensified then. "That was-"
A burned hand appeared on Leo's arm, gently putting it down. "Boys," Minako said, her voice leveled yet restrained. "If I may have Yuuri for a minute?"
Yuuri nodded, ignoring all the calls after him that were only becoming louder by the second. Various men and women around the hall were still cheering for him, yelling for the concubine that had just given them such a spectacular show, calling him all sorts of things that Yuuri did not deserve and did not want to be referred by.
He followed after Minako, her back stiff and her steps hurried as she headed toward the hall's exit.
All the while Yuuri felt the Tsar's gaze piercing holes through his back.
"You imprudent, reckless fool!" Minako shouted the moment they were alone, her hands shaking.
Yuuri did not dwell on how those were the first words she had spoken to him in almost three months. Instead he gaped at her, realizing that Minako, for the first time since he arrived in this palace, looked scared of the Tsar.
"Do you not understand your position, Yuuri?!" she continued, walking around her private quarters. "You're his majesty's favorite! Do you know what that means?!"
Yuuri watched her from where he sat on a chair, his reply barely a whisper. "Am I?"
Minako's head whipped to his direction violently, her good eye widening in absolute incredulousness. "What?!"
Yuuri gulped, feeling chastised. "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Seduce my owner?"
"Yuuri, oh my god, Yuuri," Minako sucked in a deep breath in disbelief. "You had already seduced him months ago. What you did right now was seduce everyone else around him, too. What were you thinking?!"
Yuuri looked away.
"What possessed you to dance like that?" she asked angrily, "Do you know how infuriated the Tsar is? I've never seen him like this, let alone in front of guests!"
Yuuri shrugged. "I don't know."
He didn't want to tell her his reasons. He didn't want to list all the thoughts and scenarios that his unstable mind had fabricated. He didn't want her to yell at him even more and shame him for being a fool. Yuuri knew that he was the only person who was weak enough to believe the voices inside his head, to allow them to manipulate him like that.
There was a knock on the door, and after a loud permission from Minako, Michele entered, evidently drowsy from sleep. "Good evening, Miss Minako-"
"Michele," Minako said quickly, "Accompany Yuuri to the north wing. Quickly, if you would."
Michele blinked in confusion, turning his head toward Yuuri. "Is… is he ready?"
"Does not matter." Minako waved a hand dismissively. "The Tsar wants to see him this instant."
Yuuri stood, resigned, his nails digging into the inside of his palm painfully, wondering if it was all over, if the Tsar would finally dispose of him and never even look at him again.
Yuuri realized, in dismay, that it would be devastating if he did.
Not if, the voices reminded, taking away all hope once again. When.
"Are you… are you alright?" Michele asked after watching Yuuri stand in front of the corridor that lead to the Tsar's door, unwilling to walk through it even after a considerable time of waiting.
Why would you care? Yuuri wanted to snap.
His guard would probably be delighted when Yuuri will get dismissed after no longer than five minutes inside, just long enough for the Tsar to tell him that he was no longer needed, that the mere sight of such a disrespecting whore like himself was sickening.
It was not only Michele that seemed confused by his behavior. Even though the guards at the Tsar's door were changed regularly, most of them had come to recognize Yuuri, and almost anyone who had seen him knew how obedient he was.
Yuuri was merely relishing the time he had left. He was relishing Michele's protective presence, the regard that the other guards had developed for him, and the last bit of attention that his majesty would give him before his life returns back to its previous, unbearable self.
He took a deep breath, handed Michele the coat Minako had slipped on him, and walked to his own downfall.
The Tsar's bedroom was unusually dark.
There was a long, brown vest on the bed, which he remembered the Tsar wearing that night, thrown hastily and without care. He looked to the side, spotting a silhouette in front of the window once again, a place where his majesty seemed to enjoy standing by often.
Yuuri should have been scared of the silence, of the darkness, and of the wine glass that the man was sipping on so slowly, but Yuuri found that he was consumed with a whole different emotion at the sight of him.
It was an emotion that accompanied Yuuri throughout the night, foreign, but familiar, for he had felt it a few times before in the last couple of months, yet never got down to identify what it was.
It wasn't anger, per se, though it did seem a lot like it, with its intensity and the impulses that came with it. It wasn't exactly sadness, either, nor helplessness. Somehow, it seemed like it was a heavy mixture of all three.
And most compelling of all, was the treacherous desire to touch him, to be touched by him. Admittedly, it was not the first time Yuuri had wanted that, not since he had seen his majesty naked in the washroom.
Yet, in the end it did not make any difference, did it? Yuuri might've wanted to yell at him, curse him, and then caress his skin in a way no one else should ever be allowed to. But what he wanted didn't matter, would never matter as long as that golden armlet remained clasped on his arm.
So he stood in silence, and waited as his owner took his time finishing that glass of wine. Yuuri wondered if that one would break too when he dismisses him.
However, the Tsar put it down on the base of the window, half unfinished, and finally turned toward Yuuri.
Blue orbs shined in the darkness, and for some reason, the Tsar looked completely defeated, like he had lost a battle before he decided to speak.
A battle which he desperately wanted to win, because he seemed quite mad about his loss.
"I'm sorry."
The two words were spoken so faintly that Yuuri barely managed to hear them. His footsteps, on the other hand, were loud enough to echo around the room as they approached him.
Yuuri saw a clear view of the white shirt he was wearing, his nose detecting the distinct scent of roses and lavender once again. He wanted to look at him in the eye and ask him why he was apologizing, but the words were pushed back when two hands cupped his cheeks, tilting his head forcefully as a pair of lips crushed against his own.
And then, and then something deep inside him finally snapped.
The Tsar had touched him, had finally laid hands on something that wasn't some wretched strand of his hair. He was kissing him, not so tenderly like the first time he had, but with such vigorous wanting and anger that matched Yuuri's own. And he wasn't dismissing him, he wasn't telling him how worthless he was, and he wasn't directing any of his attention toward someone else. It was on Yuuri, and Yuuri alone.
So he closed his eyes, grabbed a chunk of the Tsar's shirt, and kissed him back as hard as he could.
The sudden force threw the man back a couple of steps, his lips detaching from Yuuri's so he would look down at him with sheer and utter bafflement. Whatever he saw made his pupils turn darker, striking blue almost becoming hard to see as one of his hands slipped behind Yuuri's head, his lips pressing firmly against his instantly afterwards.
He pushed Yuuri's body harder, returning them to where they were standing before then farther back, his lips parting to get a better taste, which Yuuri gave when he slipped his tongue into the Tsar's mouth almost immediately, having been denied from such feeling his entire life.
The man's tongue met his halfway, entangling with his brutally until Yuuri could taste the bitter tang of wine. Yuuri's lips captured his tongue and sucked, hard, relishing the taste of it hungrily.
He heard a groan coming from the Tsar's throat, and then felt it vibrating into his own mouth as his back collided with the door behind him.
The Tsar's hand tightened, holding Yuuri's hair in a fist and forcing him backwards even more, no doubt hurting his own knuckles the more they grazed the wooden door. His tongue licked a sensitive spot in Yuuri mouth, making him gasp, both from pleasure, and desperate need of air.
He had never kissed someone so desperately, had never even come close to, let alone felt so overcome by such sensation, something that many, many other mouths did not manage to spark in him.
No one had ever kissed him before because they wanted to, because they had a desire to feel his lips, to claim them as their own and savor their taste. And no one had ever kissed him for the purpose of making Yuuri feel good.
The Tsar's lips slackened, allowing Yuuri some passage of air as he breathed in sharp inhales, the entire room getting filled with the sound of loud panting from both men.
The Tsar kissed the corner of his lips once, twice, thrice and hard, before moving to cover his jaw with even more kisses. He used his hand on Yuuri's hair to angle his head to the side, his mouth settling on the same spot that managed to nearly turn him blind with arousal when he sucked on it, more sorely this time.
Yuuri pressed a palm on the back of the Tsar's shoulder, pulling his body toward him to feel it – whatever it was – more, and was overwhelmed when the man's teeth dug into his skin, biting hard and earning a loud whine from Yuuri.
The man's free hand gripped on the shoulder piece of his dress, almost violently pulling it down. "Yuuri." He breathed out, leaving bruising kisses on his shoulder, "My beautiful, precious Yuuri."
The hand that was clenching Yuuri's hair let go, cupping the side of his neck, his shoulder, and slowly pushing down the other shoulder piece.
The Tsar's hands ran down each of his arms, sliding the remaining fabric past his wrists until the upper part of the gown fell on the floor. He grabbed his sides, stroking what was revealed of skin and igniting the familiar fire that Yuuri had felt before.
But his mind wasn't clouded with fears and apprehension, not this time, because it was now fully focusing on the hardness between his legs, focusing solely on finding a release before it processed anything else.
The Tsar's hands joined together on the small of his back, pulling Yuuri flush against him. His fingers wrapped around his thin golden belt, the only thing that was keeping Yuuri's gown in place.
He paused however, his heavy breaths fanning the side of Yuuri's head. "Darling…"
Yuuri did not know why he stopped, he only knew that he didn't want him to stop, didn't want him to let go, to go back to dancing with other men and making Yuuri feel those unpleasant emotions again.
Yuuri grabbed his collar, forcibly bringing his lips back to his, initiating another kiss that was only filthier than the one before it.
The Tsar's hand moved quickly, reacting to the kiss and grabbing Yuuri's wrists, bringing them above their heads and letting them fall on his broad shoulders.
Yuuri grabbed them tightly, feeling every inch of muscle under his fingers, then wrapped his arms around the man's neck, cocking his head to the side to deepen the kiss even more.
The Tsar held him from the back of his thighs, grasping on them painfully and bringing Yuuri's legs to bracket his hips. Yuuri leapt on, closing whatever inconvenient distance there was between them to finally feel some friction in the place he needed it the most.
The Tsar then whirled them around, and Yuuri huffed into the man's mouth as he carried him across the room with ease, dropping him into the feathery bed once they reached it.
Yuuri exhaled sharply, doing nothing but stare in haziness as the man stripped out of his shirt and flung it across the room, proving that yes, whatever Yuuri saw in that washroom was not only an imagination. His owner had the majestic body Angelo always described; the body of an Olympian god. A body that no other man or woman should be allowed to lay hands on.
The Tsar was above him, his knees holding Yuuri's legs in a cage and hands returning to caress his sides, thumbs running against the outline of Yuuri's ribs. Their lips connected again, though they did not stay there for long before going down to his chest, sucking and bruising a trail until they reached Yuuri's pelvic bone.
Yuuri's own hands couldn't resist, as one of them grasped the Tsar's bicep and the other pressed on the muscles on his shoulder blade, not knowing what else to do but touch and feel.
The Tsar pulled back suddenly, forcing Yuuri's hands to fall and his eyes to narrow in impatience.
"I'm going to make you feel so much pleasure you'll faint." The Tsar said, looking at him daringly, his lips glistering and bruised from Yuuri's. "Do you want that?"
Yuuri sat up, his body fueled with nothing but desire and mind still completely clouded. He grabbed the man by his shoulders once again, forcing him to bend down into another hungry kiss.
He felt hard hands on his wrists again, holding them down with just enough force to press Yuuri flat on the bed, breathless and gasping.
The Tsar's eyes sharpened, his words coming out louder. "Do you want that?"
"Y-" he panted, "Ye-"
The affirmation was swallowed by the Tsar's hard mouth on his, the words turning into content sighs. His hands reached down to lift Yuuri's lower body, gripping on his behind and stimulating Yuuri in a way he never thought such a simple touch could.
The belt was finally loosened, Yuuri's gown coming apart as the Tsar finally stripped it off of him, sliding the tight undergarment past Yuuri's hips and down his legs until he was completely bare.
It was almost poetic; how Yuuri's gown was as black as midnight this time, the opposite of the white one that he should have worn when this happened.
So many people had seen him naked, had stripped him down and examined every part of him with critical, piercing eyes, but it was nothing similar to this, for his owner was ogling every inch of Yuuri's naked skin as if he was a hungered man eyeing a feast.
"Beautiful." He whispered, kissing Yuuri's shoulder and chest over, and over again. "Beautiful and all mine. Mine alone."
The Tsar suddenly grabbed his arm and flipped Yuuri over on his stomach, catching him by surprise and latching on the skin on Yuuri's back, covering it with a wet trail of his lips.
He kissed down Yuuri's spine, sucking on the dip of his back and grabbing him by the waist, pulling Yuuri toward him and forcing him to balance on his forearms.
Yuuri heard rustling behind him and his mind cleared just enough for him to remember the consequences of what he was doing without any resistance.
The Tsar parted his cheeks and Yuuri's heart fell to his stomach.
He hadn't prepared himself, Yuuri realized, little dozes of panic pouring into his being like cold, freezing water. He hadn't touched himself before he came. He hadn't braced himself for the overwhelming pain that he would surely experience.
But he didn't want any more pain, he had enough of it. He only wanted the pleasure the Tsar promised him. He only wanted those sick desires to be sedated before his wits returned, before the voices started singing songs that would crush him mentally all over again.
'It will be painful.' A Madam reminded him. 'It always is.'
No, Yuuri pleaded. No, please no, please-
"Ah!" he gasped, back arching as he felt something in his entrance, filling him with a sensation he had never experienced before.
It was wet, thick, and it slipped in without much resistance, rubbing the walls of Yuuri's entrance and allowing excitement to rummage through his being.
It wasn't a finger, and it certainly wasn't a shaft, either. It was hard, muscular, and Yuuri wanted it to feel it more.
The Tsar's tongue continued its ministrations, blinding Yuuri's eyes with every movement. Yuuri was aware that he was overly sensitive, but he never knew the true extent of it until the moment.
He felt a hand brushing around his thigh, slowly reaching for the place that demanded most of the attention, so much that Yuuri was starting to lose focus on anything else.
"Your-" Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath when the Tsar's tongue curled inside him, "Your majes-"
The Tsar's tongue pulled out of Yuuri's entrance, mouth kissing Yuuri's behind then traveling to his back, gradually ascending until it reached the nape of Yuuri's neck.
His hand finally, finally wrapped around Yuuri's cock, causing him to hang his head and whine loudly when his majesty didn't do anything else but apply pressure.
The Tsar grabbed him by the jaw, lifting Yuuri's upper body until his mouth was against Yuuri's ear.
"My name." The Tsar groaned. "Call me by my name."
"Vi... Vi-" Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut, his desperation reaching its high. His tongue finally got rid of that knot that refused to untie for the past three months. "Victor! Victor, please! I need… I need… Victor."
Victor's grip loosened on his jaw as he kissed Yuuri's cheek with a loud sound, pleased. All touch was gone from Yuuri's skin, making him shiver from the lack of heat and desire. He saw Victor shuffle around the room, the leather pants he was wearing hanging low on his hips as he grabbed a bottle on the nightstand, returning to Yuuri's side before he even blinked.
"Straighten your back for me, darling." He heard Victor say softly behind him, and Yuuri obliged, bracing himself on weak knees.
Victor kissed him on the nape of his neck the same time Yuuri felt a wet, slippery finger rubbing on his entrance, redirecting all the blood back into Yuuri's cock as it stood stiffly, so hard it almost hurt.
His finger was thin and long, reaching places Yuuri never dared to discover before, making it feel much better because the new sensation gave a far bigger impact.
And then, and then the tip of Victor's finger grazed his spot and Yuuri groaned from the almost sinful stimulation, the low sound turning into a loud, shameless moan when another finger joined, curling around the same spot without falter.
Victor was speaking to him in low whispers, Yuuri noted, not hearing any of it because he was too overwhelmed to understand anything other than the fingers moving so skillfully and painlessly inside him, turning him mad with each careful addition until Yuuri felt more opened than he ever had before.
"Victor." He whined once again, the call working as he hoped it would when Victor's fingers finally slipped out slowly, all four of them.
He sensed frantic movements behind him and Yuuri was ready, he was ready to finally rid himself of the burden that had accompanied him for so long, the lie that only he believed in, and the shackles that controlled so much of his life.
He was ready to surrender to his selfish urges, at least for once in his miserable existence, to experience what everyone talked about, what everyone fantasized of.
His hole stretched around Victor's cock, which was entering him so, so gradually that Yuuri was breathless of the little freedom that came with it. He was free of something at last. He was free of his pride that haunted him like a curse for so long.
"Yuuri," Victor inhaled heavily against the skin of his neck. "Yuuri, breathe."
He knew how to breathe in this position. It was one of the first things he was taught since he was claimed as a sex slave. He didn't need Victor to remind him, didn't want him to sound like the godforsaken Madams that ruined his life.
Yuuri took him all in, feeling so filled, and so astounded by the lack of pain.
He started making filthy noises without an ounce of shame, loud enough to fill the entire room when Victor started moving, providing a delicious friction and hitting the spot that was driving him mad repeatedly and brutally.
Victor was moaning his name, whispering obscene things, calling him with titles he did not deserve, voicing confessions that went from one ear to another because they did not make any sense or sound like words of a sane man.
He grabbed Yuuri's cock, adding to the existing pleasure and stroking hard, hard enough to send Yuuri into a state of absolute ecstasy.
And Yuuri was beginning to understand, he was beginning to understand why those demons created harems, why they forced young boys and girls into sex slavery, and why concubines had to exist in this cruel world.
He was screaming, he was shouting Victor's name, he was allowing his climax to shatter him, to tear him apart.
Aki was snarling, displeased and angry that she couldn't fulfill her vengeance, promising him to come back soon and make him regret it.
Victor was speaking to him, filling Yuuri's ears with endearments, apologizes, and words of remorse.
He didn't understand why Victor was apologizing to him, since for the first time in ten long, torturous years, Yuuri felt alive.
