Babe,
There's something tragic about you
Something so magic about you
Don't you agree?
-
Honey,
You're familiar, like my mirror years ago
Idealism sits in prison
Chivalry fell on its sword
Innocence died screaming
Honey, ask me, I should know

Hozier - From Eden


It had been one of those times when, no matter how hard Yuuri tried to focus, he could not hear the sounds of the waves coming from the shores.

His sixteenth nameday came and went, Yuuri only remembering the occasion when he was being asked about his banquet preferences. Yuuri's involvement was no more than issuing the invites because he scarcely cared about anything other than his lordly duties.

The morning after, Yuuri had woken up to a letter from Mari, which was an exciting event in Yuuri's otherwise monotonous life. An unprompted letter from his sister was rare, and although the nameday blessings were buried somewhere in that letter, shoved in-between barren formalities that sounded nothing like Mari's own words, the heart of the letter proved rather insulting.

It was a reply, first and foremost, to Yuuri's own letter that he had hastily written to her four months prior, inquiring about the reason she had brought Yuuko to the palace against her will.

His was a rather emotional letter. It was the first letter he had sent to Mari which he had not encrypted with courtesies and, for once in his life, spoke of what he started to feel toward his sister.

He had told her, quite unabashedly, that the reason she planted Yuuko in the palace was to prevent him from ever attempting to leave Hasetsu, from ever trying to go to the capital to join her. Furthermore, he had called her, quite harshly, a terrible sibling who chose to keep her little brother away without ever asking what he wanted or needed.

And Yuuri felt good when he did it. He felt like the itch that had been building under his skin for years was finally scratched. Yet, reading her reply aggravated him immensely, so much so that he had stood in the yard long enough for his ankles to ache.

Of course, she had brushed aside Yuuri's accusations as rebellious whims of youth, asserting that Yuuko's presence was good for him, that the lady was not going anywhere and it wasn't up for discussion.

Yet, regardless of the chilling aura that accompanied most of Mari's writings, she, too, had gotten emotional toward the end.

Twenty-four, she had written, her usually precise and bold lines shaking. Twenty-four people lost their lives, Yuuri.

He knew quite well that Mari was in danger in the capital. Yuuri always worried for her, but for a short time after reading that letter, he had been so frustrated he did not care anymore. Yuuri did not care that she was protecting him. He did not care that she was a valuable asset to the emperor. He found, in a devastating realization, that he did not care about anything anymore.

Twenty-four people, she kept repeating, as if Yuuri needed a reminder of that. Twenty-four, twenty-four, twenty-four.

It was talked about in every corner of the empire. People died every single day, unfortunately, and the citizens have long since succumbed to the fact. Death was always looming, in many of its forms, and it never ceased or discriminated against anyone.

But Mari seemed obsessed with that particular number. She never failed to mention it in her letters, in her speeches, or during her rare visits.

Twenty-four, twenty-four, twenty-four, she'd chant like a madwoman, turning Yuuri mad with her.

Twenty-four, Mari would whisper in astonishment, like it was less than logically possible, like it was one short and she could not believe that she hadn't died with them.

Yuuri was busy contemplating burning the letter in his hand when he heard the screams.

Startled, he turned to see four people approaching his sacred spot in the yard. Yuuri's samurai stiffened from where he stood in the far corner.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered when the clergy, the bane of Yuuri's existence, stood before him, his slanted nose high toward the sky and the displeasure reeking off of him.

Yuuri eyed the little boy yelping between the two guards and indifferently addressed the clergy, "Yes, Obousan?"

What was so important to be brought to Yuuri's attention, as it turned out, was the fact the coachman's son—a mere ten-year-old boy—had decided to treat himself to the nameday banquet leftovers the night before. Yuuri remembered that they were going to distribute them at lunch to the palace staff anyway, the remainder going to the townsfolk, and Yuuri internally cursed the boy's stupidity.

It was not that Yuuri cared about the issue, but the boy had been caught, plain and simple. And unfortunately for him, the clergy seemed rather passionate about this particular catch.

"This had been a common practice of his," the clergy spat. "I've been trying to catch this kitchen raider for months!"

"I don't eat breakfast!" the boy exclaimed, his red and yellow streaks of hair falling against his forehead. "I get hungry at night. I'm eating earlier, is all! I'm not stealing anything—"

Yuuri suppressed a wince when the clergy struck the boy's face with his wooden cane, knowing too well how it hurt. It would leave a bruise, and unlike Yuuri, the boy did not have the privilege of three handmaidens tending to him at night so it wouldn't scar.

But the boy, it seemed, was much braver than him. He looked up with teary brown eyes, ignoring the clergy and looking solely at Yuuri. "Your Grace, please! I swear I'm not a thief! I've never eaten extra portions!"

Yuuri blinked in astonishment. This was, he noted with throbbing loneliness, the first time in recent memory where someone looked him in the eyes and spoke to him in such a direct manner.

"How dare you address your Lord so insolently—"

"Put him in the dungeons," Yuuri said with finality, not wanting to see the boy get hit a second time. "I shall arrange for a fitting punishment later."

"You do not need to, your Grace," the clergy said through gritted, deformed teeth. "Your house has punished theft in the same way for generations. The hand he had stolen with should be cut."

"And it will be," Yuuri said. "But when and how... that's for me, and me alone, to decide."

The clergy pursed his dry lips at him. "As you will, your Grace."

"Now leave," Yuuri commanded, directing his words at the two guards holding the boy. "I have told you before not to disturb my peace in the yard."

"Y-Your Grace," one of them stuttered. "It was Obousan who insisted—"

Yuuri shook his head. "Don't do it again. This is my last warning."

The guards left with the boy in a rustle, both of them having a healthy fear of their lord. However, one man remained standing, who did not correlate fear anywhere close to Yuuri, not when he had spent years beating his lessons into him, both physically and mentally.

"I advise a public punishment," the clergy said, unyielding. "In this very yard and in front of the entire palace residents."

Yuuri glared at him. "Blood will not be shed in this yard."

Hadn't he just turned sixteen? Yuuri thought, his pride rumbling. Hadn't he graduated from being his naive student and earned his respect?

Why did everyone else in this palace fear Yuuri with such intensity as to avoid looking him in the eye, yet this man never failed to demean him?

The clergy nodded, nonchalant about Yuuri's rage. "The front of the palace then."

Yuuri bared his teeth. "Leave."

The clergy disregarded the order entirely, knowing too well the power he held over Yuuri.

"I've taught you this, your Grace," he said as if Yuuri was still a naïve child. "You have to set a standard in your domain, highlight the consequences of defiance, and apply these consequences. Then, and only then, you'll elicit respect of any kind. A person in your position should never forget that."

Yuuri wanted to scream in frustration, helpless, and not knowing what to do to make this man leave him be.

As if responding to Yuuri's thoughts, a distinct sound of a clanking scabbard reached their ears.

"His Grace issued an order," the samurai said with an imposing tone, hand resting on his sheathed katana. " I will give you ten seconds before I bodily remove you from the yard, Obousan."

At that, the clergy's defiant mask shriveled. Yuuri turned his back and when the soft padding of footsteps disappeared behind him, he allowed himself to breathe again. "Takeshi."

Upon hearing his name, the samurai made his way to his lord and bowed. "Your Grace."

"Find a way to sneak the boy out of the dungeons. Take him to the inn by the shore and if anyone pries, tell them that you cut his hand upon my order and that he had bled to death."

Questioning silence followed Yuuri's command and his anger swelled again.

"You don't need to look at me like so," Yuuri said bitterly, not needing to turn to see it. "I know I'm a horrible lord. I know I'm the worst ruler this palace ever had. But I will not have a child's blood on my hands over something as worthless as my banquet food."

Besides, he recognized the boy, who had a habit of lingering near his quarters, waiting every day for who knows how long just to catch a glimpse of Yuuri. He knew that boy, and he knew that look. He revered Yuuri like a god, like a deity that had descended upon this earth.

And what sort of god or deity, let alone a worthless human being like himself, maimed little children?

"You could run this convoluted scheme, Yuuri-sama, or…" Takeshi stepped closer. "You could pardon the boy. You have the authority to do so, do you not?"

Yuuri stiffened.

"The worst ruler of this palace... the best ruler of this palace... I have no opinion," Takeshi went on, oblivious to how Yuuri was on the verge of boiling over. "I'm merely a samurai appointed to protect my Lord. My Lord, who's the one who should make the decisions, not the clergymen."

It was so typical of Takeshi that Yuuri didn't understand why he was allowing himself to get so angry. After all, they spent endless hours together, yet did Takeshi ever say anything to him that wasn't demeaning?

He had always thought Yuuri was idiotic, even when the two of them were little children. He had thought him foolish, soft, and not deserving of his position. Regardless, Yuuri had assumed that they were friends and that Takeshi never actually meant these things, but to Takeshi, Yuuri never seemed worthy enough. Why else would he have pushed him away over the years?

Also, he didn't miss the looks of absolute disdain coming from the other man ever since Yuuko arrived in the palace, as though any of this was his fault.

He knew he'd unleash his anger toward Mari's letter somehow. Yuuri thought that he'd have the chance to do so in a vigorous dancing session, but at that instance, he chose to take it out on a different target.

"Pardon him?" Yuuri bit out, his voice dripping poison. "And then what, Takeshi? Show that theft has no consequences under my authority? Put other thieves at ease? Encourage robbery in Hasetsu, and have the lesser lords undermine my power? Why do you think these punishments exist, exactly?" he invaded Takeshi's personal space, his anger abundant. "Why else do you think I made this 'convoluted scheme'? Do you take me for a fool?!" he huffed. "You might, but the other lords don't. And I'm not about to make them by following your unwanted advice."

His samurai had turned red at Yuuri's harsh words. "I apologize, your Grace. I—Politics is the furthest thing to my understanding. As I said, I'm merely a samurai at your disposal—"

But you were once my friend! Yuuri wanted to cry.

"Yes," he said cruelly instead. "Yes, you are. So, do as you're told."

And once again, Yuuri was left alone.

Twenty-four. Twenty-four. Twenty-four. Twenty-four.

Yuuri did not want Mari to be the twenty-fifth, god forbid, but now, more than ever, he was entertaining the idea of himself being the one.

He exhaled sharply, closed his eyes, and once again searched for the nonexistent sounds from the shores.


Five years had passed, and to this day, Yuuri still regretted how he treated poor Takeshi.

The recollections of his time in Japan were becoming more and more vivid, to the point where he woke up every morning with another terrible memory he had willfully forgotten. Yuuri did not understand why it was happening and why the memories flooded back now, but it did nothing but deepen his regrets.

Reflection is a fickle, often hurtful thing. Yuuri as a sixteen-year-old was a self-absorbed, bitter boy, and Yuuri at twenty-one was a regretful, helpless man who didn't know what to do with the realization that, all along, it was he who pushed everyone away. It was he who often abused his power.

Yuuri had been a mere de facto lord of a palace, a figurehead residing in a seaside area hidden by the mountains and having authority over a small population of people. He was no royalty, distant blood relations notwithstanding, and thus his power was limited. However, it was still enough for him to be hateful and obsessive when his wishes weren't granted.

Being born into nobility, Yuuri had been taught how to be a lord since he was a child, but it's the way a lord applied these teachings that mattered in the end. It was a talent, he supposed, a talent he did not have and never acquired. Whatever power he had, Yuuri either misused it or did not use it at all.

That cold, crisp, seemingly unlit morning was nothing but a lesson on that.

Yuuri stood on a terrace overseeing the palace's rear entrance, Sara and Emil on each side of him. The terrace provided a broad view of the ground underneath, its focus a broad, menacing execution platform.

Jean Jacques Leroy was the first person he spotted, who stood on the platform's center, looking magnificent in his golden armor and a massive longsword held in both hands.

The Royal family made an entrance shortly after, led by the Tsar and his successor, Tsesarevich Yurio. His siblings followed behind them and the Duchess and Duke of Russia brought up the rear, though none of them looked pleased to be there.

Not long after, two golden-clad guards emerged, dragging behind them a man whose face was covered with a brown sack.

The man who attempted to assassinate Victor had been tried two days after the attempt, the Tsar deciding to leave his fate up to his royal court of councilors. Their decision was said to be quick and unanimous, his death sentence being issued with no objections.

Yuuri didn't know why he came, but his curiosity was immense and for a strange, inexplicable reason, he thought it was expected of him. No one told him to come, Victor never even spoke of it, but Yuuri believed it was still his duty, somehow, his childhood teachings pushing him to go and see the proceedings with his own eyes.

The man flailed, muffled a groan against the sack, and when Leroy received him, the knight put one strong hand against his shoulder and forced him to kneel in the center of the platform. Then, the knight removed the sack, and once the man's manic eyes adjusted to the dim morning light, he opened his mouth, as if ready to shriek his final words.

That's when Victor turned his head in his direction, and whatever the man saw on the Tsar's face instantly subdued him. His body went still, his mouth closed shut, and his vain struggling ended. Victor made his way to the platform, only accompanied by Yurio, and with each step the Tsar took, the man's face turned a shade paler. It was as if the reaper himself was approaching him, and Yuuri, for the life of him, couldn't fault him for that reaction.

Leroy was indeed going to swing the sword, but ultimately, it was Victor who was going to end his life.

The Tsar faced the crowd and spoke, loud, clear, and oozing authority, but Yuuri could not hear a single word. His Russian had improved and he was definitely in range to hear, but all Yuuri could do was feel and receive the might that radiated off of Victor. This was merely a showcase of power, he knew.

It was right then that the sunlight broke through the clouds. With a signal of Victor's hand, Leroy raised the longsword high to the sky. The length of the blade caught a ray of sunlight that, astonishingly, reflected it to where Yuuri was standing, blinding him for a second.

Yuuri had witnessed a couple of beheadings in his lifetime, all issued by Mari during various points in his childhood. Regardless, he had no intention of letting the gory memories flood back in, so he focused his eyes elsewhere, zeroing in on his student's face as he stood next to his cousin.

Yurio did not look away. In fact, Yuuri could see it putting a strain on him to look as hard as he could. It was for appearances, however, for all that was in Yurio's mind at the moment, Yuuri suspected, was going back to the injured Otabek and reassuring himself of his knight's recovery. The Tsesarevich might've feigned a thirst for blood and violence, but Yuuri knew the boy was more innocent than the majority of the palace people.

There was a slight twitch in Yurio's eyes when the blade connected to the back of the man's neck. And as the head began to dislodge and get tainted in an awful red, Yuuri took comfort in the fact that his student was more similar to him than he was to Victor.

The decapitated head rolled on the floor right next to Victor's feet without the Tsar giving a single minuscule reaction to it.

There were things Yuuri never understood about the Tsar and frankly, things that he could never forgive him for. Like the young, naive, sixteen-year-old concubine who met her demise because of one, inconsequential fit, or a poor servant who uttered the wrong title.

But this time, Yuuri understood Victor's assertiveness and wished he had at least a little bit of his own.


Yuuri couldn't pinpoint when, but at some point, things around him started to change.

It began with Mila and her influence, which caused him to notice something very crucial that he was overlooking, perhaps for months.

It was no secret that princess Mila was a trendsetter. As the only girl her age in the royal family, Mila was, without doubt, the most influential young woman in the royal court, an idol that other young women looked up to.

The youth would anticipate every public appearance by her, quick to follow in her footsteps and try, in vain, to reach her level of beauty. If Mila wore puffy skirts, flat skirts would become out of fashion. If Mila dressed in vibrant colors, greys and blacks would be discarded from everyone's wardrobes. When Princess Mila started learning the piano, all the maidens around the empire hastened to pursue music. And when Yuuri cut her hair at shoulder length, long hair was suddenly not as popular as it once was.

However, some other distinct trends caught his attention, and Tsarevna Mila was not their setter.

For instance, Tsarevna Mila had never been seen in anything other than padded dresses and skirts, certainly not tight pants, doublets, or simple, flowy monochrome dresses. Mila never wore the color orange, nor did she ever put bands around her head to slick her hair back.

Yet, why did Yuuri see those elements incorporated, most often than not, when he took a moment to observe the fashion of the young men and women around the palace?

Yuuri remembered the first time he was chosen for the Taking, how he was dressed in a white, loose dress that was impossible to move in. He remembered vividly the times after, how desperate he was not to be put in a dress and ended up wearing a tight pair of leather pants and an orange doublet that hugged his frame too tightly. He remembered how they usually slicked his hair back using crystal hair bands whenever he was chosen. He remembered, quite clearly, how he had chosen another flowy dress, that time in black, for his last performance.

Those were his only public appearances as a royal concubine, and Yuuri was a fool for not realizing that he was being watched the entire time, studied, and followed.


He did not understand the full extent of the problem until, one day, he was keeping Mila company in her quarters and a strange topic was brought up.

"Yuuri, look," he heard Mila call him. "I see my handmaidens do this all the time."

Yuuri was sitting cross-legged on the floor, unable to move—and unwilling to—as Makkachin's head rested on his lap as she napped. Mila had been living in the palace during Victor's recent absence to specifically take care of Makkachin, so receiving the princess's invitations was Yuuri's highlight of each day.

Yuuri watched Mila through the dresser mirror, feeling uncomfortable as she applied very dark Kuhl on her lower eyelashes.

Yuuri always found it a queasy experience whenever handmaidens did that to him. He often struggled to remain still and hated how heavy it made his eyes feel, how its residue sometimes stayed for days. However, the worst was yet to come. He watched, wide-eyed, as Mila used her finger to lift her lid and then applied the dark paint to her upper lash line as well, much too close to her eyeball.

"See?" Mila turned to show him the results.

"It's… new," he said slowly, feeling very thankful that the handmaidens never attempted that with him.

"Look here," she pointed a finger at her right eye—the one she applied the Kuhl to—then to her bare left eye. "Do you see the difference?"

"Forgive me, but I don't understand the appeal," he said, knowing Mila wanted his honesty. "It only makes your eyes look smaller."

"Precisely," she said. "I was perplexed at first when people started doing it, but I suppose I now understand the reason."

He frowned. "Which is?"

"My, my, Yuuri," she smirked. "Lots of young people nowadays want to make their eyes appear narrower."

Mila turned back to her dresser, not catching the horrified look on Yuuri's face.

"I'm certain that people saw or heard about your eyes, and they're trying to mimic that look." Her smile turned playful and knowing, similar to Victor's expressions when he feigned ignorance. "I haven't been told directly, but the implications are enough."

"Your Highness," Yuuri said quickly. "Perhaps you're thinking too deeply about it."

"And perhaps you're not thinking about it enough. It's not just about the makeup or fashion, Yuuri." She glanced at him, and upon seeing his nervousness, she quirked an eyebrow. "When I hear that people my age are taking a rapid interest in dancing, or that learning multiple languages, specifically French, is becoming a craze, I know for a fact you're the cause of that." She crossed her legs. "I must pay close attention to these things; it's influence and power."

Influence and power. When was the last time Yuuri had any?

It was as a cold, irresponsible lord who did nothing but self-destruct and push people to dislike him.

Yuuri was not blind to the things Mila was bringing up. Yet, he had a suspicion that the reason had nothing to do with him. No, it had everything to do with Victor; whatever Yuuri was doing seemed to work on attracting the Tsar to him, so it would only be logical that people followed his footsteps, seeing it as an easier way to draw the man's attention.

Yet, all he could think of was a way to steer the conversation from that heavy subject, especially since he knew it would turn to Victor, who was a topic he was willfully trying to avoid around her.

He glanced at her dresser and spotted a beautiful box of jewelry, which instantly reminded him of something that was on his mind.

"If I may ask, where do you buy your jewelry from?"

She chuckled at Yuuri's sudden question. "Everything I wear is custom-made. I do not buy anything."

"Oh, the jewelers come to you?" Yuuri asked, feigning ignorance.

"Why do you ask?"

"I..." All of a sudden, Yuuri felt embarrassed. When was the last time he took any interest in vanity? He honestly did not recall. "I'd like to have some jewelry made for me."

To his discomfort, Mila scowled deeply.

"Yuuri, is Victor not providing for you properly?" her voice turned sharp, causing Makkachin to stir. "Has he been leaving you without any jewelry of your own? No wonder you look so plain!"

Yuuri's head snapped back as if to physically dodge the silly accusation.

"I have more jewelry than I know what to do with for two lifetimes, all courtesy of his Majesty," he clarified. They were accumulating rather rapidly, too. Yuuri honestly didn't know where they were coming from. "But I want a specific item for myself."

"Regardless! Victor has at least three jewelers at his disposal. I'm quite certain he commissioned one just to design things for you. If you don't want to ask him, I will."

"No." The humor was gone from his voice. "His Majesty must not know about this."

"But Yuuri—"

"Mila," he said sternly. "He must not."

If Mila's reaction to his request was so severe, Yuuri shuddered to think about Victor, who always took these matters to the extreme. He had only asked the Tsar for one thing before, and he didn't wish to ask for another.

"You're quite passionate about this…" she said, deflating. "It will be my gift to you, then."

"No," Yuuri said, firm. "I'm paying from my own pocket."

Mila merely stared at him, confused by the odd shift in conversation and Yuuri's behavior.

"I've been here for almost eight months," he explained with a sigh. "I've not spent a single coin of my allowance. Buying this myself… means a lot to me. Allow me this one liberty, please."

"Very well." Before Yuuri could thank her, she cut him off. "However, you must do something for me in return."

"Anything," he said, desperate as he watched her rummage through the drawer of the dresser. "Whatever you ask for, I'll do it."

Yuuri looked down to see her offering him a pair of scissors.

Mila twirled her hair with her index finger. "I need a little trimming, and I shall not have anyone else touch my hair."

Yuuri smiled fondly and set to work without question.

Their peaceful afternoon, however, did not last for too long, as things went rather chaotic after that.

Makkachin suddenly rose from her slumber, her tail wagging excitedly. Not a moment later, a loud knock came from the door.

"Mila!" a familiar, invasive voice came. "I'm entering!"

Yuuri felt his whole body tense up, his hands stopping midway through cutting a rogue strand of scarlet hair when the door burst open.

"Why did you banish all your servants outside?" the voice grew more irritated. Two pairs of footsteps advanced inside. "Anyhow, Georgi has this—"

Yuuri's eyes connected with a pair of wild, green ones, and both of them gaped at each other.

"What in the darkest hell—" Yurio started, his gaze settling on Mila. His eyes narrowed into seething slits. "Goddamnit! How many times do I have to tell you he's not your bloody handmaiden?!"

Mila pouted at her little brother's unwarranted hostility. "But his hands are one of a kind..."

Yuuri was in awe; he spent so much time with Yurio and Mila throughout all these months, but never when they were together. Judging by the aggressiveness of the conversation, Yurio did not treat him any differently than he did his own flesh and blood.

He glanced back and forth between the two worriedly. He could tell they'd had this argument before, and if anything, it only made him more speechless.

"Two," a disinterested voice said to Mila. "Two of a kind."

"Shut up! No one says that!" Yurio snapped at the man behind him, his rage only intensifying when he noticed Makkachin pawing her way to his chest. "Let go of me, you beast!"

Makkachin whined at the rejection, not comprehending how the Tsesarevich seemed completely immune to her charms.

Mila, however, was very amused. "What's gotten you so worked up, little kitten?"

Yuuri winced at her words, knowing they were deliberate and more than enough to anger Yurio immensely. Yet, now that he thought of it, angering Yurio wasn't too difficult to begin with.

Besides, Yuuri was too busy trying to remain unnoticed and unharassed by the remaining members of the royal family, as it was Tsarevich Georgi who had entered with Yurio. Yuuri went for a bow the second the man spoke and hadn't lifted his head.

Victor had been gone for a long time, his trip to Moscow almost surpassing a month—the longest they had gone without seeing each other. He did not want to get into unnecessary trouble, especially since the Tsar was not physically present to protect him.

With Victor's prolonged absence, the young and wild teenager bristling at Makkachin was, at the moment, the most powerful person in the capital. Though, everyone present did not seem too bothered by the fact.

"Shut your mouth!" Yurio continued yelling at his sister. "He might be too stupid to realize you're taking advantage but I forbid you from taking it any further!"

Yuuri was caught between feeling heavily insulted at Yurio's words and being grateful for the sentiment. How did I get into this situation?

"Good riddance, I'm not doing anything of the sort." Mila bent down to pat the neglected dog. "And as far as your commands go, Yura, they still sound like a cat meowing."

He heard a pained groan, probably coming from Prince Georgi.

"How dare you!" Yurio was shouting. "They're roars! Roars! And you are using him! Like the godforsaken, wretched, hideous hag you are!"

Yuuri's reflex kicked in before he could stop himself. He stood straight, frowned, and used a chiding tone. "That was very rude, Yurio."

Yurio crossed his arms defensively. "She's the one who started insulting me first!"

And following that, there was only incredulous silence.

Yuuri wondered when, exactly, he had dropped the honorifics with Yurio. He couldn't recall, it was just something that happened without either of them noticing.

Regardless, he still knew that the casual exchange and Yurio's compliance carried more weight than he could comprehend. Mila was shell-shocked and, given the loud gasp coming from Prince Georgi's direction, Yuuri had spectacularly failed to remain unnoticed.

"You." Yuuri grimaced when Tsarevich Georgi's eyes widened in recognition. He didn't miss the fear and uncertainty accompanying every introduction he had with the royal family, but here he was again, wanting nothing more than to flee the room. "You're that dancer."

That was very tame, Yuuri thought with an exhale. The prince could have called him many things. That whore. The witch. Victor's concubine. Victor's… anything. He could've said he was Victor's anything, but he chose not to.

Yuuri felt his ego being stroked for the first time in a long time.

Yurio clicked his tongue in irritation. "What did you think we were arguing about, idiot?!"

"Rather, whom we were fighting over," Mila corrected cheekily. "I didn't know you and Yuuri were so close. Well, now that I think about it, you do talk about him a fair amount..."

"Shut up, hag, before I make you!"

"You pose a lesser threat than my hairbrush, Yura."

"Your Highnesses," Yuuri said wearily. "Please—"

"This is perfect!" Prince Georgi exclaimed all of a sudden, making the other two pause their banter and Yuuri anticipate the worst.

The Tsarevich crossed the room so quickly that Yuuri didn't even have the time to take in his appearance. The closer he came to him, the more Yuuri wanted to retreat and beg for forgiveness, an irrational part of him expecting another accusation, only this time it was by a man he was not in any way familiar with like he was with Yurio or Mila, or even Duchess Lilia.

Prince Georgi stopped before him, his movements not as graceful as Yuuri expected them to be. Another thing he didn't expect was how he proceeded to hold both of Yuuri's hands between his and squeeze them together.

"Surely you could keep a secret." The Prince clutched his hands tighter. His eyes were shining with exaggerated emotion, his smile almost blinding Yuuri. "I have a favor to ask of you."

Yuuri was momentarily choked, his breath leaving his lungs all at once. "A-Absolutely, your Highness."

He didn't even need to hear his request because Yuuri decided, right at that second, that he would do anything this man asked him.

Because he was handsome, so very handsome. His face, with his eyebrows delicate and arched, eyes hooded, romantic, and full of life, jaw sharp and lips full, made Yuuri forget whom it belonged to.

Yuuri was not one to be easily affected by looks, but the man looked too much like Victor. Out of all the siblings, Prince Georgi's resemblance to his cousin was the most uncanny. His blue eyes were a darker hue, and his hair was black instead of silver, but that was all, which was enough to make Yuuri awestruck.

Unconsciously, Yuuri blocked out the hue of the eyes, the color of hair, even the pitch of voice, and all he was seeing was Victor, smiling with all his teeth, wholly unbidden and vulnerable.

It was as if he caught Victor making an expression he never had before, and Yuuri's desire to please roared inside of him.

Georgi was merciful and he finally let go of Yuuri. He produced a bag filled with items, seemingly out of thin air, and handed it to him.

"There are very few people who share my ardent passion for performative arts, but I suppose you would do," the Tsarevich said, his face continuously moving in a way that Victor's never would. It was jarring. "I want you to paint my face for my performance. See, I've prepared a recitation for my lover, and without my face painted, it would not have the effect I desire. My face should reflect the absolute anguish I feel whenever we're apart!"

Nothing could have prepared Yuuri for the conversation to go in this direction. The Prince spoke in such a dramatically serious manner that for a moment, Yuuri wondered if it was a part of said recitation.

"Goddamnit!" Yurio raged. "He's not your handmaiden, either!"

"I… I know how," Yuuri immediately said, like he was under some sort of spell. "I won't disappoint you, your Highness."

As Yurio fumed and Mila chuckled in the background, Yuuri listened to Georgi speak of what he wanted. What followed was a blur of confusion, excitement, and too many voices speaking at once, but then again he convinced himself that this afternoon was a nonsensical dream he was having.

The Prince wanted his whole face to be covered in white paint, his eyes to be dressed with black then surrounded with rhinestones, and his lips to be painted indigo. Yuuri wanted to make more… suitable suggestions but he was too nervous to speak up.

As Yuuri set to work, he tried his hardest to focus, yet Yurio's continuous grumbling was making him anxious. Mila, thankfully, started to distract him.

"Did your beloved Otabek recover fully, Yura?"

"Of course he did. As if a measly knife wound would do anything to that guy." The Tsesarevich smiled smugly. The suggestion in Mila's words was something Yurio didn't even seem to have registered. "He's taking care of Potya."

"Oh, my! You've already named your kitten?"

"Yes. She's Puma Tiger Scorpion."

"He couldn't decide on which name he preferred..." Yuuri tried to defend the boy, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. He had never named a pet let alone owned one, so it's not like he could've done any better. Yurio's siblings were still confused, the frown on Georgi's lips almost ruining the purple line Yuuri was making.

Thankfully, they refrained from commenting any further, which Yuuri appreciated, as he was close to finally putting the last touches on a face that, bit by bit, started to lose all resemblance to Victor's.

Boldening a few dark lines, Yuuri became more nervous, for he had finished and done exactly what the Tsarevich requested.

There was complete silence after Yuuri cleared the way for Prince Georgi to see himself in the mirror. At that moment, Yuuri wondered how he even likened him to the Tsar at all, as no one in this empire could have looked and acted more differently than him.

"You…" Georgi shook in his seat, startling Yuuri by the tears welling in his eyes. "My dear Anya will be dazzled!"

"Oh, she definitely will be," Mila commented teasingly.

"No, no, please, your Highness," Yuuri tried to salvage the situation, fanning the Prince's face with his hands so his tears wouldn't ruin the paint.

"Damn it all!" Yurio, on the other hand, looked like he was close to combusting. "Me too!" he shouted so loud that it made Makkachin jump. "I want face paint too!"

"You're a hypocrite, Yurio." Mila grinned.

"Shut up! I want orange and black stripes. Like a tiger!"

"Me too! Me too!" She raised her hand excitedly. Though, Yuuri suspected she was only doing it to irritate her little brother.

"He's not your handmaiden!"

"But he is yours?"

"He's a highly skilled dance teacher, you absolute ass—"

"Yurio," Yuuri sighed, so overwhelmed he could barely react to anything else. "Please don't be rude."

Makkachin barked, the precious thing wanting to be included.

"Oh my!" Mila started laughing in earnest for the first time in a month, overjoyed at the chaos around her. "Vitya will be so envious."


Yuuri always felt a sense of uneasiness whenever Victor was not present in the palace.

Granted, being with the Tsar in the same room made him uneasy as well, especially early on, but at least knowing Victor was nearby reassured him somewhat. Without him in the throne room, almost anything could happen and Victor wouldn't be there to prevent it.

It also didn't help that nowadays, he was starting to prefer being with Victor physically, where it was—in a very literal sense—the safest. He felt safe in a figurative sense as well, but Yuuri couldn't wrap his head around that yet.

He didn't want to start feeling abandoned whenever Victor left. Yet, Yuuri still wished he was there. All he wanted was to know that Victor was in the capital even if he was beyond reach. Perhaps if he were, Yuuri wouldn't feel that same irrational sense of loneliness.

He did not miss that feeling. He did not miss being surrounded by so many people yet feeling so overbearingly alone.

His lessons with Yurio no longer helped, not with how Otabek's absence proved more noticeable every time they argued and the knight wasn't there to mediate between them. Talking to his guards didn't help either, nor did spending time with Mila, Phichit, Sara, or Leo.

Moreover, everything surrounding Victor seemed more and more convoluted as of late, which only made him more uneasy.

People around the palace spoke of a looming reform, of a corruption crackdown in Moscow, of the Tsar summoning government personnel from all over the empire. They talked about how unprecedented the situation was, how merciless the Emperor was being, and how so many people were being imprisoned, exiled, and stripped of their duties and power.

It was as if a great cleansing was taking place in the top brass, but Yuuri wasn't privy to the details.

This only reminded him of how little he knew about that side of Victor's life, which was much more prominent than the measly few hours Yuuri spent with him every fortnight.

When he was at his most pathetic, without doubt, was during late, lonely nights, where he'd relentlessly think of Victor and his face, his hands, his voice, and his scent. He'd feel desire burn through him, torture him, making his body react in ways he wasn't familiar nor comfortable with, all without him knowing what to do to ground himself.

Touching himself only made it much, much worse.

He was helpless. He was starving. And before he realized it, he was missing Victor.


It was the advent season. The New Year was two weeks away, but Russia's imperial palace seemed to have a completely different holiday to celebrate.

He was aware that Victor's nameday was approaching, Yuuri absently noting how their namedays were exactly a month apart, but he didn't realize how much it mattered to everyone else.

The castle was bristling with energy, foreign guests visiting from all around the world to attend one of the biggest events of the year. Yuuri had seen so many noblemen and royals from so many different nations he had lost count. The South Wing was occupied entirely, and more rooms were being emptied in anticipation of more incoming.

The nameday banquet was already being planned. Yuuri had caught a few glimpses of Minako hurrying around the palace, barking orders left and right about the countless arrangements taking place. Poets were writing sonnets in the Tsar's honor, musicians were composing concertos, and the cooks were creating unique delicacies.

What's more, the maidens and bachelors, all potential suitors from many nations, were fashioning themselves for the chance to attend the banquet and catch the Russian Emperor's eye.

Yuuri was carrying boxes of decorations with Leo when he saw him.

They were at the palace entrance and suddenly, a large entourage entered through the doors, making the buzz around them cease. The royal horn was being used, once again, to announce the new guests. Yuuri was feeling sorry for the announcer, for he must have stretched his lung capacity exponentially that week.

The party from Switzerland had arrived and if Yuuri hadn't dared to sneak a glance at the guests, he wouldn't have recognized him from his name alone.

Christophe Giacometti was not someone he knew from Switzerland, as Yuuri had never been there, but he most certainly recognized him from France.

He did not recall most of the events that happened during his stay in that kingdom, for it was a blur of the same cycle that happened in every other country he was sent to. But France was a bit different. France was where Yuuri had first danced on foreign soil. France was where Yuuri drank his misery away and, for one night, tried to forget that he was a slave.

France was where he forgot most of that night in his drunken state, only to wake up with a reputation so horrible he did not dare exit the slave quarters for the remainder of his stay, where he was dubbed the 'Whore of Tuileries'.

France was where he saw Christophe Giacometti, the Duke of Switzerland, and thought of him as the most handsome man he had ever seen, only to become second after he laid eyes on Victor Nikiforov a year and a half later.

Although Yuuri had forgotten most of that night, a part of him did not seem to forget that the Duke was there. After all, Yuuri had been sober during the rare few times he spotted the man roaming about in the French royal palace.

Yuuri's heart pounded as a few hazy, indecipherable memories flooded back in, an instinctual part of him wanting to cower away and hide.

For the past few months, whether it was due to the newfound stability or the stressful lifestyle, Yuuri had been recalling all the memories he had locked away. Memories of Japan, of the Merchant, of the Madams. Memories he never even realized he had forgotten.

But the night in France was something that he actively fought against remembering. He was extremely grateful that he was simply too drunk for any key moments to cement themselves in his brain. There was one thing, however, that Yuuri was sure of.

Whatever happened in France, Christophe Giacometti was not a friendly figure during the events that conspired.

Soon after, Yuuri understood the bizarre reception the man received because, even long after Christophe Giacometti left, no one around Yuuri seemed to be able to stop talking about him.

His Majesty's most trusted ally, Leo whispered.

The Tsar's dearest companion, others said.

His partner.

His paramour.


"This is an utter waste of time." A groan came from the other side of the table. "Just give it up already."

Yuuri didn't let his own frustration show. "Let's start from the beginning."

"Fucking hell." Michele hung his head, and between him and Yurio, he honestly didn't know which one was more childish.

After getting to know Michele, Yuuri had no reason to doubt the man's intellect. Michele, if anything, was very sharp. To be honest with himself, Yuuri had thought he'd be able to teach Michele the Russian alphabet in one day, but it had been more than two weeks and the guard was still struggling unnecessarily.

Michele would often confuse letters that looked alike. He'd mess up the order of letters, fail to recognize the same words, and would sometimes even be unable to copy text from another paper in front of him.

Yuuri didn't think he was inherently smarter than Michele, but he still managed to learn seven different languages. This alerted him that something wasn't right. After consulting teachers around the palace, Yuuri recognized that Michele had a learning disability, which explained how he failed to learn all those years.

It was an obstacle that Yuuri didn't know how to overcome, though he did learn some alternative ways of teaching him, a couple of techniques in textbooks that proved to work involving colors, shapes, and sounds.

However, Michele would kill him if he suggested any of these methods since they were created with children in mind.

"Oi, let's just call it a day," Michele shut the textbook with too much force. "Even you seem incapable of mustering any enthusiasm."

"No, I'm alright," Yuuri assured him.

"Like hell you are. You've been looking like a kicked mutt all morning."

"I'm tired, is all," Yuuri lied. The previous night was particularly lonely, unbearably so. "The servants were fussing all day about the guests from Switzerland. I was helping Leo with their rooms."

"I know." Michele rolled his eyes. "This always happens whenever Giacometti visits. You'd think the Lord Jesus Christ himself had graced the palace."

This caught Yuuri's attention. "He visits that often?"

"Aye." Michele smirked knowingly. "But you already knew that, so get to the point, sir."

"I'd rather ask Emil," Yuuri said with a glare.

Michele ignored him. "They're friends, as far as I know."

"Who?"

"His Majesty and the Duke, of course," Michele said offhandedly.

"I knew that," Yuuri defended himself.

"But you wanted to confirm it. You're practically begging me for information." Michele was all bluntness. "You wasted many hours on me, so I'll humor you on this."

"My hours teaching you are not a waste," Yuuri scolded. "And you're overestimating my curiosity, really."

This only earned him an impatient wave of Michele's hand. If anything, it seemed like the guard was the one eager to share what he knew.

"Giacometti lived in this palace for a few years when he was a teen," he began. "He was the Tsar's squire—a bloody horrendous one at that. But they got along well enough."

Yuuri was already taken aback. "If he was his squire at that young age, then they were childhood friends."

"Aye, unfortunately." Michele snarled. "That man, by all means, is a mischievous and inconsiderate fiend. Compared to him, the Tsar is very disciplined and a creature of habit, but no one could influence him like Giacometti does. Back in the day, whenever these two were together, they'd frequently disappear from our sights and run loose. It drove us guards mad."

"And what would they do?" Yuuri pressed him.

"Wreak havoc. Prank unsuspecting palace residents. Flirt with commoners and whatnot."

Hearing that, something dawned on Yuuri. "You were one of the Tsar's guards since he was a teenager?"

"No, Yuuri. They would do these things as adults," Michele slammed his hands on the table, triggering a frightened gasp from a scholar near them. "Emil, the poor bastard, was losing hair when they came back from the Tsar's trip two years ago. Not a night went by, he said, where the two weren't running amok."

Yuuri smiled in amusement, though he tried to hide it from his enraged guard who only seemed to get angrier the more he recalled those events.

"Come to think of it..." Michele said, his eyebrows drawing together. "He hasn't visited in a while. They had some sort of a row but… who knows, they must've reconciled."

"What happened?" Yuuri asked, now fully engrossed.

"I'm not sure." The guard shrugged. "Last I recall, they were at the Tsar's study one night and we heard Giacometti shouting. I remember him distinctly saying he couldn't believe a man of his Majesty's position would do something so terrible."

Yuuri composed himself back into his chair. "That's… strange."

"Ugh! See what you made me do?!" Michele exclaimed, eyes widening. "I hate gossiping, goddamnit!"

Yuuri chuckled at Michele's lack of awareness, but he chose to not point it out for his own guard's sake.

He tried to deduce why Giacometti had been so upset with Victor, but the problem was that Yuuri didn't know much about the Tsar to begin with. He didn't know anything about his private life, and certainly not regarding his political life either, which the problem could've stemmed from.

When he trained his eyes back on Michele, he felt anxious, as a serious expression suddenly took over his guard's face.

"Do you remember what I said to you back then?" Michele prompted. "About the Tsar?"

"You'll need to specify." Yuuri grew nervous. "It seems as though many of our conversations revert back to him."

"I said his Majesty had gone celibate for you. As a matter of fact, I'd be the first one to tell you if there was any real threat," Michele told him, his voice lowering into a whisper. "It's not something to take lightly anymore. Now, more than ever, it'd be a danger to your position if someone came along. Emil and I—and many others, I presume—want you to stay safe." His violet eyes hardened. "Remember, Yuuri, you're no longer playing games, so do with our support what you please, as long as you know what you're doing."

Yuuri stayed silent, as he had no answer to that. Yes, he was anxious about the Duke's appearance, but it was only because he knew him from France. He didn't think of the Duke as a rival. In fact, it's been so long since Yuuri regarded anyone like that.

He might've had doubts and insecurities when he first came to the castle, but something had fundamentally changed between him and Victor as of late. The gossiping he heard this morning might've affected him months ago, but Yuuri had instantly recognized it now as groundless rumors.

The reason for that was simple. Victor had always made it quite clear that Yuuri was the only one he was pursuing, and every time he had any doubts, the Tsar was quick to bury them. His actions, which Yuuri didn't necessarily consider as romantic, were always possessive, extremely so.

Regardless, Michele was right. There might not be any romance between the Tsar and Giacometti, but no matter how hard Yuuri was trying to deny it, his situation was slowly turning more and more political. It was turning so political that he now had supporters.

"There's no real threat so far, so worry not," Michele announced, unknowingly putting more pressure on Yuuri. "Even as far as shouting matches go, Emil told me yours was much more memorable."

The more Yuuri scowled at his guard for that mocking comment, the wider Michele's grin got.

"He said it sounded like the Tsar was getting murdered by you that night." Michele recalled, "How bold of you, sir."

"If that were the case, the guards would've apprehended me…" Yuuri dismissed with a sigh, not wanting to remember that horrible night where the two of them, indeed, sounded like they wanted to murder one another.

"Now, isn't that endearing." Michele snorted. "The only threat I can see regarding Giacometti is that sometimes, he and the Tsar have sword fights half-naked," he said in jest. "The Tsar is very good, one of the best, but that fiend matches his every step. He could give me a challenge."

Yuuri shouldn't have been as surprised, given how strong and toned Victor's body was, but the fact that the Tsar did sword fighting was news to him. And, if Michele admits so, he was quite skilled.

No matter how he looked at it these days, Yuuri knew so little about Victor it was astonishing.

He imagined Victor practicing with a sword much too heavy for Yuuri, a blanket of sweat covering him as the hours went by, as his opponents tired him out. He imagined him shedding the top of his garment and dueling with Christophe Giacometti, his face colored with exhaustion and animated with labored breaths.

Yuuri smiled, his dark thoughts replaced by warmth. "Michele, how good are you with a sword?"

Michele scowled at him. "You would not have laid a finger on me if I was armed that night."

Yuuri thought for a long moment before speaking. "How many different moves can you make with a sword?"

"You mean techniques?"

"No." Yuuri swung his hand in the air. "Patterns."

"I'm very confused by this line of questioning..."

"No matter." Yuuri smiled again. "I'm sure we could come up with several distinct moves if we tried."

"You want to master sword fighting now, eh? Don't you have enough skills under your belt?" Michele decided to humor him anyway. "How many patterns are you thinking?"

"Well," Yuuri said. "How about thirty-three?"

Michele's eyes twinkled. "Oh, you clever bastard."


The atmosphere around the harem, for lack of better words, was morbid.

It was easy to forget when Yuuri was so occupied, his days littered with tasks from the beginning of dawn to hours after midnight, almost every minute of his time dedicated to doing things around the palace. It was a grueling routine that helped with his anxiety and gave him a sense of purpose.

It was easy to forget that the harem, the place Yuuri purposely avoided until his bedtime, was going to be empty within the next month.

The Tsar's announcement was vague in his mind, but it hasn't been nulled. It was a royal decree, after all, the decree to send all the concubines away by the New Year. All except for Yuuri.

It wasn't easy to come to terms with it, not at all, not for Yuuri, and certainly not for the concubines themselves. It was surreal to think back to the first time he entered this place, how it was oozing with life and vigor.

All that was gone now, and what had remained were anxious, troubled young men and women who did nothing but wait for the day they'll all be sent away. The liveliness was stripped away from them, replaced with growing anticipation and fear of the unknown.

They'd still be slaves after they left the palace, and there weren't that many places that welcomed unowned slaves.

The sense of guilt came and went. Some days, Yuuri would look at these people around him and feel responsible for their fate, the fact that soon they'd be traded all around the world, their new masters viewing them as even less than concubines.

Other days, when he'd hear their venomous whispers, their loathsome words, Yuuri couldn't wait for all of them to disappear. He understood why they hated him so much, why they blamed him for their inevitable dark future, but he couldn't do anything about it.

It wasn't his choice, after all. It's not as if he had any power to change anything. It was out of his hands; the decision to send them away was for him, but not by him.

Yet, no matter how much he pitied them, Yuuri knew more than anyone else that they couldn't coexist in the same place. It would just be horrible for everyone involved.

Yuuri didn't want to hold grudges any longer, and no matter how much he had suffered in their hands, he had to let it go.

Yuuri was just so utterly tired of living in an environment where he had to constantly compete with so many others to keep himself safe.

He wanted to be Victor's only concubine, Yuuri decided, and the harem's existence was a torture he could no longer bear.

They have to go, Yuuri reasoned with himself whenever guilt overtook him, pushing his face down his pillow late at night as the date came nearer. They have to go.

But why does it have to be this way?


It was exactly a week before the Tsar's nameday and thirteen days before the New Year. It was then that a little bit of life returned not only to the harem, but to the palace as a whole.

The Tsar was returning later that evening, and Yuuri had woken up to everyone around him being completely busy with their respective tasks.

Servants rushed to fulfill their duties, cleaning previously unoccupied rooms and preparing halls for the Tsar to meet his guests. The kitchens were in chaos, and not a moment was wasted serving meals for everyone present. The guards were returning to their posts in the North Wing, fully alert now that their sovereign was in St. Petersburg.

And the concubines, well, the concubines had resigned to their fate, but there was still a tradition they seemed adamant about upholding.

Ever since the harem was established, Sara had told him, concubines would annually present gifts for their Tsar. It was one of the many ways to bring the Emperor's attention to them. This year, however, it seemed like the gifts were their last chance to prove themselves.

So naturally, they wanted to give something extravagant. Accessories, clothing articles, flower bouquets, hand-crafted items, and letters; nameday gifts for the Tsar were in every variety imaginable.

Yuuri, though, paid no mind to any of that. Ever since he heard of the Tsar returning, he had shut himself in his room, finally feeling secure enough to not do anything.

Yuuri knew he had overworked himself immensely that month, but now that Victor was back, Yuuri granted himself a little rest. He had curled in his bed all day, his back aching, his limbs tired, and his body spent from a month of unhealthy manual labor. The cramps in his legs finally had the time to make themselves known, and the pain in his chest only amplified as the hours passed and the night fell over the sky.

Yuuri wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling of longing, as his early life consisted mostly of it. Longing for family, friendship, and freedom was something he always had to live with.

But longing for Victor was profoundly different. It hurt in ways Yuuri didn't think it could.

It hurt the most when Yuuri knew Victor was near and that he would be back in the palace at any moment. Most likely, he already was. It hurt to finally be within reach, but still not be with him. Unfortunately, it wasn't the night of the Taking, and not to mention the countless guests present; entertaining them would take days. Yuuri was now, per tradition, at the bottom when it came to the Tsar's list of priorities.

It wasn't fair. At times like these, and only these, Yuuri truly craved to have more power.


It was near eleven at night when a knock came from his door. He suspected it was Michele, for the guard had come to check on him multiple times that day, getting increasingly worried each time at Yuuri's comatose state.

It was Emil, however. "Yuuri."

"I'm not hungry," he said, lying on his side and hiding his face from the guard. "I just want to rest. I'm tired."

"I'm afraid you can't," Emil said. "His Majesty called for you. He wants you to come at once and we have to hurry—"

Yuuri sat up with a jolt like a man waking from a horrible nightmare. "His Majesty?"

"Yes," Emil furrowed his eyebrows at Yuuri's behavior. "Michele is bringing Sara to help you get ready, and Isabella already drew you a bath."

Yuuri got out of his bed with a speed that defied all his previous exhaustion.

The guard was left puzzled by this. To be fair to Emil, even Yuuri couldn't keep up with his moods constantly shifting. For all Emil knew, Yuuri was still frightened of the Tsar.

Emil didn't know that, in reality, Yuuri had just heard news that he could only rejoice in.


"I'm sorry, Yuuri. I wasn't able to bring any jewelry with me."

"Look inside my drawers. There should be a necklace that matches."

"What about your face?"

"I want you to hide the darkness around my eyes."

"Alright."

"And I want you to paint them just like you did the visit before the last."

"Give me a minute-"

"And my hair. After it dries, I want it slicked back with a headband. The one with the petal patterns."

"Uh, as you wish." Sara scurried around his small room, overwhelmed by Yuuri's demands. "Anything else?"

"This outfit..." Yuuri scrutinized his reflection, the sense of urgency not overcoming the sudden feeling that he looked hideous.

The longer he looked at himself, the more horrid he found his face. Of course Mila would call him plain if Yuuri's appearance was like this. Not to mention, even though Sara opted for the outfit Yuuri preferred the most, the orange doublet and leather pants, they just didn't look right anymore. They were hanging on his body instead of clinging to him like a second skin, and Yuuri didn't want Victor to see him like that. So tired, so unattractive, and so ugly.

"I want to wear something else," he decided all of a sudden.

Michele, who had been silently observing, seemed to run out of patience. "Oi, you're just stalling now!"

"At this rate, it'll be more than an hour before we set off," Emil said nervously. "It was an urgent summon."

"He's not stalling anything, you absolute imbeciles!" Sara came to his defense, sounding more passionate than she had in a long time. "He hasn't seen his Majesty in a month and a half. Of course he wants to look his best! Can't you see how excited he is?!"

Both guards gaped in disbelief, not because a small, delicate woman half their size was reprimanding them, but because she associated Yuuri with the word 'excited'.

"Get out!" Sara said sharply. "He's getting changed!"


It was quite a hassle to get to the North Wing without drawing the attention of the entire palace, and to this day, Yuuri wouldn't know how his guards managed such a maneuver. He was simply too hasty to get there to pay attention to it.

The Entari he was wearing glided against the floor on his way there, and to think that a mere few months ago, Yuuri had an anxiety episode when Victor put it on him was astounding.

Now, he felt powerful in it because Victor chose it for him himself. He wanted to wear something Victor liked because, as Sara said, he was excited to see him more than he ever had before. Victor wanted to see him as well, disregarding the traditions, guests, and his duties to have Yuuri come to him as soon as possible.

With that pungent feeling of excitement and restlessness, Yuuri walked twice as fast.

He stopped in front of the guards by Victor's quarters and removed his coat to reveal his black and gold garment. Sara was quick to take the coat from him, and before he could turn toward the entrance and bid them good night, a foreign sound of laughter startled him.

It was foreign because it was the North Wing. It was foreign because the place was usually so quiet that even a drop of a needle could be heard. It was foreign because it was coming from the hallway leading to Victor's bedroom, which was usually never occupied by more than Victor, Yuuri, and Makkachin.

One pair of footsteps turned into two, then three, and before he knew it, Yuuri was presented with the sight of one Christophe Giacometti and his two guards.

He's making his way back from Victor's bedroom, Yuuri thought, worrying about something he never thought could ever happen. Why was he in Victor's bedroom this late at night?

"Oh, what have we here?" Giacometti spoke French with the fluency of a native speaker, taking in the party at the entrance.

The people behind Yuuri were bowing, he knew, but he stood frozen, feeling so out of place, too panicked and fearful to react. Soon, the Duke stood face to face with Yuuri, thoroughly studying his appearance with passive interest.

After a suspenseful pause, the Duke whistled, his green eyes, appraising and untoward, traveling from the tip of Yuuri's head to his toes.

Yuuri's skin crawled.

"Long time no see, ma chérie." The smile that adorned Giacometti's face was cunning, patronizing, and worst of all, it was the smile of a man who had already triumphed. "Please tell me you remember me."

Yuuri felt anger stir inside him, slowly coming to a boil and becoming hard to conceal. He was used to being belittled, disregarded, and demasculinized, but how Giacometti purposefully used feminine pronouns irked him in a way nothing else could.

"Your Grace." Despite the protest from every single muscle in his body, Yuuri made a perfect bow, recognizing he was outclassed in more ways than one.

"You look as chic as ever," Giacometti commented, talking to him with a familiarity Yuuri didn't like. "I must admit, I have a terrible memory, rivaling even Vicky's. But I simply couldn't forget you." The cunning smile widened. "How could I? A room filled with royals and noblemen, all bargaining for the concubine that dazzled them all. It was quite an auction." Giacometti knew. He knew he was being awfully cruel, but that didn't stop him. He came closer, whispering his next words against Yuuri's reddening ear. "Unfortunately, the price I offered was not enough."

Yuuri remembered, shivering at the terrible memory, how his previous owner called on him a week prior to a certain banquet. The French King demanded him to give his best performance because sovereigns from all around Europe were attending. He had intended to use Yuuri as an advantage in political negotiations.

'You're to entice every man and woman in that hall,' the French King had ordered, his eyes steely and cold. 'I've spent a fortune buying you, and I expect to receive my money's worth. Present me with a performance less than hypnotic, and I shall have your head.'

The French King was faithful to his wife, Yuuri remembered, which was the only reason he hadn't been so worried during his stay in France. However, after that conversation, Yuuri realized that he had never been more scared of any of his owners.

He remembered his fear, desperation, and his will to live that kept flickering on and off. He remembered how he just gave up, stole two bottles of wine from the kitchens, and put his fate up to chance.

And Giacometti was there. He was there during that performance. He was there when the political negotiations were taking place and when the Duke of Finland became his new owner shortly after.

And later, Yuuri was sold to Norway's royal family, and from Norway, he came to Russia.

Giacometti's words were so blunt, so degrading. It's been a long time since Yuuri felt like a possession, an object bargained for and auctioned in front of vicious men hungry for power and glory.

He wasn't only present with these men, no, Giacometti was one of these men.

"You must excuse me, your Grace." Yuuri didn't know how he was composing himself. Every fiber in his body was urging him to either flee or attack the man. He could feel Michele by his side, even while not understanding French, itching to reach for his sword. "But his Majesty has requested my presence."

"Oh, you'll be saddened by what you find, ma chérie," Giacometti chuckled as he stepped sideways, walking past him, the smell of his sweet perfume overbearing on Yuuri's nose. "What a shame, Vicky was very ecstatic to see you. But I suppose every man has vices he cannot resist…"

Yuuri couldn't stop himself. He turned around sharply and watched the man leave, his glare so intense that it made his own party nervous with his anger.

Giacometti didn't look back. His pale yellow hair stood out in the dark hallway, his broad shoulders still shaking with laughter.

"Yuuri, please compose yourself," Emil whispered. "He's always been like this."

Yuuri didn't listen, letting his feet carry him toward Victor's bedroom without waiting for anyone's instructions. He was going inside whether he was allowed to or not. How could anyone stop him, after being humiliated like that?

He stormed through the hallway, reaching Victor's door and unlocking it with trembling hands. He braced himself, the fear and rage almost making his heart explode.

Upon entering the bedroom, his nose immediately wrinkled at the strong smell of alcohol. Two bottles of brandy stood on the table next to him, empty and used, surrounded by glasses equally as empty.

And as for Victor, the man looked absolutely shattered.

His glimmering three-piece suit crumpled from the position in which he lay on the bed. His body was sprawled on the mattress, his limbs extended in all directions, and his face buried in the pillows until all Yuuri could see was his unusually tousled silver hair.

Yuuri closed the door behind him shakily, letting his back lean against it as he exhaled in relief. He looked down at the carpeted floor until his vision cleared.

Yuuri started chuckling darkly.

He cursed Giacometti, for the Duke had made him assume the worst. If anything, finding a drunk, unconscious Victor was the least of his fears.

If the Duke wanted to rile him up, then he had succeeded. Giacometti seemed to know things even Yuuri denied, and he was already using them against him. One of these things was the glaring fact that Yuuri didn't trust Victor, nor did he trust the people around him.

In a sense, it was his fault that this happened. If Yuuri hadn't taken so long to get ready, Giacometti might've not taken the chance and ruined his night. He really should've listened to his guards, as paranoid as they were.

He stood up, walked about the room, and found himself standing on the side of the bed, marveling at how he had finally gotten the chance to see Victor in a defenseless state. He had seen him asleep before, but never witnessed him in such a disheveled manner.

It was much brighter in the room than it usually was. The added candles might've been lit due to Victor having another guest, but Yuuri didn't want to think of that. Instead, he sat as close to him as he could and merely admired the sight.

Yuuri's hand reached out, slowly at first, trying to smooth down his hair, but soon enough, he was running his fingers freely across Victor's scalp. Waking him was the last thing he wanted, given how tired the man seemed, but for some reason, Yuuri couldn't leave him be.

He needed to touch him, feel his physical presence, and assure himself that Victor was there.

A part of Yuuri was frustrated, angry, and betrayed. Being gone for such an extended amount of time was selfish. To make someone so reliant on him, then abruptly leave them like that, was cruel.

But the sensible part of him knew that this came naturally with Victor's position. He might've not felt it before, but it was and would always be this way, and the stronger the connection grew between them, the more Yuuri was pained by it.

Just like he was once pained by Mari's absence.

His hand was shaking, his fingers suddenly grabbing Victor's hair more tightly. He wanted to pull, push, and squeeze harshly, but Victor was stirring and a moment later, Yuuri paused, his breath catching in his throat.

Victor's face came into sight and Yuuri suddenly remembered why Victor was not Mari.

Even in his sleep, he truly was beautiful, in a way Yuuri could never get used to or rationally explain. For a man to have such a fair complexion, such long lashes, and such soft lips, was almost unfair to whoever beheld him. He was beautiful in a way that made Yuuri forget most of his flaws.

Now that he could see Victor's profile, Yuuri noticed that his hair was slightly shorter, for he must've had it trimmed some time recently. With that, it felt even softer than usual to his touch. Yuuri was dazzled and taken by him as Victor kept moving, reacting to the touch so that little by little, it was Victor's face that Yuuri was caressing.

For a moment, Victor reminded him of Yurio's new kitten, of how the little thing purred and rubbed herself against his fingers whenever Yurio allowed him to go near her. The image itself was nonsensical, given who this man was.

Now that Victor's presence in the room no longer struck him, Yuuri noticed that the man didn't seem very comfortable in his position. Gently, he grabbed Tsar's shoulder and inclined him to his side, and upon seeing the state of his clothes, he stopped.

The front of his suit jacket was unclasped, the vest underneath was open, and half the buttons of his black dress shirt were unfastened. Yuuri found himself grinding his teeth and abruptly letting go of Victor's shoulder.

He turned away, squeezed his face in his hands, and tried his hardest to contain a hateful, agonized groan.

Yuuri most definitely felt jealousy before. That dark, unwelcome feeling of dread went hand in hand with his insecurity. Even if he didn't recognize it at first, it was still unmistakable. Yuuri had felt it as early as the first time he saw Victor with Mila and later on when he saw him dancing with the Chinese Duke.

But this was much uglier and consuming. Yuuri could recognize possessiveness when it came from Victor, but to feel it himself was pure torture.

Since when, exactly, had Yuuri come to believe Victor was his?

Besides, nothing happened, Yuuri was sure of it. There was no evidence in the room to suggest it, nor any marks on Victor's skin or lips, but the knowledge didn't calm him the slightest.

More than ever, Yuuri needed to heed Michele's warnings.

Less gently this time, Yuuri resumed peeling off Victor's jacket. He then carefully took off his red vest, all while somehow managing not to wake him.

He covered Victor with one of the bedsheets that weren't trapped under him, and after that, Yuuri could no longer bear to be near him and moved away to renew the fire. He placed the two articles of clothing in his hand on a nearby chair and busied himself with the hearth.

As the flames crackled and consumed the new logs, Yuuri observed how their light reflected on Victor's jacket.

It was a lush, crimson red with gold speckles scattered throughout, making the suit shift between colors with every sway of the flames. The golden pins and chains on the vest, however, shined the brightest.

Come to think of it, Victor really fancied gold, didn't he? Not only did he incorporate it in most of his outfits, but almost all his accessories, including the ones he gifted to Yuuri, had gold in them.

With that in mind, Yuuri moved to the other side of the room, standing in front of Victor's grand dresser. There wasn't only a box or two, but every corner of its surface was filled with jewelry containers.

The one most prized, however, could easily be spotted. It was smaller than the rest, not covered with priceless stones, for it was only made of dark wood. But it was well taken care of, oiled, and shined to perfection with not a stain or scratch in sight.

Yuuri spotted a collection of rings in another opened box. Curious, he picked up the plainest one, barely noting the valuable stones attached to it, and slipped it through his finger without thinking.

Victor had the most elegant and long fingers, completely different from his own fat and callused ones, so it was no surprise that it barely slipped through his first joint and he couldn't get it past the second one. For almost five entire minutes, Yuuri was fixated by the fit for a reason so silly he wanted to scold himself.

His eyes once again found the lone wooden box. Unable to contain his curiosity, Yuuri opened it and wasn't surprised to find that every piece inside was made of gold. There were seven different pockets, each containing a unique pin in the shape of a different rose, their cores a different color of rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.

But what interested him weren't these stones that were worth more than his entire existence. It was the eighth pocket, isolated in a row of its own, containing what seemed like the most insignificant item of them all. A small, plain-looking golden key.

"What are you doing?"

Yuuri felt as if his soul left his body. The words were drawled, the voice was faint, and he felt utterly exposed.

Yuuri gazed at Victor's reflection in the mirror and immediately looked away. He watched himself go pale, his eyes widening in shock. Victor, on the other hand, was sitting up on the bed, intently watching him for what seemed like a long time.

This looked wrong, so very wrong. He was not only fiddling with Victor's private possessions, but he was looking through his jewelry.

He could count a handful of times he'd been this ashamed in the Tsar's presence, for there was an appearance of ill-intent and greed so clear even Yuuri didn't know how to defend himself.

He heard Victor click his tongue, completely startling him. In came the sound of rustling, and to his dismay, slow footsteps followed.

Yuuri watched the Tsar's reflection coming nearer and nearer, each step sending a heavier wave of anticipation through him. Overcome by so many conflicting emotions, Yuuri couldn't do anything but hold his breath when he felt Victor's body against his back.

"Found something you fancy, darling?" Victor whispered in his ear.

Yuuri's mind raced from both the proximity and the overwhelming urge to explain himself, yet his mouth remained shut. Victor slipped his hand through his and brought it closer to their faces.

"Your hands are small in mine, but my fingers are deathly thin, aren't they?" Victor said, embarrassing Yuuri more as he examined the ring he was wearing.

"I'm—I'm sorry... I didn't—"

"The only thing you should be sorry for is picking such an offensive item," Victor said. He used his other hand to take off the ring, successfully locking Yuuri between his arms. Yuuri heard, rather than saw, the ring being tossed on the floor. "My Yuuri deserves only the finest of jewels. Perhaps a ruby would do..."

Victor started rummaging through the jewelry boxes, looking for the said stone, and that's when the words registered, forcing Yuuri to come back to his senses.

"That's unnecessary, believe me."

"Ah, I've forgotten," Victor huffed, the small breath against his ear sending a shiver down Yuuri's spine. "You don't enjoy gifts, do you?" his hand grabbed Yuuri's shoulder, turning him around until they were face to face. "It doesn't matter. Jewelry like that will only distract from your beauty."

What beauty? Yuuri wondered when he finally got a clear look at Victor's face. The word seemed to mean so little in comparison.

"There is, though, a piece I'd love for you to wear." Victor's eyes turned half-lidded. "I look at it all the time and…"

Victor did not finish that sentence, for all he did was stare at Yuuri's face, his train of thoughts interrupted and forgotten.

It was then that Yuuri remembered the bottles of brandy that were consumed by only two men, and judging by how collected Giacometti looked, Victor drank more than enough to render him drunk, or on the verge of it.

The harmless smile on Victor's lips disappeared, and slowly, his face blanked, his hand on Yuuri's shoulder pressing harder and harder.

A faint moment later, Yuuri found himself buried in Victor's arms, almost getting crushed by the sudden embrace.

"Lord have mercy, I've missed you," Victor whispered, pressing his nose against Yuuri's neck with ardor. "I've missed you like I've never missed anything before."

Yuuri grabbed the back of Victor's shirt, squeezing desperately, returning the embrace and inhaling Victor's scent that warmed him to his core.

He did not smell any traces of sweet, overbearing perfume, and Yuuri wrapped his arms around him more tightly.

"Tell me, my darling," Victor said with a sharp inhale. "Did you miss me as well?"

It struck Yuuri so suddenly that the face Victor was making was an expression he had only seen once before. It was the look of a man who seemed pained and wounded, the same look the Tsar had given him the first time Yuuri was in this room.

It was a look of longing, passion, and desire to see someone after a long time. Yuuri knew because he could feel himself making the same face.

As Yuuri spoke, he couldn't think of anything other than Victor, his arms, and his chest, "I did."

Victor put some distance between them. His hands were still on Yuuri's shoulders, but the expression that Yuuri began to dread was back on his face.

"I hope so," Victor said sardonically.

Yuuri hasn't seen him in so long that a part of him had forgotten this. He had forgotten a fundamental aspect of Victor that confused him to no end.

Yuuri had expected a different kind of reception. A happier reception. However, there was something unmistakably solemn about it, but then again, the Tsar had always been like that, hadn't he?

'I enjoy the pain, it seems.'

'For it to turn into a mindless fuck because of anger and jealousy. Oh, how magical.'

'This is the longest you have ever talked to me.'

'You're cruel.'

Yuuri felt a pain in his heart so unbearable he couldn't utter a single word in reply.

And suddenly, Victor was hissing, looking agitated as he held Yuuri's face in his hands.

"I do this every time... I'm sorry," Victor slurred his words. "I'm sorry for lying to you, Yuuri. I thought it would make you happy, but you've come to resent me. I feel—I feel as if nothing I do could fix it. All I do is make you sad and miserable."

Victor's drunkenness wasn't helping; the man was not making any sense.

"I don't understand," Yuuri said, feeling lost. "I… I don't resent you." Not anymore.

"So you say," Victor huffed. "Then why do you look so upset?"

Yuuri felt unbearably frustrated. It took eight months for him to figure it out, but now that he did, Yuuri could no longer feign ignorance. He couldn't look away when it shadowed every one of their encounters since the first time they were alone in this very room.

Yuuri shook his head away from Victor's hands. "I'm upset because you're sad. Because you're miserable. You always are and nothing I do could fix it."

He could physically feel how taken aback Victor was, as his body's warmth disappeared, the man putting more distance between them. He blinked once, staring transfixed at Yuuri, then blinked many times in his drunken state.

Eventually, Victor covered the side of his face with a hand. A resigned, almost pained smile appeared from where his hand didn't cover.

"Ah," Victor chuckled dryly. "You see it."

Yuuri could do nothing but nod numbly, Victor's reaction taking him by surprise.

Then, Victor's arms wrapped around him again, bringing them even closer together, his mouth hot on Yuuri's forehead.

"Thank you, solnyshko," Victor muttered feverishly. "Because no one else does."

For the longest time, Yuuri was convinced that he was the cause of Victor's gloom, his lack of joy, and his somber smile. It took him too long to realize that he was mistaken, that Victor had been battling with his own demons long before they met.

Victor had his own Clergy, his own Merchant, and his own Aki.

And while neither of them could fix the other, Yuuri was glad he was no longer alone.


He heard the faint rustling of bedsheets behind him, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh.

"I wrote you letters."

Yuuri was fixing the fire and at that, he turned around to see Victor awake, eyes trained on the ceiling rather than on him. The Tsar had fallen on the bed and was unresponsive for a long time, so Yuuri was glad to hear him speak again.

"I did not receive any," Yuuri told him, hiding his disappointment.

A letter or two would've curbed his sense of isolation, for the past month and a half had been absolute agony. But then again, a letter from the Tsar of Russia was a very formal ordeal, so Yuuri hadn't even considered the possibility of receiving one all the way from Moscow.

"I did not send them," Victor said. "They were... far too sentimental."

Yuuri felt his face heat up. Victor was flirtatious and liked to heavily embellish things as is, so Yuuri didn't dare imagine what words would come out of the end of his pen in a private letter.

"If they fell into the wrong hands…" Victor continued, his voice taking on a playful tone. "My reputation as a suave young emperor would be in jeopardy. Oh, the scandal of it all…"

Yuuri knew Victor wasn't sober and this was probably said in jest, but his mood suddenly darkened again. Once the fire was properly alive, he stood up, tossing the fireplace poker carelessly on the carpet.

"You're right," Yuuri bit out. "Your status as an eligible bachelor is essential, after all."

He took in the deathly silence that followed and tried to work his tension out of him. Yuuri stared at his feet, watching the slowly rolling poker next to his shoes with a growing increasing regret.

When some time passed without Victor answering, he sighed in relief and put the poker back in place. Yuuri didn't know how to deal with his own recent outbursts, so he was thankful Victor was too drunk to even hear them.

He stared at Victor's limp figure and wondered what to do next. Victor drank frequently so there must be a remedy that he usually took to ease the discomfort. For one to be provided at this late hour, though, Yuuri needed to call for a handmaiden, and despite wanting to help Victor, Yuuri dismissed that thought immediately.

He resented the idea of anyone intruding on them. It was Yuuri's time with Victor and everyone else needed to stay away. If anything, no one else should have been in this room in the first place.

Calm down, he started telling himself when dark thoughts of Christophe Giacometti festered again. You need to calm down.

"Yuuri?"

"Yes?" Yuuri snapped out of his inner thoughts. The urgency in Victor's voice made him cross the room quickly, circling the bed until the Tsar's face came into view. "What is it—"

A strong hand seized his wrist and Yuuri found himself being pulled down, his surprised gasp swallowed by Victor's chest as he landed on the bed. For a confusing few seconds, Yuuri felt disoriented, barely hearing what Victor was saying.

"What do you mean by that?" Victor's words were sharp and angry.

Yuuri huffed, barely getting himself to lift his head. The position was far from intimate, but it had been a long time since Yuuri was in this bed, his body pressing against Victor's in this way.

His headband had fallen off, so he tried to make sense of the situation by retrieving it. This, however, made Victor grow more irritated and his grip on Yuuri's wrist tightened.

"I'm not an eligible bachelor," Victor said, incredulous, the alcohol making his accent heavy. "I have you."

Yuuri winced. "I didn't mean that…"

"You did." Victor's blue eyes narrowed all of a sudden as he stared at Yuuri. "Chris said something to you, didn't he?"

His breath caught in his chest. Giacometti did say plenty to him, but Yuuri couldn't figure out why it was related to Victor's sudden anger.

"Yuuri, listen to me, by God, I will never get married," Victor said intensely. "I can't marry because you're—"

A sudden, forceful silence took over the room and these dangerous words were never uttered aloud. Victor's eyes were filled with shock, staring at Yuuri with pupils twice as large, unblinking.

Yuuri didn't think he'd react so quickly. He had steadied himself, straddled Victor, and pushed his hands against the Tsar's mouth, silencing him before he said anything that crossed the line.

The first sound that broke the silence was Yuuri's deep exhale. He looked at Victor sternly. "You're very, very drunk right now."

Victor laid completely pliant under him, defenseless and very dazed. When the shock wore off and Yuuri was sure his words resonated, he slowly removed his hands, placing them on the sides of Victor's head instead.

Victor's mouth morphed into a drunken smile. "And you're very, very beautiful right now."

The seriousness had dissolved in an instant. Unable to hold himself, Yuuri started chuckling.

"Please, you need to go to the washroom. You're in bad condition," Yuuri said softly.

"No." Victor shook his head firmly. "You'll leave."

That made him pause. "Why would I leave?"

"It's what you always do." Victor glowered at him.

"I was angry those times," Yuuri answered simply, not wanting to have this conversation right now. "I'm not angry now."

Victor scoffed. "You were angry just moments ago."

His quiet rage at Christophe Gicomatti had not been at all quiet, it seemed. Yuuri grew nervous. "When you're sober, I'll tell you the reason."

"No, you won't tell me anything." Victor clenched his jaw in frustration. "For God's sake, you rarely talk to me."

Victor truly was a perceptive man, Yuuri knew that, but the Tsar also preferred to feign ignorance about most things. Listening to Victor like this and hearing how Yuuri has been unable to hide anything from him was terrifying.

"I'll… I'll talk to you, I promise." Yuuri didn't know what he was doing right now, but it felt a lot like surrendering. Then, in a moment of courage that he hoped Victor would remember when he woke up, Yuuri said, "And will you talk to me too?"

Victor took a long time to answer. "I'll fix my mistake."

Yuuri frowned, wrecking his mind to understand what Victor was talking about. A while ago, he mentioned something about lying, lying to make Yuuri happy.

"Alright," Yuuri said eventually. "What do you want me to do for you now?"

Victor twirled the knot of his Entari. "I'm starving, Yuuri."

Yuuri nodded, but before he could offer to get him food, Victor's face drew closer.

"I've been dying to kiss you since the second I saw you." Victor tilted his head, giving him a smoldering look. "It's all I could think of when I was away. You in my clothes. You in my arms."

Yuuri opened his mouth as a quiet, shaky gasp escaped him.

His chest ached terribly, he could barely see, and he stopped breathing. Yuuri had never experienced drowning, but it couldn't be that different from his state right now, could it?

Yuuri knew he was horrible for thinking it, but being this uninhibited suited Victor. With his tousled hair, his face flushed, and the dazed look in his eyes, Victor had never looked more seductive.

"… Of course," Yuuri heard himself say, equally drunk at the sight of his inviting lips.

Yuuri was a little too eager, too quick in how he leaned down, that even Victor was unsettled by it.

"No." Victor pushed him away with a hand, scowling. "Not now."

Repressing the sense of rejection, Yuuri complied and put some distance between them. He looked away in embarrassment for his own actions, but Victor redirected his gaze with a firm hand on his cheek.

"I'm too drunk to read your reactions," Victor said miserably.

Instead of wallowing in his shame, Yuuri became fascinated. "My reactions?"

Perhaps, Yuuri thought, there were things he was able to hide from the Tsar. Like his constantly growing desire, like the fact he mourned Victor being too drunk to do anything satisfying about it.

"That's all I have to go by." The same sad, miserable look returned to Victor's face. "Since Yuuri doesn't say no to me."

Yuuri's heart raced in apprehension, a sense of unease crawling into his skin.

Victor sighed wistfully. "I own Yuuri in every way but the way I want."

Yuuri felt his mind come to an abrupt halt. Leaning above Victor like that, with the man suddenly looking so dejected, he felt as if a wall was about to be broken to pieces and nothing could ever be the same after it.

Seeing a crack in that wall, Yuuri jerked back into action. "Your Majesty-"

Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut. He knew it was the wrong thing to say even before he finished saying it, but it had been a slip of the tongue at the worst time possible.

Victor, thankfully, didn't look angry. Instead, he stared hard at the ceiling in exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri tried. "I'll stop calling you that."

"Right," Victor said mockingly. "It's better to avoid addressing me altogether, isn't it?"

Yuuri winced. He had hoped Victor wouldn't notice that, but of course, Victor saw through everything. There was no winning when it came to this and Yuuri suddenly felt exhausted too.

And out of that exhaustion, or perhaps the fondness he had for Victor that seemed to have tripled thanks to their time apart, he stopped worrying about their overly complicated relationship.

"Victor," Yuuri amended. He cupped Victor's pale cheek, the same way Victor had done to him countless times before, and forced his blue eyes back on his. He sighed, bringing their bodies together in a more intimate, comfortable position. "Victor, just… why do you like me so much?"

"I don't know," Victor said lazily as both their bodies sagged together in fatigue. "I just do."

Yuuri closed his eyes in defeat. He had hoped for a clearer answer to the question that had been haunting him since he came to this country, but he wasn't completely surprised to be denied of it.

After all, paradoxes weren't made to make sense.

"You have to rest now," Yuuri whispered against his forehead. "Go to sleep, Victor."

Victor let the tranquility linger for a few moments before he roughly pulled Yuuri to his chest, wrapping his arms around him in a vice grip and inhaling the scent of Yuuri's hair.

"Can you stay the night, Yuuri?"

"Of course, I will."

"Can you spend the morning with me?"

"Of course."

"Can you call me Vitya?"

"Of course."

He felt Victor's smile against his ear. "Goodnight, my darling."

Victor seemed to have immediately fallen asleep, failing to realize that Yuuri never did call him that. Because as much as Victor had exhausted him and helped him drown out most of the alarm signals in his head, he couldn't drown out all of them.


Yuuri woke up the next morning to complete chaos.

The natural blur in his eyesight was made worse by his sleep-addled brain. When the scene beyond the sheets came to focus, Yuuri felt mystified.

Victor stood in front of the window nearest to the bed, which reached the high ceiling and looked far more elaborate with the curtains opened. The Tsar was in the process of being dressed by three servants, and with the sunlight—something Yuuri had never seen in that room—shining behind him, engulfing him in a layer of stardust, Victor looked almost seraphic.

Yuuri blinked heavily and finally realized he wasn't dreaming.

It only took a few moments for Victor to notice him, smiling happily once he took in Yuuri's sleepy state. He waved off his servants and approached the bed, giving him a full view of his unfastened dress shirt and his well-defined chest. Yuuri wanted to hide in the sheets in shame.

"Yuuri, solnyshko, did I wake you?"

Yuuri felt his cheek heat up at the endearment. It wasn't just because it felt more intimate than the other ones, but because Victor had used it for the first time last night. He was essentially telling Yuuri he remembered what transpired.

Suddenly, Yuuri was the one who felt hungover.

He sat up slowly, spotting his eyeglasses neatly placed on the nightstand. Thankful for whoever brought them, Yuuri resumed putting them on, trying to maintain his dignity in front of the crowd in front of him. "No, you didn't."

In fact, it was quite jarring how silent all the servants were. With his vision now clear, he could count six with one quick sweep, but more outliers were coming in and out of the room.

When Victor was attacked two months ago, there were many people present, but Yuuri's mind had been entirely elsewhere and the room was dark, so it was quite a novelty to witness the hustle and bustle.

"Yuratchka told me you don't have practice today," Victor said softly, his hand reaching to fix Yuuri's disheveled hair. "I wanted you to sleep in."

"I slept well, thank you," Yuuri said, trying not to seem too embarrassed by his touch.

What's more, he didn't want to know when or why Yurio divulged that particular information.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he heard Victor say. When Yuuri looked at him again, there was a deep frown on his face. "I didn't think I'd be this busy today. I won't be able to spend much time with you."

Yuuri kept his mouth shut because he feared that shy stammering was all that would come out. He knew that most likely, no one around them knew English, but Yuuri wasn't used to being spoken to like that, let alone in front of others.

"No apology needed," he managed to say because really, Yuuri would've been flabbergasted if the Tsar wasn't busy.

His skin prickled, feeling the wary glances people were sending him as though they shouldn't be allowed to look at Yuuri like this.

Thankfully, Bella was courageous enough to approach the bed and greet him. She went on to lead Yuuri to the washroom, followed by the other two handmaidens who usually prepared Yuuri every fortnight.

He wanted them to carry on with their own tasks, but the washroom was lavishly prepared, suspiciously littered with products Yuuri preferred. Also, the handmaidens seemed too nervous and on edge to be disrupted, so he let them be.

The routine was so familiar Yuuri forgot he was in the North Wing up until they finished drying him and Bella took out an outfit for him to wear.

A snow-white tunic with matching trousers, embroidered with enough gold patterns to make it look bicolored. He could tell before they dressed him expertly that it was Victor's, for it was too big and costly to be an outfit from Yuuri's daily wardrobe. Nonetheless, he dressed without complaint.

At this point, Yuuri resigned to the fact that dressing him in his clothes was more to Victor's enjoyment than his. Now that the motive behind his gifts didn't seem as sinister, Yuuri found that he didn't mind it.

When he entered the quarters again, there were twice as many people. Guards, knights, and assistants carrying parchments were fluttering about. Victor was occupied so Yuuri followed Bella as discreetly as possible, pretending he didn't see the flirtatious glances she was sending her fiance by the door.

Unbeknownst to him, a large round table was set in the brightest corner of the room that Yuuri swore wasn't there before. Additionally, he was pretty sure the North Wing had a separate dining hall. A part of him was embarrassed to have the servants arrange something unprecedented just for him.

"Hopefully it's to your taste, sir," Bella said, not daring to address Yuuri by name in Victor's hearing. She ushered him to sit and set the cloth on his lap diligently. "Enjoy your breakfast."

"Th-Thank you," Yuuri said hurriedly, but before he could even grab the utensils, Victor's voice across the room stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait," the Tsar commanded. He was by the table before Yuuri blinked. "Let me see."

Three male servants appeared from seemingly nowhere. They were frighteningly coordinated, removing the tops of the dishes all at the same time.

Yuuri was pleasantly surprised. There was fluffy white bread, seemingly fresh out of the oven, two cold meat dishes, and three fish dishes. There was more garnish on the food than the occasion deserved.

"This won't do." Victor regarded the servants with an incredulous look. "Who do you think this meal is for?"

At the Tsar's reprimand, it wasn't only Yuuri who tensed. It seemed that everyone present no longer dared to move.

Victor, however, wasn't done. "Come to think of it, why wasn't there a sleeping garment provided for Yuuri last night? And to add insult to injury, Yuuri had to change the fire himself." He directed a foreboding look at the handmaidens before he bellowed, "What kind of negligence is this?!"

Yuuri was too confused to even react. He didn't think this could ever send Victor into such a rage. He also didn't understand why everyone looked like their lives were flashing before their eyes.

Even Jean Jaques Leroy, the most renowned knight in the Empire, stiffened in his spot by the door.

Belatedly, Yuuri remembered a recent incident, and everything about the unsettling way they were acting this morning started to make sense.

Victor had been gone for a month and a half, and he had seemingly spent the entire time probing the people who worked under him and deciding their fate. If Phichit's gossip was anything to go by, then the Tsar had gotten rid of a third of his entire government personnel before coming back.

With Moscow effectively cleansed, it was the St. Petersburg staff's turn to be purged.

"Your Majesty," Bella chirped in her usual cheerful tone, but Yuuri saw the sweat beads on her forehead. "I always leave sleeping garments in Yuuri's size on the lounging chair, but he never seems to find them. I shall put them in a more noticeable spot next time." She pointed to a chair that Yuuri rarely noticed was there. "As for the meal, it's been quite hectic in the kitchens this morning. Worry not, I will head there myself and arrange a kingly meal befitting your beloved."

The Tsar was scowling up until he heard the last word. He clicked his tongue. "Please do."

"This—This is unnecessary," Yuuri said loudly. "Your Majesty, everything is to my taste."

Victor looked about ready to be upset by the honorific, then realizing they were not alone and Yuuri had no choice, he let it pass. Victor leaned close to him, lowering his voice so only he could hear him.

"Are you sure, darling?" he said, with not a single trace of the aggression he showed the others. "This meal is a disgrace considering all the provisions I brought with me from Moscow."

"Yes. It's fine," he whispered back desperately. "Please don't be concerned about this."

"You've lost so much weight since the last time I saw you," Victor said bluntly. "How do you expect me not to be concerned?"

Yuuri wasn't much in love with himself, not in a way that made him appreciate or be proud of his looks, but this must've been the first time since Yuuri stepped foot in Russia that Victor criticized his appearance.

He found that he accepted it much more easily than every compliment the Tsar had ever given him.

Yet, it shamed him the most.

He looked down. "I-It's my fault. I often fall asleep when they serve food in the dining hall."

Victor's face twisted. His glower was enough for Yuuri to know that another poor person will be rebuked. In vain, Yuuri wished it was him.

"Isabella," Victor said with a tone that made even his most cheerful handmaiden turn pale. "You speak English fluently, don't you? Make them explain to me why Yuuri is not being served meals in his room ."

Isabella grimaced. She turned around to the cluster of servants and translated Yuuri's words verbatim, as if describing a heinous crime.

The mood of the room, which was already grim, became suffocating.

Victor stood tall, pacing back and forth in a threatening manner. "What do you all have to say for yourselves?"

"Y-Your Excellency," one of the handmaidens found the courage to speak. She was the one who organized his wardrobe and asked Yuuri if he needed anything at least twice a day. "Mister Yuuri has never mentioned it in my hearing…"

"Like how he never mentioned concubines physically attacking him under your nose?" Victor said testily. "Or how he hated the way you roughly bathed him, dressed him in garments he didn't like, and made him cry out in pain with your preparations?"

"She's right," Yuuri said immediately. "I never said anything. They couldn't have known."

Victor paid him no heed, directing his wrath at the mortified handmaidens. "Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom, the Tsar's favorite, starved and neglected by his own royal staff. What a riveting tale to spread across the land." He then used his authoritative, loud voice that never failed to make his servants cower. "The level of incompetence in this palace is staggering!"

When Yuuri noticed how some of them looked about ready to faint, he couldn't allow it to go on any longer.

"That's my fault for not speaking about it," Yuuri tried again, talking in Russian so they'd at least know he's on their side.

"Yuuri," Victor warned, as if telling him this was no longer his concern.

But Yuuri couldn't allow himself to stop. "Please don't blame them. I—" he scavenged his mind for a way to dissuade the Tsar, and opted for the truth. "I'll be very upset if they're dismissed. I like them."

Victor did not look overly convinced, but he still regained his calm. "You want me to keep them? I could find others who could do their duty much better."

"I… I need time to be comfortable and familiar with the people who help me. It will be hard for me to feel that with any new handmaidens."

They stared at each other and Yuuri didn't know what was going through Victor's head, but he remained firm, not cowering.

The slow nod Victor eventually gave was mercy.

"Did you hear that? This was Yuuri bestowing his kindness and giving you one final chance." Victor crossed his arms, glaring at them. "You must cherish it."

"Thank you, your Majesty," a chorus came from his subjects.

Victor raised a pale eyebrow sharply. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

It took a few silent moments for the meaning to resonate, and suddenly they were bowing to Yuuri.

"Th-Thank you, Mister Yuuri!"

"We will do better!"

"You won't regret this, sir!"

"Isabella," Victor ordered. "See to it that Yuuri gets his meals on time. Appointed servants will not be allowed to leave until Yuuri physically receives them." Then he said sternly, "If he doesn't receive his meals, neither will they."

"Your Majesty," Yuuri pleaded. "This is the system of the harem. None of them could have known."

"What system?" Victor scoffed. "That whole place will be yours in less than a month. It could be turned into a theater if you so please."

It took a moment for it to dawn on him. He had completely forgotten that, once the concubines leave, Yuuri will be the sole resident of one of the biggest wings in the imperial palace.

It was quite a jarring concept.

"Speaking of which," Victor turned to one of his assistants. "When is the meeting with councilor Abelashvili?"

"Half-past three, your Excellency," Leroy was the one who answered. "She will have half an hour of your time, after that, you have—"

"Very well," Victor cut the knight off. His eyes softened considerably when he looked at him. "Yuuri, I'm expecting you at that time in my study. I will send Leroy here to fetch you, so please make time for it." He caressed the top of his head affectionately before he moved to the door. "Isabella, you stay here until Yuuri chooses to leave. Make sure he's cared for."

Yuuri was confused to no end, as he had no clue why Victor wanted him there. Bella was already bowing, however, returning to her jolly mood. "Of course, your Majesty."

Victor gave the servants another scalding look as he passed them on his way out. "God Almighty, everyone in this room should feel grateful that Yuuri was present. If not for him, I would've sacked all of you in an instant."

Thus, with such an ominous threat, the Tsar made his leave with another echo of nervous apologies and honorifics, taking most of the attendance with him.

Yuuri was about to ask what happened when he was in the washroom, for he was sure something else must've made Victor so vexed. However, when he turned toward Bella, he found her blushing.

"Oh, Yuuri." She smiled dreamily. "Isn't it so wonderful when your partner dotes on you like that? I cannot wait to be wed."

Yuuri was too exasperated to entertain that with a reply. He began solemnly eating his food when the servants looked pleadingly between him and the meal turning cold.

Doting on him was one thing, but making Yuuri worry for the livelihood of every person who interacted with him was another.

Yuuri's head shot up as a startling thought occurred to him. He recalled that he had witnessed this multiple times and this wasn't new; Victor always seemed to have a short temper with his servants. Yet, he was struck with sudden suspicion.

"I can't help but feel bad for you," Yuuri said carefully. "His Majesty is quite stern with his staff."

"Oh, not at all." Bella waved a hand as if the thought was absurd. "He's very detail-oriented, but he's never unkind. If anything, his Majesty is a very impassive person."

Yuuri held back a scream of mortifications when his doubt proved right.

Seeing his reaction, Bella rushed to defend her Tsar. "An outburst like this is very rare, you see. Most people who work for him have never heard him raise his voice."

"… Is that so?" he implored miserably.

"Well, there are levels to it," she said. "Impassivity is the norm, but with his friends—for example, Duke Giacometti—he will address any flaw. With his cousins, however, he loses his temper if they're treated less than royalty. His cousins' visits used to be the most nerve-wracking for us."

Yuuri swallowed his food painfully. "Used to be?"

"Well, ever since he received you, Yuuri…" Bella grabbed her chin, trying to find the right words. "His temper could put the fear of God in anyone. Oh, Yuuri, the way he berates Michele Crispino sometimes… it's a wonder how the poor man doesn't burst into tears."

"I see," Yuuri said soullessly, wanting nothing more than to bury his head in the sand.

Bella, to his horror, went on. "Every time you're present, we make sure to be on our best behavior. It's like he changes personalities—" she suddenly gasped, getting excited. "Yuuri! A bard even wrote a ballad about it! It's called Velichestvo's Dioscuri! It's quite popular with the ladies in town!"

Suddenly, the tender meat he was eating felt like a rock in his mouth.

Yuuri's desire not to bother anyone has seemingly been backfiring on him the entire time, with Victor's staff bearing the brunt of it. If he'd known, Yuuri wouldn't have refused a single offer of assistance. Remembering the number of times he dismissed Victor's servants from entering his room made him dizzy with guilt.

Furthermore, the reminder that entertainers wrote ballads and poems about them never ceased to embarrass him. He knew tales of him were spreading at an alarming pace, but he'd rather pretend they didn't exist.

He had been teased about it enough by Phichit and Leo, who always seemed to catch on to the newest sonnet about Yuuri and rush to tell him.

Even Emil knew some of them, though Yuuri suspected he only sang them because nothing else made Michele laugh harder.

With such a skewed perception of reality, there was no wonder Bella didn't seem befuddled by any of this.

Yet, Yuuri found himself wishing the tales were true, too.


In all his twenty-one years of living, Yuuri never imagined he'd ever hold a sword in his hand.

When he found himself in that position, he couldn't shake off how surreal it was. He was somewhat familiar with Katanas from watching Takeshi and other samurais in the practice barracks, but the claymore Yuuri was holding felt like a foreign object.

He followed Michele's instructions as best as he could. He put his left foot in front of him and the right in the back, distributing his bodyweight equally with his hips facing forward. With both hands, he clutched the sword at shoulder level. However, he still felt like a child wearing an adult's clothing or in his case, a sheltered slave with a knight's weapon.

"Yuuri!" Phichit heckled from the back. "Stop looking so prim and proper! That's not intimidating!"

"It's alright," Emil soothed, making him feel worse. "I never look intimidating either."

Michele snorted, took a split second to get in position, and swung at Yuuri's neck with no warning.

Yuuri did not anticipate the attack at all but his upper body moved by itself, avoiding the strike. He remembered Michele's words and quickly defended himself, crossing their blades together.

Yuuri was expecting praise for successfully executing the move he was taught, but aside from Emil and Phichit's cheers, Michele did not utter a sound nor did he stop. If anything, there was a dangerous glint in his violet eyes as he pressed his blade against Yuuri's, forcing him to push back.

For a couple of agonizing minutes that felt much longer, they both pressed their swords against the other with all their might, pushing each other's endurance with every passing second. Yuuri was inexperienced, but not unathletic, so he held on against the onslaught.

As the force they were exerting increased to aggressive levels, a vein on Michele's jaw tightened. Yuuri didn't know what he looked like, but the feeling was astoundingly familiar. None of it felt strange at all. He could do this for hours.

"Alright, alright, enough," Emil said seriously. "The swords are dull but you could still get hurt."

Yuuri wouldn't— couldn't— comply with the gentle coaxing. His grip would not relent and his eye contact with Michele could not be broken. At that moment, all he knew was that Michele was an aggressor and Yuuri had to overcome him.

Then, he watched as his aggressor nodded firmly, and only then did Yuuri comply.

They ceased the pressure and finally uncrossed their swords, stepping away from each other. Yuuri heaved, his eyes still locked with Michele's. The physical strain wasn't too bad, but Yuuri still had to take a while to get back to the present.

"Yuuri, I take my words back!" Phichit exclaimed. "You looked sufficiently intimidating."

With his friend's oblivious words, the tension was completely broken and Yuuri looked away in shame.

Michele had unexpectedly induced a fight-or-flight response in him, probably on purpose, and when Yuuri looked back at him bitterly, Michele grinned.

"Passed," Michele said pompously, as though getting back at Yuuri for all their writing sessions.

They weren't progressing as quickly as Yuuri had hoped, for Michele was still confused about a couple of letters. However, they had still made more progress in two weeks than they did in months.

Yuuri had initially thought the idea was outlandish, but dedicating each letter of the Cyrillic alphabet to certain sword movements has helped Michele tremendously with his writing. The first time the Italian man spelled his own name with his sword in the air, Yuuri was elated. The first time he spelled it with a pen on paper, Yuuri almost cried. Michele looked dazzled both times.

Now that Yuuri thought back, it was only a matter of time before Michele suggested paying him back, offering to teach Yuuri defensive swordplay. Yuuri had been reluctant since he feared violence and stayed as far from it as possible, but Michele was able to convince him to try one practice session before rejecting his offer.

"Now you know the most basic way to defend yourself with a sword," Emil said encouragingly. "That puts me at ease a little bit."

Yuuri was too alarmed by what Michele was doing to reply.

The guard brought a large pumpkin, impaled it on a metallic hanger his height, and placed it in front of Yuuri.

Then, frighteningly, Michele unsheathed his own claymore and handed it to him.

"You know what to do," Michele said simply. "Maintain the position I taught you. Swing diagonally. Don't exert too much force and let the blade do the work."

Phichit, sitting cozily and drawing on top of a wooden box, looked up in dread. "You better not make a mess of my storage, Crispino."

"I'll clean it, my Lord," Michele replied with an eye roll.

The practice grounds were too cold at this time of winter, not to mention too indiscreet for their sword-writing sessions. Thankfully, Phichit offered Yuuri the spacious storage room he and Cialdini used. Yuuri was still surprised they haven't damaged any medical supplies during their sessions.

Yuuri received the sword and upon feeling it in his hand, he was overcome with shock. Aside from the fact that the blade was sharp, polished, and more sumptuous, it was practically identical to the practice sword he previously used.

"What's so shocking?" Michele asked, reading his face.

"Me being clumsy with swords is a given, but still…" Yuuri eyed it in his sweaty hand. It was far bigger than he had anticipated but Yuuri was more surprised by how easily he was able to wield it. "They're lighter than I thought."

"They're not light, you idiot, they're just not heavy for you," Michele snarked. "With all the manual labor you do, your arms have become almost as muscular as mine. But these legs of yours are the most dangerous. Later, I'll teach you how to utilize kicks alongside your swordplay."

His eyes seemed to say, 'You almost killed me that night with your kick, you bastard. You fractured two of my ribs!'

It was a sentence Michele repeated a lot to him, but never poisonously.

Yuuri trained with Yurio two hours a day and an extra hour alone to keep in shape and plan the next day's session, so it was no news to him that his legs were strong. Compared to the rest of his lean body, Yuuri's thighs were the most muscular, something that used to displease the Madams immensely and grant him lots of punishments.

Sara as a Madam, however, was not very involved, as the only thing she gave Yuuri was praise and encouragement. So now that he had no one to be in charge of his body, his softness was slowly fading. However, Yuuri missed lots of meals and ate very few portions. He was losing weight rapidly, so it was only natural for his muscles to show more.

It was so bad that even Victor commented on it, going as far as to arrange meals for him.

The reminder stung, rattling Yuuri unexpectedly.

"Stop fishing for compliments and cut down this son of a bitch," Michele demanded.

Yuuri clumsily took his position again, doing it well enough not to be corrected this time.

Son of a bitch, Michele said casually, but Yuuri knew it was to invoke a sense of antagonism in him and push him to action.

Son of a bitch, Yuuri thought, and an unbidden, clear image came to his mind.

Yuuri eyed the pumpkin, seeing the Merchant's face with his crooked, ugly nose sneering down at him.

He swung his sword before his mind registered what his body was doing.

There was less noise than expected but more mess as the belly of the pumpkin burst with slimy seeds and scattered in all directions. Yuuri's body bent in half and the force of the sword carried him downward. The squash was rendered as soft as dough under the sharp blade.

It split cleanly in half and the dislodged part of it flew across the room.

For one extraordinary moment, Yuuri felt unstoppably and euphorically powerful.

All of a sudden, Yuuri understood why Victor famously practiced swordplay in vigorous fashion every day. If that's how it felt like, then this only came second to dancing.

"Alright," Yuuri said in disbelief, still basking in that wonderful feeling as he handed Michele his sword back. "I accept your offer."

"It took less convincing than I thought," Michele said, unsurprised. "Your moves were too hasty and you used too much unnecessary force. Your legwork was decent."

Michele looked smug. Yuuri had a suspicion he was happy just because they'll spend less time in the library.

"Yuuri," Phichit called. "Come here. It's done."

Yuuri jogged toward him, everything else forgotten as he received the drawing he requested from his friend.

"Phichit," Yuuri laughed fondly. "You put more details in the hand."

"Well, the design you asked for was as simple as could be," Phichit said defensively.

"You're right," Yuuri said. "I saw lots of people wear it in the East, but Mila's jeweler didn't seem to comprehend my request."

"Russians do it differently, but it's quite common in Thai ceremonies." Phichit started cleaning the chalk residue with a handkerchief. "Is it the right width?"

Yuuri smiled, his heart beating in anticipation as he took in the drawing. "It's perfect."

Phichit giggled, leaning closer to Yuuri. He whispered teasingly, "My, my, Yuuri, I didn't know you—"

"The fuck are you doing here?!" Michele's roar interrupted them.

Both of them turned in surprise to see Jean Jeaques Leroy standing right next to the squashed pumpkin, looking very out of place.

"Unnecessarily rude, Crispino," Leroy replied nonchalantly, unruffled by the harsh welcome. "I came to escort the esteemed Monsieur Yuuri to a highly confidential meeting. Please cease to be so intimidated by my presence."

At the reminder, Yuuri's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He had somehow busied himself enough that day to completely forget his meeting with the Tsar.

In broad daylight. With others present. Escorted by his own royal Knight.

He rationally knew Victor wouldn't put him in danger on purpose, but the sense of doom still lurked.

"Get lost, JJ!" Michele replied indignantly. "Your endless posturing will cause him more damage than any assassin. We're more than capable of escorting him ourselves."

"Are you, now?" the Knight's lips twisted into a snarl. "With how frequently you get admonished by his Excellency, it makes one wonder."

Michele bristled. The unsheathed sword in his hand now looked mighty dangerous.

Yuuri carefully folded the drawing and put it in the pocket of his tunic. He then quickly made his way to the trio, suppressing his rising anxiety.

"After you, Ser," he said, not wanting to waste any time.

"Who's he referring to, I wonder?" Leroy said toward his guards childishly. "Oh, right. That would be me. The only man in this room knighted and touched by his Excellency's sword. No wonder it's only Monsieur Yuuri, the apple of his Excellency's eye, who recognizes this fact and entrusts his precious life in my capable-"

"The confidential meeting sounded quite urgent," Yuuri said, suddenly understanding all the royals' tendency to interrupt the man. He got more nonsensical as he went on. "We shouldn't keep his Majesty waiting."

Michele fastened his sword to his belt hurriedly. "I'm also coming—"

"Nuh- uh!" Phichit shouted. "You have cleaning to do, Crispino!"

"Emil could come along," Yuuri said diplomatically. He gestured to the Bohemian guard and they began heading outside, knowing how Michele's temper wouldn't subside if they stayed there.

"Cleaning duty is quite fitting, I must say." Leroy laughed in triumph. "But be careful, Lord Chulanont, I have it on good authority that this man comes short in every task he's given."

"You're asking for it, now!" Michele yelled behind them. "Come here, you goddamn peacock. I challenge you to a duel!"


The first floor of the imperial palace had no private quarters. Out of all its sections, including the Public Court, conference hall, banquet hall, and palace entrance, Yuuri had only been to the last two.

In the partially empty conference hall, Yuuri witnessed the sight of the biggest table he had ever seen in his life, one that could seat over a hundred people. The smell of wood, leather, and the blend of countless expensive perfumes gave it an eerie sense of importance.

Yuuri was glad he was still wearing Victor's luxurious tunic, for he walked past more noblemen and ladies than he did in years. They seemed busy, bustling back and fro, but Yuuri still felt curious eyes on him.

After announcing him, Leroy opened the door of the study wide and led him in with more flourish than Yuuri thought necessary.

The door closed behind him and Yuuri found himself in a room unnervingly similar to Victor's study in the North Wing, if not a bit larger and less warm.

The lack of warmth seemed to have extended to the Tsar, or perhaps was coming from him, for he sat on the ebony desk in the center of the room, the very definition of cold authority.

There were two other women in the room. Standing behind the Tsar and maintaining her distance was Minako, who looked the same since the last time he saw her, like it was only Yuuri who changed with time while she remained solid and firm.

Yuuri avoided her eye, not wanting her to face a worthless coward like himself.

In front of the desk, however, was a woman he had never seen before. She was tall, tanned-skinned, and strong-looking. Her yellow eyes were a rare sight, but it was her black armor and vambraces that took him aback.

He had seen colorful armor before, for it was a symbol of belonging to knighthoods, and he had also seen women wearing armor. Yuuri had just never seen both at the same time.

"Your Majesty," Yuuri bowed towards them as he stood opposite the armored woman. "My Ladies."

"Very well," Victor spoke. "This meeting shall commence."

Yuuri's eyes went back to the Tsar upon hearing the frost in his voice. Victor looked regal with his navy-blue suit, black vest, and red cape draped over one shoulder, but he wasn't smiling.

In fact, he looked and sounded like a completely different man from this morning. It gave Yuuri the irrational impression that he did something wrong and was about to be reprimanded.

"Ketty Abelashvili," the unfamiliar woman introduced herself with a deep bow. "It's an honor to be granted an audience with you."

The name sounded familiar, but Yuuri couldn't place it and only eyed her warily.

"Abelashvili is the Commander of the Q'inuli Knights," Victor informed him. "She has a seat in the Great Council."

"Only a recent one, your Majesty," she insisted humbly.

A flood of information invaded his brain all at once. All of a sudden, Yuuri felt even more out of place with her next to him. Ketty Abelashvili was quite famous, after all, and possibly the most renowned female Knight in the empire.

She was from one of the noble families who migrated to Russia. They hailed from Georgia and specialized in the fine arts, but Ketty Abelashvili made a name for herself entirely separate from that.

With skill and resilience, she established her own Knighthood and outshined her family's fame. While her Q'inuli Knights were not the most formidable, they were the best at reconnaissance missions and were indispensable to the crown. By the time she gained a government seat and became a councilwoman, she was already known nationwide as the 'Black Dame' .

Yuuri gulped nervously as he took her in.

"You've done good work in that short amount of time," Victor said with such disinterest that it didn't sound like a compliment at all. "I wouldn't have allowed you in this meeting otherwise."

"Dame Abelashvili," Yuuri bowed his head to the woman, correcting her honorifics. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

She mirrored him, "The pleasure is mine."

Victor gestured to Abelashvili with a lazy tilt of his head. "Go ahead."

"Yes, your Majesty." She turned her full attention toward Yuuri. "Sir, for the past five generations of the Russian monarchy, every Tsar has attempted one way or another to eradicate slavery—"

Victor waved a hand impatiently. "Yuuri is a well-versed academic, no need for the long-winded explanations. Get to the point."

Yuuri was as speechless as the Dame, who appeared quite embarrassed by her error.

Yuuri, however, was caught off-guard. Wasn't their fight that night precisely due to Yuuri's ignorance and lack of knowledge?

'You brainless, foolish, stupid man!' Victor had cursed him.

Yet, Victor wasn't wrong to cut her off. He didn't know how to feel about being called a well-versed academic, but after their altercation, Yuuri had studied the topic of slavery diligently, not leaving a single book about it in the library that he didn't read front to back.

For instance, he indeed knew that for the past five generations of the monarchy, each Tsar had attempted to push for the end of slavery, but the demand for slaves was too high and entire societies and businesses would cease to function without them.

But Yuuri also knew that the only exception was Victor's uncle, who made things worse by giving slavers more leeway and erasing all the progress his predecessors had made. Perhaps, if Yuuri hadn't escaped first to Russia, he would've never been captured and enslaved. After all, slaves were usually obtained when they were homeless children on the verge of death, or when they were victims of war. Yuuri was neither.

Like most injustices in Victor's rule, it was due to his uncle's shortcomings.

Victor was either saving him face, or he somehow knew Yuuri would amend his lack of knowledge immediately. Either way, Yuuri was grateful.

"I apologize," Abelashvili recovered quickly. "As you know, Mister Yuuri, the New Law of Slavery is one of most the complex bills that ever passed the Council Chamber. It took his Majesty three years to draft it and I'm one of the councilors in charge of implementing it right now. You can say that it's become my specialty, as I'm the one who deals directly with the slavers.

"Now, when I caught wind of his Majesty's intention to dispose of all the concubines in the imperial palace—who are essentially the most talked-about slaves in all the motherland—I came up with an idea. You see, the ultimate goal is to eradicate the Russian slave trade within the upcoming decades, or at least make substantial movements towards it.

"Changing public opinion and desensitizing the masses is the most essential step. We can start by bringing widespread attention to it. Thus…" Abelashvili eyed Yuuri intensely. "If all the imperial concubines are freed by his Majesty, we'll be doing exactly that."

Yuuri was surprised as he took in the information but more than anything, he was getting progressively more confused. Three pairs of eyes were examining him thoroughly, seeking his reaction.

Yuuri waited, but Abelashvili wasn't explaining further. Minako was staring at the ebony desk, seemingly uninterested in joining the conversation.

Feeling desperate, he looked at Victor for assistance, but the Tsar was leaning his head on his fist, cold and commanding. There was an air of sternness about the man that was quite unnerving to witness.

"I see." Yuuri nodded slowly. In the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't embarrass Victor by being naive in front of his councilor, so Yuuri deduced as much as he could on his own. "Obviously I'll be exempt from this because I cannot be freed. My home country punishes deserters by execution."

Abelashvili looked disheartened, as though Yuuri said the opposite of what she was hoping. "But if I may say, one clause of the law can be amended, the one that forces owners to send the freed slaves back to their countries."

Yuuri furrowed his eyebrows. "That would not bide well for any other freed slave. This clause offers them protection and covers the cost of their travel back home. Amending it only for my sake is absurd."

Abelashvili's shoulders sagged in resignation. "You're absolutely correct."

Yuuri thought that, at this point, he proved his knowledge sufficiently and could finally ask the question he pondered from the beginning.

"To my knowledge, I'm not being disposed of," he said carefully. He felt Victor's sharp eyes burning holes on the side of his head, like the Tsar was offended Yuuri would even mention the possibility. Yuuri nonetheless went on, "Then why are you telling me this? With all due respect, it seems that this matter does not concern me."

Yuuri might've imagined it, but when he said that, the air around Victor became much darker.

It didn't seem to be just his imagination, because when Abelashvili glanced at Victor, she fidgeted nervously. "I regret to inform you, Mister Yuuri, that you've become the center of it."

He was completely taken aback by that. "H-How so?"

"I've made the proposal to the councilors before his Majesty even went to Moscow," she started. "His Majesty has the final say in all legal decrees, but their insight plays an important part. With his Majesty gone and the deliberations taking so long, the council has essentially split in half: those who want to free the imperial concubines, and those who are… defending your position."

Yuuri gaped at her like she started speaking a completely foreign language halfway through her last sentence.

His position? He thought wildly. What position?!

"Freedom is the highest honor granted to a slave," Minako spoke for the first time. It looked as though she once again took pity on Yuuri and his lack of perspective. "As the Tsar's first favorite, it will mean offense to free any of the concubines before you. The imperial palace does not have a Tsarina, so you're the most symbolic member of the Tsar's household. Freeing the concubines, especially those who were chosen before, might put them above you in rank."

Yuuri held back a hysterical laugh.

Oh, the council had surely found itself in quite a predicament. The freedom of over a hundred and fifty concubines lied solely on the fact that Yuuri, the most problematic concubine of them all, who should ceremonially be freed first, cannot be freed.

He could ponder over the ridiculousness of the situation for as long as he wanted, but Yuuri couldn't allow this dilemma to be blamed solely on him.

"I…" He looked around the room resolutely. "I assure you, your Majesty, Councilwoman Abelashvili, Miss Minako, in regards to the concubines being freed before me and the issue of rank… I couldn't care less about that if I tried."

He knew his words came out bitter, but it was quite a wound on his pride given that, a group of councilmen of colossal power had somehow assumed him to be the same greedy, arrogant, and sinister witch the harem saw him as.

Insanely, Yuuri thought that if he could swing down Michele's sharp sword on the heads of all who thought that way, he would.

Yuuri saw a flash of a smile on Victor's face, but it was gone before any of the women noticed it.

"Excellent, excellent," the Dame breathed in relief and Yuuri finally understood why she looked so uneasy before, fearing Yuuri's opinion. "Your input on this bill is invaluable. With this information, the opposing councilors cannot argue as strongly."

Yuuri felt as though he was once again being left in the dark, so he decided to no longer be hesitant with his questions. "Why are they arguing so strongly for me?"

"For one, they maintain that you shouldn't be slighted this way. You must have all privileges before any of your peers as a sign of his Majesty's power." She pressed her lips together. "But… if I'm inclined to comment, these are mostly the people who are against the eradication of slavery to begin with."

Suddenly, everything was coming to light. Yuuri was not surprised that he was being used as a mere pawn, a faceless figure who could help with their ulterior motives.

"That makes a lot of sense, councilwoman," he said thoughtfully. "Otherwise, I can't fathom why my name would be brought up in the Council Chamber at all."

Yuuri paused. He seemed to have said something wrong because Ketty Abelashvili looked utterly baffled.

He stared at her, unsure. "I haven't been mentioned before, have I?"

Yuuri shuddered at the prospect of strangers of enormous, terrifying authority arguing about him, using him, supporting him, and debating about the power he was gaining in their midst.

Impossible, his voices, which sounded fainter and fainter as the days went by, chanted weakly. You're a nobody. It's just because you opened your legs for the right person.

Minako's gaze hardened as she stared at the window and Abelashvili, who overcame her puzzlement, opened her mouth to speak. However, no words came out as she was cut off instantly.

"One or twice, much to my displeasure," Victor answered him. His assertive voice held the Dame back, as she looked like she was about to say otherwise. "I'm announcing my final decision later today. They've been told this meeting is only to keep you informed as a person of interest."

Yuuri met Victor's wintry blue eyes anxiously. "And… And it's not only that?"

"Freeing the concubines will cause a spectacle that will reach every corner of the empire, which is good for the long-term plan to eradicate slavery," Victor said dryly. "But for now, I have no permanent security plan for the ones who will be freed. I don't feel strongly about either side."

The Tsar leaned back in his chair, appraising him. Yuuri was not used to Victor looking at him with such forbidding seriousness and it made his heart thump.

Unsmiling, Victor tilted his head and said with finality, "You decide, Yuuri. I'll go with whatever you say."

Even in such an enclosed space, it was like an icy breeze entered the study, bringing chills down his back.

Minako whipped her head and eyed Victor like he had just declared war on an unsuspecting country. Abelashvili, with all her steady grace, looked like her yellow eyes might pop out of her face.

Yuuri wanted to look away, stammer, and ask to be dismissed, but Victor's commanding gaze held him in place.

He didn't know how in the world he found himself in this situation, but a sudden feeling bloomed in his heart. Victor looked like he was challenging him, and whether it was the remainder of the high Yuuri felt during sword practice, or his own innate desire, he suddenly wanted to prove himself worthy of the challenge.

However, it was not as easy as Yuuri would hope. It had been so long since he made an executive decision as Hasetsu's Lord and he'd never thought himself particularly gifted in that department.

But some things were familiar; it wasn't the first time Yuuri stood in front of two opposing sides and asked for his decision. He at least knew that, before deciding anything, he should hear them out first.

"Councilwoman," he said shakily, bringing Abelashvili out of her stupor. "You said the opposing councilors cannot argue as strongly without using my name. So, what are their other arguments?"

With the reflexes of a fighter, she answered steadily, "For concubines to have families to return to is quite rare. The majority of them have no steady homes or prior caretakers. The opposition says that, if we free them from their lavish lifestyle in harems and send them back, it will do more harm to them than good."

Yuuri nodded. "And what about the councilors supporting this bill? What are they saying to that?"

"As determined by the Handlers, concubines could serve in other harems, based on looks and skills, but not all of them. Others become servants, entertainers, handlers, and some… don't." The implication was enough. After all, it was Yuuri's biggest fear when Victor chose him. "We argue that many of the concubines might not retain their lavish lifestyle after the Tsar disposes of them and would live a hellish life."

"I… see," Yuuri said, overwhelmed.

Initially, Yuuri was quite certain the answer was to free them, but the longer he listened to her, the more uncertain he became.

Yuuri turned his head and looked away, avoiding the pressure of being stared at so intently by the other three.

This decision will not only affect the concubines but the entire empire. He wondered if Victor was out of his mind to let him decide something so important. Nevertheless, his decision will reach the Council Chamber of Tsarist Russia. Whether his decision will be the right move or not, Victor might not ever disclose the fact that it was Yuuri's. However, he found that this fact did not matter to him at all.

The only person he wanted to please with his decision was Victor himself.

Yet, Yuuri thought defeatedly, Victor did not feel strongly about either choice, so nothing he could say would please the Tsar.

All of a sudden, Yuuri's breath caught as he recalled a certain terrible memory.

A woman crying. A woman leaning toward him. A woman trying to kiss him as she confessed her twisted love.

'Ah, I've lived in poverty for as long as I could remember, scrapping for food, dignity nonexistent when faced with hunger,' Bianca had said.

'Life after I was captured was significantly better.'

'I've never once hated being a slave.'

Yuuri's eyes widened. Suddenly, the answer seemed a little too easy.

He took a deep breath, turned back toward Victor, and said simply, "Ask them."

There was an abrupt tension in the room. Victor merely raised an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know what's best for the concubines, they do," Yuuri explained. "I've… met concubines whose lives were much worse before slavery. Who am I to strip that away? Even as a minority, they still count. And there is no plan to provide them with good living conditions if, say, they didn't have a home and family to go back to. Is there?"

The Dame answered him "They will be provided with a sum of money and directed to monasteries. This is to help them reintegrate back into society, but long-term plans are so far impossible."

Yuuri guessed as much, and this only gave him more confidence.

"Then my decision is as thus," Yuuri announced. "Let the Handlers assess them thoroughly, then share the assessment and present them their options. That way, they wouldn't be in the dark regarding their future. Based on that, let each of the concubines choose between freedom and being sent to a new owner. This offer could be extended to me first, so none of them will overstep me. Naturally, you know what my own choice is."

"If it's their own choice, we will essentially be giving them autonomy to decide their fate… That in itself is symbolic of us taking their side." Abelashvili brought a hand to her forehead, cringing. "I feel quite stupid, your Majesty, for not thinking of that. There isn't a gesture of goodwill better than this; it will send a powerful message."

Yuuri knew his idea was solid, but what he felt upon hearing her approval was a powerful thing, one which he'd never forget. He was struck with disbelief, relief, and elation, and the blend left him feeling quite unsteady on his feet.

"Oh," Victor said in the same calm manner, but he was drawing out the word and looking amused. "It seems that my Yuuri has humbled you."

While Victor didn't directly say it, the assent was clear in his voice.

If Yuuri felt good before, he was about ready to fly.

"I daresay he did," Abelashvili seemed equal parts relieved at finding a solution and irritated it wasn't her idea. "I shall begin the preparations immediately."

"Extend this offer to all the slaves under my ownership as well," Victor said. "Those who refuse can stay in the palace with no change in their duties."

"Yes, your Majesty," Abelashvili replied, not looking surprised at the addition.

"As for the concubines…" Victor grabbed a dry quill on his desk and started twirling it in his hand, like he was trying to ease his sudden irritation. "I want them out of my sight by February. I'm quite sick of housing them."

"As you command." The Dame bowed with renowned vigor.

Yuuri watched her leave in fascination, still wondering how such a capable councilwoman was going to essentially follow Yuuri's instructions on a matter she specialized in.

The second the Dame was out of the room, Minako huffed loudly.

"Victor, you're too harsh on the concubines," she said in a stern voice. "They're young, naive, and helpless. Don't fault them for their resentment."

"They are indeed resentful wretches." Victor eyed the quill in his hand, smiling menacingly. "But so am I."

Yuuri followed their exchange and couldn't understand what they were saying at all. This was the first time he was even made aware that Victor disliked his concubines to this extent. Yuuri didn't understand when or why this had happened.

If anything, the concubines still adored Victor and worshipped the ground he walked on. There was no sliver of resentment on their part.

Yuuri had a sudden suspicion that it was related to the concubines attacking him in the past, but he dismissed that thought.

He had enough of being the center of conflict for one day. He could ponder over that at a later time.

Minako rolled her eye. She circled Victor's desk and reached for the heavy stack of papers at the far corner. "We'll be taking our leave as well."

Yuuri was surprised she included him in that announcement. He was shocked she would even want to be alone with him at all.

Victor closed his eyes for a long moment, then once he opened them, he pressed down his hand on top of the papers, stopping her.

"Cancel my next meeting," Victor ordered.

"Victor," Minako said with a glare.

"I don't have my focus right now," Victor dismissed. "It will be a waste of my time."

Minako eyed Yuuri hesitantly. Then, after a moment of deliberation, she admitted defeat. "There's a council meeting later that you cannot cancel. You have an hour."

Victor stood up at that, leading her to the door and making Yuuri feel quite apprehensive. He wasn't told to leave, which meant he was going to spend the next hour discussing something with the Tsar. For the life of him, Yuuri couldn't think of a matter so important as to take that long.

Furthermore, he honestly didn't know how to act when left alone with Victor, not after what happened last night. Victor's cold demeanor right now only made it much harder to navigate.

He heard Minako mutter the Tsar's honorifics as she left, followed by a quiet click of the door as it closed. Yuuri looked at Victor, expecting the same seriousness as before, but right at that moment, he felt all his apprehension vanish.

He didn't know what he did to earn such a smile, but it suited Victor. It was far from the cold, feigned smiles he always wore, or the solemn expression he had all meeting.

Victor approached him and the second he was by Yuuri's side, he grabbed him by the back of his neck and—just like a succubus—lured Yuuri into a kiss without warning.

Yuuri felt possessed as his body readily moved to meet Victor halfway. He had to suppress a gasp when he finally felt Victor's lips on his. He didn't want to sound too eager, no matter how much he craved his touch like a starved man.

He usually followed Victor's pace but Yuuri felt too passionate to remain idle. He grabbed the lapels of Victor's jacket, moving to deepen the kiss and taste the inside of his mouth. He was, for all intents and purposes, hungry, but he didn't want to be fed slowly.

Before he could, however, Victor pulled away.

"I'm sorry you had to endure hearing about their silly debates. You handled it exceptionally, my darling." Victor kissed his cheek, speaking with his usual deference. "I love hearing your voice as is, but this was quite a wonder to behold."

It was a stroke of luck, Yuuri thought dizzily at the sudden stream of compliments.

He was thrust into Victor's arms again, the Tsar hugging him tightly and laying another kiss on his neck.

"My solnyshko. So smart, so bright," he said ardently. "It was the hardest thing to not kiss you."

The abrupt switch in his behavior gave Yuuri whiplash. Witnessing this with his own eyes, he started to understand why a bard made an entire ballad about it.

Velichestvo's Dioscuri, indeed. He couldn't have named it better.


Yuuri was in a foul mood.

They were separated by the desk again, Victor on his chair and Yuuri seated in front of him, all too far and formal for his liking.

After that brief kiss, Victor did not do anything and it shouldn't have bothered Yuuri so much, but it did.

It had been a long time since they fell in bed together, he realized morbidly. Was their last time two months ago? Three months? Yuuri didn't remember much of that terrible night either way.

His early doubts returned, doubts about Victor not desiring him that way, Victor being uninterested in that aspect of their relationship. Yuuri didn't know what to do if that was the case; it was Victor's choice, after all, and Yuuri could only endure it in silence.

He suppressed a groan at the thought.

"... and I found time to investigate Bozho's case more closely," amidst his hazy thoughts, Yuuri didn't realize Victor was talking. "And at last, I figured out what was happening."

Yuuri felt guilty for not listening, but he still caught the name of the servant he had befriended. "Something had been happening?"

"Yes. It had been on my mind for a while." Victor drummed his elegant fingers on the desk. "I might be forgetful at times, but I clearly remember issuing an order to send him away. I couldn't have had a memory of something that did not take place, now, could I?"

Yuuri felt comfortable enough to voice his thoughts aloud. "Could it be that the order was neglected on purpose?"

"Precisely." Victor's fingers knocked on the table loudly and his eyes became sharper. "It was fortunate that I remembered the councilor I issued the order to. Turns out, that man had taken it upon himself to neglect it and upon further investigation, we found that he had a history of repeatedly doing so."

'We do not talk about these matters,' Yuuri had told his friends once, but look at the Tsar now, speaking to him about treacherous councilors like it was a casual topic of conversation.

"That situation was a disgrace." The Tsar's eyes narrowed. "To have you get hurt due to the incompetence of my royal court… I couldn't fathom it happening again and I became obsessed with it. I investigated the corruption more and the net seemed to have been woven beyond my wildest expectations, mostly concentrated in my summer palace in Moscow." He paused, cracking a sharp smile at Yuuri. "I'm saying that you alone triggered the biggest government crackdown in a decade."

At Yuuri's befuddled, horrified face, Victor chuckled.

"It's a mere jest, Yuuri, don't take me seriously. But I'm still thankful you brought attention to that one person. Otherwise, it would've taken longer for me to notice."

"And Bozho?" Yuuri inquired. It's not like he could take any credit for Victor working hard to find corruption in his own court. "Is he safe?"

"Of course, Yuuri," Victor said with a frown. "I made sure to send him to a home the very day you told me."

Yuuri ducked his head, relieved and grateful beyond words. "Thank you very much."

"You're most welcome, darling." Victor sounded amused. "If there's anything else you noticed that's amiss, no matter how mundane, tell me about it. We promised to talk to each other, correct?"

Yuuri nodded slowly, wincing at the confirmation that Victor remembered everything that happened last night.

"Splendid. So let's talk," Victor said resolutely, taking three parchments out of the abundance of papers Minako was ready to take with her.

Victor skimmed through one of them, his smile freezing, then brought out the paper under them instead.

"I stopped accepting concubines months ago," Victor began. "It lessened my headaches, but it has slighted a number of politicians and driven more attention to you than I'd anticipated."

That would explain why his name was being brought up in the Council Chamber, especially if some of the concubines were gifts from noble families.

Yuuri murmured, "My reputation is not pristine, anyway. I know that very well."

"Regardless, no matter how much I increase your security detail, I remain uneasy," Victor went on. "I'll post more stationary guards around the harem, but your secret identity troubles me, Yuuri. It's only a matter of time before it becomes dangerous. How attached are you to it? Why do you do it?"

For a prolonged moment, all Yuuri could do was stare at the Tsar in astonishment.

His throat felt dry. It was very hard to ground himself after being put on the spot like that. "What… What secret identity?"

Victor gave him an incredulous look. "You do odd jobs around the palace, do you not?"

"S-Since when have you known that?" Yuuri asked, swallowing thickly.

Something flashed in Victor's eyes. He ran a hand through his silver hair and if Yuuri's eyes weren't deceiving him, Victor was fidgeting.

"There are other matters besides the increased security," Victor continued, blatantly changing the subject. He once again ignored the papers on top and pulled out the one under them. "Once the concubines evacuate, the budget of the harem will be added to your allowance. Minako will transfer the ledger to you immediately."

Yuuri blinked owlishly, barely processing the words.

He knew the concubines were leaving, but he never considered that the budget for housing the entire population of the harem will now be solely dedicated to him.

Wasn't that money supposed to go back to the treasury? And with such copious amounts of wealth, how could Victor trust him with the ledger so easily?

Oblivious to Yuuri's plight, Victor continued, "I can leave the harem renovations to you if you want, or I can hire a professional. That's for you to decide."

Renovations?! Yuuri thought frantically. The harem was designed to house a large number of people, with two dozen private rooms and many mass sleeping quarters. Was Victor planning to renovate it so it would house only one person? It would be a ridiculous undertaking.

And what if Victor changed his mind and started accepting concubines again? Wouldn't the renovations be a complete waste of effort?

"I don't think renovations are necessary…" he managed a weak protest. "I don't require much space."

"Yuuri," the Tsar said with a firm shake of his head. "I can't let this go on longer. The storage spaces used for your wardrobe and jewelry are bigger than the room you sleep in."

Yuuri was having quite a hard time keeping up with all the information thrown at him at once. Speechless, all he could do was gape at Victor.

At Yuuri's silence, the Tsar let out a loud, frustrated exhale.

"I never stopped buying you things. I didn't plan to hide that from you, but you're the one who said you didn't want gifts," Victor explained, fiddling with the paper. "To be frank, Yuuri, if I don't shower you in riches, you'll look neglected in the eyes of everyone around you. So I did that without your knowledge."

"Oh," Yuuri uttered dumbly.

"Moreover, if the harem empties and I keep you in that room, I'll look terrible and abusive." Victor's face soured. "Yuuri, I like lavishing you. You don't have to accept any of my gifts, but they'll have to be there for appearances. You can sell them later if you want."

Even with his apprehension, Yuuri could still see that Victor was right. If people saw that the only concubine of one of the richest men in the world dressed like Yuuri, it'll reflect badly on Victor.

Lots of things started to make sense, like how new clothes mysteriously kept appearing and disappearing, how the handmaidens' faces fell whenever Yuuri chose repeated outfits, and how he needed people to manage his wardrobe in the first place. He cursed himself again for being so wrapped up in his head to not realize these details.

"I understand," Yuuri relented. Yet, the sense of unease remained.

If anything, it was getting worse as the seconds went by

Victor was on the fifth sheet of paper. "The renovations are also necessary to house the personal staff that will take care of you. Your guards, male servants, handmaidens, and others need proper accommodation." Victor didn't seem capable of remaining still, dipping his quill in ink and jotting notes down. "This is also necessary. You need a proper attendance. It's been long due."

Yuuri felt a headache at the impending responsibilities. "My guards are enough and… I think one male servant would suffice."

"We could start with that," Victor said reluctantly. "Do you have anyone particular in mind?"

"Leo de la Iglesia," Yuuri said without a second thought.

Victor's left eye twitched at the name. "As long as you're comfortable with him."

"Is-Is there a problem?" Yuuri asked nervously, not liking that reaction.

"Not a single one, my dearest," Victor spoke unperturbed, not easing him the slightest. "I think a physician on standby is also necessary." He was bringing out another paper, but before Yuuri could reply with the obvious, he read on, "Phichit Chulanont is capable and he respects you a lot. He also doesn't care about rank or class. He'll do."

Yuuri nodded gratefully.

"What about handmaidens? You can choose any of mine. Isabella is quite fond of you and we have agreed to reassign her after her wedding."

"I already have a handmaiden," Yuuri found himself saying. "Sara Crispino is more than enough."

"She's certainly trained for that," Victor said. It was subtle, but Yuuri still detected the spite in Victor's voice. "As you wish."

Yuuri didn't have the energy to ask him what the matter was this time, especially if his questions will remain unanswered. As long as he could help Sara repair her reputation and no longer be a Handler, he was satisfied.

Yuuri, though, started to feel irked for a completely different reason.

"Then Crispino and Isabella will do," Victor was saying. He raised his eyebrows at Yuuri's obvious displeasure. "You don't want Isabella? Is there someone else you want?"

Didn't you tell Minako you lost your focus? Yuuri thought, exasperated by all the probing.

"I don't want to burden you with all this," Yuuri replied instead. "I'll discuss all the details later with the head of the household."

Victor stared at him, unconvinced and knowing. It irked him further.

"But you refuse to speak to Minako, no?" the Tsar suddenly said.

Yuuri felt exposed, ashamed, and completely outplayed. Was that why Victor stopped Minako from taking the parchments with her?

Just how much did Victor know about him? To compare it to how little he knew of the Tsar, all of a sudden, Yuuri felt it was unbearably unfair.

"You've got a thousand things to take care of," Yuuri said sternly, his temper turning worse and his politeness fading. "You shouldn't mediate between us."

"I'm not," Victor said with a tense smile. "Have I overwhelmed you? There are only a few more details to discuss—"

"Victor," he cut him off sharply. "This is not what I wanted us to talk about."

The atmosphere in the room abruptly changed.

For some reason, Victor seemed to be in a very different state of mind since this conversation began. It was strange enough for Yuuri to no longer fear the consequences of upsetting the Tsar.

"Since when have you known I do odd jobs in the palace?" Yuuri asked again. He knew something went awry the moment he first asked that question.

Victor finally stopped his tense movements. His body remained visibly rigid and eventually, in an attempt to disguise it, the Tsar leaned against his leather chair.

"I've known since the beginning, Yuuri," he confessed.

Yuuri grabbed his thighs, squeezing them in apprehension at the unexpected answer.

At his silent bemusement, Victor explained, "I couldn't meet with you directly, so I had people keeping an eye on you since the first day you arrived at the palace."

Bemusement turned into complete disbelief. Yuuri didn't even know what to even say to that.

The Tsar seemed aware, at least, of how bizarre this conversation was, as Victor was rubbing his face defeatedly. "Yuuri, I… I'll answer any other question you have, no matter what it is. Go ahead."

While Victor by no means offered this casually, Yuuri still felt like he was thrown into an abyss without warning.

He always wondered about Victor one way or another, but not until this moment did he realize just how countless his questions were.

He was so inundated by the invitation that his mind was stupified. Yuuri couldn't let the rare opportunity pass, however, not when Victor seemed so uncharacteristically open.

He took a deep breath, reigned in himself, and picked the most obvious question.

"Why couldn't you meet me directly?" Yuuri asked. "And how could I have known that?"

"Minako spoke to me early on," Victor said. "She pleaded with me and I promised her not to approach you unless you present during the Taking of your own volition."

Yuuri suspected as much, but his heart still swelled in adoration toward his considerate teacher.

'It's hard, Yuuri,' she had told him a long time ago. 'To wound someone you care for.'

"Why… Why did you accept such a request?"

"She said you were scared to death of me." Victor looked past his shoulder to the wall behind him, his face returning to the forced nonchalance of before. "It didn't make much sense at the time, so I wanted to prove I didn't have ill intentions."

"No, no, it's you who's not making any sense," Yuuri said, his voice becoming more strained, his thighs hurting from how hard he gripped them. "That did not answer my question. Why did you accept that request?"

The confusion between them was palpable, yet Victor kept adding to it with every answer.

"Naturally, I wanted you to feel comfortable in any way I could," he said, as though he didn't sound insane. "Had I known the concubines were harming you inside the harem too, I would've emptied the place before winter even began."

"Why?" Yuuri now sounded desperate.

"What do you mean, why?" Victor frowned, his blue eyes returning to him. "Have I not made my affections for you clear from the start?"

Yuuri's eyebrows shot up. He replied testily, "Have you?"

"I would've started to question myself, had there not been sonnets written about us as early as then," Victor snapped back.

"Sonnets written by poets who don't know us," Yuuri corrected. "How was I to distinguish it from a mere conquest? What did you do to express that to me? You had never even spoken to me."

Victor went speechless. He was completely still, barely breathing or blinking.

"Victor," Yuuri said, almost begging him. "What did you do to express that to me?"

Had Yuuri been blind? Had he been deaf? What had happened between him getting to the palace and the first time Victor refused to choose a partner for the Taking? What was Yuuri missing?

A single conversation, a single letter, a single anything would've helped ease the fear out of him. If only he'd had an inkling of how gentle Victor was.

Instead, all he showed Yuuri was his cruel, conquering side. A side he couldn't overlook even now, no matter how hard Yuuri tried.

Many emotions went through Victor's face, so much so that Yuuri could do anything to see through his mind at that moment.

Then, from somewhere deep inside him, Victor seemed to have reached a conclusion, and his face instantly blanked.

Then, Victor started laughing.

It was a dry, soulless laugh, one Yuuri had often heard echoing in the walls of his own room at night.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You're right." Though the words were casual, they were uttered as if Victor was cursing himself. "I didn't do anything. And neither did you." The Tsar completely slumped in his chair, subdued. "Something tells me you know what it's like to have things only in your head."

Yuuri's hands balled into fists. Yes, indeed, Yuuri knew all about that. Yet, hypocritically, he refused to let that be the answer. There must be… there must be another reason.

"After all." Victor waved a hand in the air lazily. "Do you even remember the first time I spoke to you, Yuuri?"

"Y-Yes." Yuuri tensed at the memory. "It was at the Taking. You spoke to me in French."

Victor's hand dropped to his side limply. "Scared to death of me…" he repeated to himself, his voice quiet and grave. "Why, of course you were."

"Victor." Yuuri gulped. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. Could you please—"

"I saw you once. Before you came to Russia."

Victor said it so simply, with no emotion, not realizing how he just shattered Yuuri's entire view on the matter.

The choking disbelief came before anything else.

That was impossible. Absolutely impossible. Yuuri would remember seeing the Tsar of Russia. He would never, ever forget meeting such a powerful figure. If anything, the first time he saw Victor while dancing in that suffocating black outfit, Yuuri's entire body shuddered as though he went through a spiritual awakening.

If Yuuri remembered Christophe Gicomatti just because he was exceptionally attractive, then Yuuri would surely remember the most beautiful man he's ever seen in his life.

What if Victor had met someone else and mistook Yuuri for him? That would certainly make all the sense in the world.

He felt a chill down his spine as he recalled the painting of that Japanese man drawn with so much care, who looked nothing like him, who appeared bold, confident, and deserving of Victor lavishing him infinitely. It must've been that man.

That's it, he thought delusionally, the voices agreeing. There's no other explanation.

"W-When did that happen?"

"It doesn't matter," Victor replied, his voice low, dull.

Yuuri could only open his mouth and utter one word, "Victor."

Victor shut his eyes like the name was now hurting him. "I saw you dance, Yuuri. You danced. I saw. I wanted you. That's all there is to it."

Yuuri danced privately in every continent in the world and at any chance he had. Sometimes, there would be witnesses to his practice sessions and if Victor was one of these witnesses, when did it happen? How long ago? Where was it? How come this was never brought up? The questions were so many it left him speechless.

"I've treated you horribly," Victor said with no elaboration. "I'm nothing but a manipulative, greedy beast."

Yuuri had never felt this lost in a conversation before.

Uncomprehending, he could only watch as Victor demeaned himself. A few months ago, Yuuri could do it for him with the same intensity. Now, however, he had a sudden urge to defend him but didn't know exactly how.

His eyes widened when Victor abruptly stood up, roughly picking up the parchments that lay on top of the stack of papers.

He circled the desk and once he came close, Yuuri couldn't help but flinch, surprised at Victor's sudden movement.

Victor's face fell even more at that.

He moved to the chair opposite Yuuri's and sat down heavily. His face had no traces of warmth in it, only dejection.

Yuuri eyed the papers in his pale hand—the ones Victor kept avoiding the entire time—and belatedly realized that the Tsar was just buying himself time with all the previous formal questions. It was like he was readying himself, but now, he looked completely defeated when he handed Yuuri the parchments.

"That night." Victor blinked heavily, not looking him in the eye. "You begged me not to hang that Italian concubine. Do you remember?"

By that point, Yuuri could read Russian decently, but it still took him a long time to process the letter. Not due to its contents, which were mundane and contained things Yuuri already knew, but he couldn't understand why Victor was showing it to him.

It was a transfer letter of new servants, dated two months ago, sent to a monastery in Mordovia. Among the list of servants, he spotted her underlined name and felt quite conflicted that she was now living a humble life.

Yuuri looked up from Bianca's banishment letter, confusion mounting.

"That night, you told me that you had enough blood on your hands," Victor said. "I thought about those words the entire journey to Moscow. I wrote to Minako about it."

While his mind was being refreshed with the nightmares that perpetually kept him awake, Victor reached out and delicately took Bianca's letter.

"Read on," Victor said with an exhale.

Before he could look at the other two letters, Yuuri thought he was going insane seeing Victor like this.

Victor was hesitant. No, the Tsar was nervous.

Nervous of him.

Yuuri sucked in a breath and prepared himself for the absolute worst as he looked down.

The three letters appeared identical, all banishment letters sent to different Russian monasteries. The second letter Yuuri read meant nothing to him, despite one name being underlined.

When he read the third letter, however, and spotted the name underlined on that one, he finally understood what Victor was telling him.

Yuuri felt his blood run cold.

Bianca of Rome.

Hürrem of Istanbul.

Natalya of Kosovo.

The woman who tried to kiss him.

The servant who called Mila by the wrong honorifics.

The girl who attacked Yuuri and was later hanged.

Shivering, he remembered the one-sided conversation the Tsar had with him the first time Yuuri entered his bedroom, a conversation that he always thought strange and unfinished.

'That concubine who attacked you…' Victor had said after he hanged her behind closed doors.

'Did she hurt you? In any way?'

'Because I could…'

Now, after all this time, Yuuri finally knew what Victor was going to say after that.

Because I could give her a harsher punishment.

"People's lives aren't cheap to me," Victor filled the eerie silence. "I've done this since I was a teenager, faking executions unless the crime is irreversible. I want my subjects to know I'm firm and decisive, but regardless of my personal beliefs…"

Yuuri wasn't listening, for the Clergy in Hasetsu was looking down at him while beating a child with his cane; the boy with red and yellow hair was begging him with tearful eyes; Takeshi was bowing apologetically after he questioned Yuuri's authority.

"You have to set a standard in your domain," Yuuri said to Victor, but it was the Clergy's shrill voice that came out. "Highlight the consequences of defiance, and apply these consequences. Then, and only then, you'll elicit respect of any kind."

Objectively, he knew Victor couldn't tell him about it when it happened. This was a state-level secret, after all. Even Minako likely didn't know.

Objectively, he knew the sole reason Victor even announced the execution was to protect Yuuri and prevent future attacks.

Objectively, Yuuri should feel happy, relieved, and thankful that he had no blood on his hands at all.

Just like how he once saved the boy with red and yellow hair, Victor did the same with that young concubine.

Victor wasn't a bloodthirsty, cruel emperor who hanged people at the smallest slights against him.

Yuuri did not need to walk on eggshells in fear for his own life, because the worst thing Victor could ever do to punish disobedience was send him to a monastery.

And, Yuuri thought hysterically, he'd love to go to a bloody monastery and live a secluded, quiet life and drown in servant work for the rest of his days.

But Yuuri felt sick to his stomach.

For months on end, he had been terrified of Victor at every minute they spent together, yet, to find that his fears were completely unfounded, he felt the opposite of rejoiced.

He lost countless nights of sleep. He cried, pleaded, had episodes, and did everything he could to stay away from Victor. And for what?

No, finding out his fear of Victor was unfounded wasn't a relief, it felt abusive.

With a slow and torturous pang, Yuuri felt his mind shatter.

Then, he felt tired, so oppressively, wilderingly tired.

Yuuri didn't know how or when he reached the door. He heard the papers clatter, he heard Victor rushing after him, but all he could do was clasp the doorknob like a lifeline.

"Yuuri, I'm the one in the wrong," Victor said, frantic. "I should've known it would terrify you. I should've explained myself sooner. I won't keep anything from you anymore."

Those were all the words Yuuri could demand from Victor but they only made him feel more helpless, and in front of him, Victor looking like that, was his only release.

No, no. Deciding the fate of the concubines was Victor's power, passed to him in a way of illusion, making him feel like he had a say.

This, however. The sight of Victor eyeing him expectantly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as the seconds passed by, and the sheer look of terror regarding Yuuri's decision. This was power.

And if there was a time to abuse power, it was now.

He pointedly looked away and said, "I no longer wish to see you, your Majesty."

He let the word linger. For a few moments, he allowed himself to rejoice in the forlorn, crushed look on Victor's face. Then, he exited the room and slammed the door on his face as hard as he could.

Hearing such a loud bang coming from the emperor's study, every single nobleman, commoner, and servant in the area stopped in their tracks, their jaws hanging as they watched Yuuri leave with absolutely no regard for their Tsar.

He walked past Emil and Leroy, leaving them behind as the two giant men looked stunned at the display. Emil was readying to leave with Yuuri, but the guard stopped midstep.

"Yuuri," he heard Victor's commanding voice behind him.

At the Tsar's appearance, all the spectators bowed with a nervous chorus of his honorifics.

Yuuri was the only one not bowing, the only one not repeating the honorifics, and the only one not heeding his spoken order.

For the first time in his life, Yuuri bellowed authoritatively, his voice loud enough to reach every corner of the conference hall.

"After me, Emil!"

Emil, flabbergasted, mindlessly broke his bow and followed his order, rushing to follow him.

And just like that, and in front of so many people, the chain of command crumbled.


'The farther, the dearer,' the Russians would say. While the Romans had their own saying: 'Familiarity breeds contempt.'

When Yuuri first learned the two idioms, he didn't think they were correlated. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, after all, and every country had its own version of that saying. Moreover, overexposure to someone can turn into hate, but the opposite could also be true.

However, as he stayed cooped in his room for the following days, he concluded that they were interchangeable.

All that fondness he had felt for Victor in his absence vanished in the first twenty-four hours of his return and Yuuri didn't think that was a coincidence.

He didn't know what he was doing in that room. It was all a monotonous blur of receiving his meals by the door and shutting it before anything else happened.

He still didn't know why he was angry— was he angry?—or if he was even justified to react that way. Victor cleared a misunderstanding, seemed genuinely apologetic about it, and promised he won't repeat it, so why did Yuuri feel so shattered?

The Taking came and went, he missed a few lessons—how many?—with Yurio, and he might've ignored a dozen people knocking on his door, but he wasn't clear on the details.

Surrounded by four silent walls all by himself, Yuuri expected to suffer from his episodes endlessly, but it only happened once on the first day. For the most part, he just felt oppressive, inertial energy that was beating him down softly, gently, and making him unable to even get out of his bed.

Yuuri wasn't overly stressed or anxious.

He was just tired to the bone.

Tired.

So, so tired.


Eventually, a day came when something happened after he received his meal.

Yuuri should've known the footsteps were too heavy to belong to the handmaidens delivering meals to him, but he didn't have a clear mind to allow that thought. Yuuri was pretty sure he didn't even open the door in the first place. How were there people inside?

With a tray in hand and a broad smile on his face, Michele entered uninvited. There was something off about that, but Yuuri wasn't sure what.

"What a beautiful morning!" Michele said cheerfully, which he found disturbing. "How are you doing?"

Emil soon followed him inside, looking at Michele in awe, like he dared to approach a feral beast.

"Good morning," Yuuri replied, his voice not coming out quite right. "I'm fine. How are you?"

Michele placed the tray on his puny, one-seat table and brought a chair over. He guided Yuuri's shoulders with gentle hands—that didn't sound right, either—and got him to sit down.

Yuuri followed obediently.

"Lots of people called on you," Michele said as he removed the top of the dishes. "Do you want me to order them chronologically or by importance?"

Yuuri didn't answer. Michele looked at him for a while, then placed a spoon in his hand. Seconds later, he grabbed Yuuri's hand, helping him until he held the spoon right.

"Sara visited a lot. Didn't you hear her? She was yelling at us quite ferociously this morning," Emil said. "Isabella Yang also tried to get in a few times, and Phichit knocked, and Leo, Otabek Altin, Ketty Abelashvili, Seung-Gil Lee, Miss—"

"… Who's Seung-Gil Lee?" Yuuri asked.

The two guards stiffened, their eyes wide as they exchanged horrified glances.

"Your mind isn't working right now," Michele said bluntly. "This alone time isn't doing you any good. Let's go get some fresh air. Take a walk with your friends. Practice swordplay a little."

"I don't think I'm physically fit for it," Yuuri replied seriously. His body didn't feel right, along with everything else.

The two guards looked at him like he was a lunatic. Yuuri didn't think he was, but he wasn't sure anymore.

Michele nodded slowly. "Then let's go to the library. I hear your favorite section is updated. How about it?"

When Yuuri heard that, his head reeled in pain. There was something extremely wrong with that sentence but no matter how hard he thought it over, he couldn't pinpoint what. There were so many other things that were wrong. Very wrong.

He blinked once, twice, and thrice. Which each blink, he felt a part of his mind break and then realign to correct itself. Until it finally clicked.

He put his head in his hand and groaned in agony. By the time he looked up again, his movements were much faster and there was an intense clarity that Yuuri didn't know was absent for the past few days.

With the clarity came a familiar but unnatural defocus. Yuuri needed his glasses. Why wasn't he wearing his glasses? He stood up, the sudden movement making him dizzy, and looked for his glasses. The spoon made a sound as it clattered to the floor. When he found his glasses, he realized he couldn't wear them yet. Why couldn't he wear his glasses? He had just woken up from excessive sleep. He needed to wash his face. He reached for the basin in the corner of his room. Who filled the basin? Emil was holding a bucket. It wasn't Emil's job to fill the basin. He didn't let any handmaiden in for a while. Did he at least receive all the meals? He didn't want to get them in trouble. Yuuri washed his face. He wore his glasses. He tidied up his hair. He sat down again.

"I must've scared you," Yuuri spoke with forced eloquence. "To think I lived to see the day you suggest going to the library."

Emil's shoulders sagged in relief. He put the bucket back outside and Yuuri realized how dire it was, that his guard had to provide his basic necessities.

"Who's Seung-Gil Lee?" Michele asked, just to be sure.

"Mila's royal knight," Yuuri replied immediately. "I'm surprised he came. He hates doing errands. There's nothing wrong with the Princess, is there?"

"No, but there's something wrong with you. Everyone and their mothers tried to come see you, " Michele said. "The incident at the conference hall reached all of St. Petersburg. The Tsar's birthday banquet was postponed."

Usually, Yuuri would be curious and worried about what people said about him. Now, however, he couldn't care less and let the subject pass from one ear to another. His mind was still hazy, and he didn't want his focus to come back.

"Emil," he called instead.

"Hm?"

"I apologize for the way I yelled at you. It was unbecoming."

Emil shrugged. "It was more of a novelty than an offense, really."

Yuuri didn't like that response, for it felt awfully reminiscent. It was like the more power he was obtaining, the more he was returning to his former days as the inconsistent and indifferent Lord of a sad palace.

Michele, thankfully, gave Emil a chastising look. "Don't encourage him, idiot. Trust me, you don't want to see him actually snap."

"I'm genuinely sorry." Yuuri grabbed a clean spoon and started on his breakfast porridge. "How can I make amends?"

"As long as you don't lock yourself in your room, I'm happy," Emil said kindly.

Michelle huffed. "We want what's best for you, you understand? Now, from what Emil told me he heard in that study—"

"Michele!"

"He's not the one you should be apologizing to." Michele ignored his friend's warning. "Huh, ring any bells, Yuuri? Intimidating figure? Threatened to behead Emil and me on more than one occasion for your sake? I don't know, perhaps the man who rules this empire?"

Yuuri put his spoon down.

He sensed the nervousness of the two other men and realized that his guards were equally terrified of Victor as he was—no, used to be.

Yuuri's hands turned into fists when he remembered their conversation in that study, his knuckles turning white with contempt.

"I'm not apologizing," he said fiercely, hoping that not only the people in this room, but everyone in the hallway outside would hear. "I'm not."

"Then fix it somehow!" Michele demanded. "You refused to go to the Taking, but what's more, his Majesty didn't even send anyone to escort you this time!"

Attending the Taking was his only real duty, Yuuri supposed, so he shouldn't have refused it. But what was the point of doing his duty? What was the point of being scared? Victor wouldn't execute him. There was no reason to listen to anything he said.

What will Victor do? Torture him? If Yuuri could take the Merchant's beatings, then he could take anything. Confine him? Yuuri was doing that already. Take his allowance? Yuuri never used it anyway. Hurt his friends? That will only ruin Victor's own reputation.

Would Victor banish him? That would be fantastic, actually. Yuuri would love to go to a monastery and do manual labor for the rest of his life.

'Yuuri can't say no to me,' Victor had said, but he was wrong, so very wrong. That was all Yuuri will do from now on.

He'll never say yes to Victor ever again.

'Darling, I'd take a knife to the heart before I bring myself to punish you.'

"He won't punish me," Yuuri said resentfully, believing Victor's words too late.

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Michele's face muscles were straining in anger, like Yuuri was an idiot child throwing a tantrum. "There are other consequences! He might dissolve the arrangement with you and choose someone else. We won't be your guards anymore if that happens!"

Yuuri tried to consider it but his mind immediately shut it down, refusing to process that morbid thought. He didn't have the emotional capacity for it.

"Minako wanted to speak to me," he changed the subject. "I have to go see her."

"You—You self-destructing bastard!"

"She was here too. She's the one who gave us the key to your room," Emil said over Michele's curses. "But she said you wouldn't want to talk to her."

Yuuri was a terrible, terrible human being for allowing her to assume that. To have such a wonderful soul, such a kind, strong woman lowering herself for Yuuri was a travesty.

He couldn't believe he let it drag on this long. What in god's name was he doing all this time? This was the only thing he needed to fix right now.

Yuuri shook his head. "Could you please check when she's free?"

That seemed to soothe Michele somewhat. "You're going to her for advice, right?"

"What? No," Yuuri replied, confused.

"Then do you have other people who advise you? I'm not good at this. You never listen to me anyway," Michele said through gritted teeth. "Does that fall under Sara's duties?"

"Why would I need an advisor?"

"Because—" Michele gritted out, then resumed speaking in the most monotone way possible, "Your irresistible charms, flamboyant personality, and quite frankly, your endearing enthusiasm toward your current situation—"

Yuuri coughed. "That was more than a satisfactory amount of sarcasm, Michele."

"Whatever it is, what you're doing could only get you so far before you turn into a mere pawn. We know you don't like him, but you have to start taking your relationship with the Tsar seriously if you don't want trouble coming your way."

Emil frowned. "Who said Yuuri doesn't like him?"

"Does he ever look like he does?!" Michele snapped.

"I don't want to talk about him anymore," Yuuri pleaded.

Michele grunted. "Sooner or later, you'll be dragged into the heart of this empire's politics. You've got absolutely no tools to help you navigate it and you're pushing away the man who's protecting you the most. You have to think about this."

No. No.

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about that.

He was fine. He was fine.

"Minako," Yuuri said, and once again he was a child, all alone in the darkness of his quarters, chanting her name against his pillow. "I want to see Minako."


The fur rug in Minako's private quarters felt too soft against his skin, so to punish himself, Yuuri pushed his forehead against it hard enough to hurt.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against the floor, the Japanese words feeling heavy on his tongue from underuse. "I repaid your kindness with disrespect. I poured my anger on you, said things I didn't mean, and I was too ashamed of myself to come to you sooner."

"Yuuri!" he heard Minako's horrified voice as she approached him. "A—A dogeza between us?! Raise your head, child!"

"No." He maintained his prostrate despite her hands grabbing and pulling him. "Not until you pour your anger on me too."

"I've got no anger!" she replied, incredulous. "No, I'm angry that you think this is what I want!"

"Then what do you want? You're free to do anything to me—"

"I want to talk to you, like a proper adult! Stand up this instant!"

Yuuri didn't stand. He sat up, kneeling as properly as he did during all the endless hours he spent in Hasetsu's conference room, exactly like the Clergy taught him.

Annoyed, Minako mirrored his position and kneeled in front of him. "I haven't sat like this in years."

"You shouldn't," Yuuri pleaded. "It's bad for your legs."

"Leaving you kneeling by yourself is worse for my heart."

He continued looking down, not daring to lift his head.

"I never wanted an apology, little one," she said in a long, tired breath. "I just hated that the situation happened in the first place. It was unfair to me and you could've handled it better, but I also couldn't blame you for it."

Instead of relief, Yuuri felt a morbid sensation in his heart. He couldn't understand it before, but that was exactly how he felt toward Victor at the moment.

"And you don't feel that way anymore?" he asked, for forgiveness, or advice, he wasn't sure.

"Of course not." She huffed. "I reconciled with the situation on my own. And so did you, I'm sure. We only needed some time to process it, that's all."

"I… It only took me a minute after that fight to reconcile with you," Yuuri said truthfully.

"Aye, then I must be a heartless woman." She laughed. "Since it took me an hour."

He felt gratefulness seizing his body and choking him. The words were like salve to an old wound that kept festering.

"But have you reconciled with your situation?" she asked seriously. "You must be aware now, but I'll say it anyway. If you want to end your relationship with Victor, you can do so. He told me this himself."

Yuuri's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach.

"He… He wants to dissolve the arrangement?" he asked, his chest aching painfully. Michele's words rang in his ears like alarm bells. "He found someone else?"

Suddenly, Yuuri was smacked quite hard on the head. He finally met Minako's eye, and she looked exasperated.

"I was wishing all these eventful months gave you confidence, but alas," she scolded him without heat. "Victor certainly didn't find anyone. When would he even have the time for that?"

He looked down. "Then why?"

"Weren't you the one who said you no longer wanted to see him?" Minako asked in surprise. "And you publicly refused a night of the Taking, Yuuri. He is waiting to see if your refusal is permanent."

But I didn't mean it like that… Yuuri thought exhaustedly. When he said that to Victor, he meant to leave that study, not end their relationship. Yuuri didn't even think he had the power to do that.

Suddenly, the crushed look on Victor's face made doubt fester inside him, instead of satisfaction at winning an argument.

What could Yuuri even do if that happened? What would become of him?

Besides childishly thinking of a quiet, rundown monastery, Yuuri didn't think much about it. "And… And what happens if it is permanent?"

"Nothing," she assured him, dismissing all the apprehensions he had at once. "You'll still have your guards and privileges. And you'll be allowed to dance at any public event if you so please." At Yuuri's dubious look, she stated firmly, "Those were Victor's own words. He doesn't want you to be pressured about this."

"I understand." Yuuri's body felt simultaneously lighter and more burdened. "Then there's no reason for me to continue this relationship, is there?"

The words escaped his mouth, spread in the air, and left him hollow.

He was beyond tired.

"If you don't want it, there's no reason to stay," Minako confirmed. A sad look swept her face, but her words were resolute. "And don't let anyone convince you you're power-hungry or in need of wealth. I know you're not. This is your life."

Why? Yuuri was enraged at himself. Months ago, this would've been the happiest day of his life; he was free to do everything he ever wanted since he was a child. But here he was, already too attached to Victor to even rejoice in the possibility. Why?!

"What a disaster…" Minako announced, like she already knew what his decision was.

"That's putting it mildly, sensei," Yuuri replied, suppressing a hysterical laugh.

"I told him you'd take it badly," she said in irritation. "I was quite upset when he told me about Natalya's banishment, so I couldn't imagine how betrayed you'd feel."

Honestly, if Yuuri had received the news from Minako, he wouldn't have been so angry.

Yet, the emptiness when it all settled in… Yuuri wouldn't have been spared of it either way.

"I feel relieved… but helpless," Yuuri confessed the conflicting feelings that swarmed him. "I spent months paralyzed with paranoia and blaming myself for her death for no reason. I feel manipulated, toyed with, and pathetic for not asking sooner. He knows so much about me, but I know nothing. I feel like I've been running circles in the dark like a goddamn fool."

Minako stared at him sympathetically. "I understand, little one."

"But—But I always feel like this with him," he said tiredly, sadly. "Sensei, I… don't want to feel that way anymore. I can't keep doing this to myself."

Minako didn't seem surprised by any of it. "He does this to people unconsciously. From what I've learned, the less you're transparent with Victor, the worse it gets."

"Transparent?" Yuuri's head shot up. "Victor knows everything about me. What's left to know?"

If Minako was surprised he used Victor's first name, she didn't show it. "You tell me, Yuuri. It looks like he desperately wants to understand you but he's unable to do so."

"I don't understand myself!" he said heatedly. "A failed Lord, a failed escapee, and a failed dancer. It's not a very inspiring tale, is it?"

"Don't talk about yourself like this," she reprimanded, making Yuuri sit straighter and calm down. "Whatever it is, you can talk about it if you decide to continue the arrangement. The truth may sleep, Yuuri, but it never dies. This applies to both of you."

"Right," Yuuri said bitterly. "But how long will it sleep? Ten months and all I know about Victor is that he saw me once before my arrival."

Victor also had a party of his own demons that always weighed him down, but Yuuri wasn't scornful enough to expose such private information.

Nevertheless, that seemed to completely catch Minako off-guard. "Did he? Victor never mentioned it to me before."

"You weren't aware?" he was equally as surprised. "Then how come you didn't find it strange that he wanted to choose me so badly?"

"It was too intense, but it made a lot of sense to me," Minako said with a scowl. "You're quite a good-looking man. You're educated, you're close to him in age, and needless to say, you're a dancer."

"Needless to say…?" Yuuri repeated dumbly.

The confusion between them intensified. "Victor never told you? Well, good god, he's always been obsessed with dancers," she said, getting more and more animated. "He was taken by them ever since he was a child. Aye, I remember there was a time he fell stupidly in love with a European dancer… It drove everyone around him mad. I think it caused enough fights with Yakov that it was the sole reason his Grace developed heart problems."

'You danced. I saw. I wanted you. That's all there is to it.'

The reason didn't seem as shallow as it was before, but it was still not enough for it to make sense. Yuuri had forgotten that exchange, focusing on the more pressing matters, but he was once again disappointed by the mundaneness of it all.

"That was years before you came," she went on, misunderstanding Yuuri's solemn look. "He forgot all about it after a while."

Of course Victor forgot about it. Perhaps it was only a matter of time, then, for Victor to completely forget about him too, for Yuuri to turn into nothing but a smudged, hazy memory, a short-lived affair in the sea of many.

Yuuri recalled the rose. A wilted, browned, crumbling little thing that Victor kept so dearly in his favorite book but tossed it away the second Yuuri found it. Was it the other dancer who gave it to him?

Will Victor's next bed warmer find a memento of Yuuri's that will force the Tsar to get rid of it too, along with everything they shared?

That depressing train of thought made the emptiness in his heart so much worse.

"Yuuri," Minako prompted.

"Yes, sensei?"

"That night…" she said, staring at him in contemplation. "You said that Victor enslaved me and burned me."

Yuuri winced at his stupidity. "I know it's not true now."

"Aye," she said, pulling up her sleeve. "I'm not and I've never been a slave."

Yuuri saw a horrid display of burning skin, even uglier than the ones on her face. She had no armlet on, however, and Yuuri didn't understand why he thought she had one to begin with.

"And you said he denied me from becoming a dancer," she reminded him, fixing her sleeve.

He ducked his head in shame. 'He's not a monster,' Minako had tried to tell him back then. But Yuuri was too angry to consider it, assuming the worst and making no one but himself suffer for months.

Minako stood up, straightening her skirt and moving to her couch slowly. Her voice took in a softer, more somber tone as she sat down. "Little one, I did become a dancer, long ago."

He felt his breath hitch. Happiness bubbled in him, dressed in shock, for his teacher had never mentioned any of that sort before.

"I traveled to every country that appreciated art, found every stage I heard of, and danced in front of everyone who wished to see me. I had already achieved my dreams long before I met the Tsar." She smirked wryly. "There aren't so many stages in the world as I had imagined, now that I remember."

Yuuri was listening with rapt attention. He felt joy, relief, and pride towards his teacher but for some reason, the words of congratulations died in his tongue. He didn't think his praise was welcome; Minako didn't seem like she was telling a happy tale at all.

"That night, you asked me something, Yuuri." Her voice turned hoarse. "That question, I— I truly agonized over it."

"S-Sensei, I don't even remember the things I said!" Yuuri hurried to soothe her. "There's nothing to agonize over."

"There is." She smiled challengingly. "But it's quite a long story, if you will?"

Yuuri finally broke from his kneeling position and started toward her. "Of course. I'm all ears."

"Well, then." There was a new shine in her eye but her smile turned even dimmer. "It all started when I met a certain man in Russia who changed my life. His name was Victor."

Yuuri was about to settle on the other side of the couch, but the name made him sit down more heavily than intended.

She chuckled at Yuuri's gaping eyes. "Not yours, Yuuri. It was a different man. My own Victor."

It felt strange, having Victor the Third of the Nikiforov house, the Tsar of Russia, be referred to as Yuuri's, no matter the context. Nevertheless, the coincidence of the names was still surreal.

"I was dancing in the streets when I first crossed paths with him," Minako began. "He never told me much about himself and frankly, neither did I. All I cared about was that he was a talented street musician and once we partnered up, we began to draw in a larger crowd."

At that, Yuuri gaped even harder.

She looked down, sighing with all her shoulders. "It took a long time for him to trust me enough to tell me his deal. The thing was, Victor was a wanted criminal. He was framed for a capital crime and was planning to flee the country. All he wanted was an escape. I was that escape.

"It's a tale as old as time… A man and a woman tied together by circumstances, falling in love along the way. No one loved my dancing more than he did. And no one loved Victor's music more than I did. It's all we needed to push each other toward our dreams.

"We traveled for five years, evading the people who were after him the entire time, but we were free. We were living, living so fiercely and without a care in this world. Together, we were a force to be reckoned with.

"Truth be told, I've thought about you often during my travels, perhaps as often as he thought about his own family that he left behind, but we both had made our own choices. We had our dreams to chase, after all. But you must know, little one, how short-lived dreams truly are.

"We did our best to escape Victor's pursuers, but during one of our travels, a crew of pirates raided our ship. They captured us and planned to bring us back to reclaim the bounty. It was one of their wild nights amidst dancing to songs and insanity, when their rum barrels broke and spilled all over the ship. They were too drunk to notice, and it only took one lantern to drop on the floor and surround us with flames. I had the stamina and flexibility that allowed me to flee, but—"

Minako abruptly stopped, pressing a hand hard against her mouth. Her eye bulged as though the memory made her physically sick.

"Sensei," Yuuri said reassuringly, giving her a handkerchief. "You can tell me another time if it's a painful recollection…"

"It's been about ten years, little one," Minako said tiredly. She gathered her bearings and went on, "Victor—He… he died a horrid death. Where my will to live came from after that, I cannot tell you, but I somehow forced myself to head to the bulwark. The fire had already burned half of me before I jumped into the sea.

"No one survived the fire. I shouldn't have survived the fire. I was dying, when I drifted into the shore, I was already rotting. If not for my injuries, I was still an accomplice of the most wanted man in Russia. I was spared only long enough to be brought to court and sentenced to death.

"Victor— your Victor—who was the Tsesarevich at the time, convinced his uncle to pardon me. He was a miserable little thing back then, horribly treated by his foolish uncle, but he was so forgiving. If anyone else was in his shoes, they would've thrown me to the gallows, but Victor provided me with medical treatment instead. When I recovered, I hadn't even made the decision consciously, but I already knew I'll continue to repay his debt until the day I die.

"Yuuri." In Minako's one eye, there was a mixture of sadness, guilt, and determination. "That night, you asked me where I was when you needed a mother. And the only answer I could give to you is that, amidst my pain and suffering, I had found another son to care for."

She had carried herself well the entire time she talked, but the moment she finished, Minako's tears started falling unbidden. Yet, she didn't make any noise, silently wiping them with Yuuri's handkerchief.

"Sensei," he begged, feeling lowly and terrible. "You've nothing to be sorry for. There's no need to tell me this—"

"No, you need to know this."

Before Yuuri could protest, she took his hand in hers and silenced him. Not until her next words did Yuuri fully understand why she decided to tell him that story.

"Your Victor plays the violin so, so beautifully," she croaked. "He barely knew his father but he… he plays exactly like him."


The birthday banquet was delayed indefinitely.

It was said that, due to the Tsar's trip to Moscow, he wanted to have more time to entertain his foreign guests in person, but Yuuri knew that was a complete lie.

Victor wasn't in the mood for festivities, Minako had told him. Yuuri felt guilty, but not too guilty to do anything about it. He was dealing with his own problems.

Strenuous work around the palace had been his outlet for the past few months but alas, even that came to a sudden end.

Any work was made impossible because Yuuri could no longer hide his identity. He supposed it was only a matter of time, but the incident at the conference hall really did him in—in every way possible.

Some servants recognized him there. These servants told other palace residents. And it only took a single one of them to spread the gossip to a city merchant. The gossip reached the ears of an uninspired bard and in a matter of days, songs and tales of Yuuri's double life became public knowledge.

He didn't even want to know what people thought. There was a positive response from the commoners and younger people, Yuuri suspected, for his friends talked about it pridefully, but he was too drained to care.

He thought talking to Minako would bring his motivation back, but no matter how much time he spent with her, discussing official palace tasks Minako needed his help with, Yuuri's mind remained empty.

Whenever he looked at her, he imagined how she had to endure seeing her lover, Victor the Second, die before her eyes, and it made him sad.

He tried losing himself in dance practice to finalize Yurio's choreography for the banquet, but the Prince always ended the lessons early and ordered Yuuri to rest.

'You need it,' the Tsesarevich would say. 'You're acting weird.'

Even Otabek—who had just recovered from a stab wound—urged him the same way, as if he himself ever rested properly.

Mila showed him the first item he ordered with exaggerated enthusiasm. The custom piece of jewelry once made his heart flutter in excitement, but when he received it, Yuuri felt incredibly silly for ordering it in the first place. He eyed the linen bag with apathy, threw it in a corner of his room, and never touched it again.

Michele acted with more gentleness than he did throughout their entire friendship, which was disturbing and only made Yuuri talk to him less.

Sara noticed his declining mood and mentioned they should try on new outfits the Tsar got him from Moscow.

'He brought you two carriages full of items!' she had said cheerfully, only to receive a scathing look in reply.

Yuuri felt terrible for that, but at least she never spoke about it again.

Makkachin seemed more clingy when he visited her. That helped a little. At least he knew she didn't pity him like the rest.

Irrationally, he felt like everyone was squeezing lime into his open wound, thinking it would help.

Yuuri was simply tired.

He was tired of things just happening to him. He had to do something to regain control and not just let himself be swept away like this, like a bystander in his own cursed life.

He visited the library a lot, gathered useless information, and tried to avoid the eyes of all the people who now recognized him.

The old librarian even allowed him to take any books back to his room, which was something he had never allowed when he didn't know who Yuuri was. Yuuri stayed in the library out of sheer spite.

"Monsieur Yuuri!" He heard a woman's voice one day as he roamed the library aisles aimlessly. She was speaking in French. "I finally sighted you!"

Yuuri looked at the armored woman standing next to him and felt more tired than he already was. "Just Yuuri is fine, councilwoman. I have no titles."

Abelashvili remained as amicable as before. "Then please, you must call me Ketty. I visited you in the harem but I was told you were busy."

"How may I help you?" he asked unenthusiastically, not explaining himself.

"There are a couple of things I needed your opinion on…"

"You're a capable person, councilwoman," Yuuri said rudely. He had been rude to a lot of people as of late. "My opinion shouldn't be needed."

Ketty wasn't fazed. "It's regarding the bill we discussed. I was going to ask if you had any further suggestions."

That made him raise an eyebrow. "You'll take my suggestions?"

She chuckled. "As far as this bill is concerned, Yuuri, your words are law."

Something flickered in his mind, thoughts, scenarios, and ideas. It had been a long time since that happened. It turned out he did have suggestions to make.

"This might slow things down," Yuuri muttered. "But it'd be better to make it a two-step process. Confirming the slaves' decision, I mean."

"I see. There's always the possibility that some slaves might change their minds last minute."

"That, and—" Yuuri sighed when he pictured the concubines. "Some concubines are quite mischievous and hold grudges against one another. I'm certain they'll try to forge some documents as petty revenge."

Ketty's eyes widened. "I didn't even consider that at all. I will definitely implement it. Anything else, Yuuri?"

They conversed for a while, the longest that Yuuri talked in days. Now that they were speaking in a language he was fluent in, the words flowed seamlessly. He had small, inconsequential suggestions to make, but it didn't matter, Yuuri was just glad his mouth was moving.

When Ketty finished telling him details about her preparations, which Yuuri thought were immaculate, he told her so and prepared to leave.

"Are you all alone, Yuuri?" the Dame inquired all of a sudden.

"No, my guards are posted outside."

"And your handmaidens?"

"I have an unofficial one, but I don't like her following me." He shrugged.

"So your attendance consists of only two people? That's—"

"Ketty," Yuuri cut her off, losing the little patience he had. "What do you actually want from me?"

The start of the confrontation didn't seem to trouble the Dame at all. If anything, she seemed pleased.

She smiled and replied equally as bluntly, "Take me as your advisor, Yuuri."

His mind, which was slightly more active than usual, emptied once again. "I don't understand."

"I propose an alliance between us," she explained. Yuuri suspected it was all a big joke aimed to rattle him. "Having a figure like you by my side is insurmountable. And I'll provide you with all the inside information and contacts you need. It'll be a mutual exchange of sorts."

Yuuri snorted, despite himself. His mind wasn't catching up; it rarely did these days. "You want me to create political alliances behind the Tsar's back?"

"Oh no, no." She waved her hands. "His Majesty knows that sooner or later, councilors will start approaching you. I think he's being proactive about it. That's why he allowed me to join the meeting that day."

Knowing that Victor was the one who purposefully planned this, Yuuri felt even less inclined to accept her ridiculous offer.

He pried, anyway, "And why did he choose you?"

A crooked smile formed on her lips. "Uh, you see, I got extremely lucky."

"How so?

"I'm a musician." She grinned. "I might not look like it, but music is my family's trade and I enjoy composing melodies. In fact, your tale has inspired a few pieces of mine. I would not be here if his Majesty didn't know about that."

Victor was ridiculous. What, he thought Yuuri will be comfortable with her just because she was a performer too? Did Victor go mad as well?

"I'm not politically smart," he tried dissuading her because he didn't want such an accomplished woman to be led astray.

"Of course, you aren't," she said merrily, like it was a good thing. "Being politically smart depends on the inside information you have. All that matters is that you have good instincts and foresight. I'll provide you with the information you need."

"You claim it's a mutual exchange, but this alliance sounds quite disproportionate," Yuuri said uneasily. "I don't see how seeking me would help you."

"I've spent sufficient time with his Majesty," she said as a way of explanation. "He is an unrelenting beast of a man who's ten steps ahead of everyone at all times. It took me three months of negotiations with him to approve a single bill last year, and that was after countless amendments. In the meeting that day, it only took you three minutes. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Yuuri laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. "With all due respect, ma'am, you sound like you're using the affections his Majesty has for me."

"Of course I am," she said boldly. "Using each other is the point, isn't it?"

"I don't have political ambitions. You'll have no use for me."

"Yuuri," she sighed. "It's about inevitability. Soon, you'll need more people who know what they're doing and have your best interest at heart."

"And you do?" he asked, doubtful.

"Everything I am today is because I've always aligned with people who share my own goals," she told him. "I do want a legacy, Yuuri, but I want it with honor. I've followed your story from the beginning and if my intuition is correct, then you'll be the most important advocate for the eradication of Russian slavery. I could help you make history. Surely that's in your best interest?"

"I'm flattered by your offer," he said, his mind completely shutting down her bizarre speech. He didn't have the energy for it. "But I kindly refuse."

As if prepared for his rejection, she immediately reached for her satchel, pulling out a roll of papers and handing them to him.

"Take this as proof of my intentions," she said, her yellow eyes shining, resolute. "You can refuse me later, but please don't dismiss my offer without giving it enough thought."

With that final plea, she left him alone.

Yuuri decided to forget the encounter altogether, as the woman had just offered him a ticket to a world he did not wish to ever visit. The little glimpses he had seen of it were more than enough.

He unrolled the papers, curious as to what she considered so impressive to him. Yuuri expected to find the papers filled with sensitive information regarding important government officials but instead, he was completely flabbergasted.

They were sheets of music.


A predator was lingering in the palace, waiting to ambush him when he was at his lowest.

But Yuuri was too tired to remember.

He was walking with Phichit in the gardens at his friend's behest. He stared at Phichit and realized, guiltily, that his friend was filling the conversation all by himself. Yuuri wanted to save him the trouble, but he knew Phichit was doing this to force him to go outside on that unusually sunny day.

Everyone around him seemed to be doing that sort of thing, acting strangely, going out of their way to do something for him, and being kinder to him than he deserved. If Yuuri wasn't so absentminded, he would've tried harder to hide his patheticness from them.

Phichit pointed somewhere and Yuuri stared into the distance, not seeing or hearing anything, and that's when the predator found him.

"Phichit," a new voice came behind them, invasive and overly friendly. "I missed you at the breakfast parlor this morning."

"Y-Your Grace!" Phichit squeaked when they both turned around to find Christophe Giacometti. "How do you do?"

Yuuri felt nauseous seeing that man, especially after their last conversation.

Stupidly, he felt betrayed by Phichit's friendliness toward the Duke. If he liked Christophe so much, then Yuuri should leave them be. Phichit will surely be enjoying his colorful company more than Yuuri's.

"Oh, your Grace!" Phichit hurriedly gestured at Yuuri. "This is—"

"No introductions needed." The gentleness in Christophe's voice vanished the second his eyes swept over Yuuri. "We're old acquaintances, Yuuri and I."

"Uh, I wasn't aware," Phichit furrowed his thick eyebrows.

The Duke walked leisurely until he was by Yuuri's side. "May I borrow this lovely one for a minute?"

Phichit kept looking at Yuuri nervously, but Yuuri stood silent and still. Whatever it was, he didn't want to be alone with Christophe in any shape or form. Yuuri, however, was too fatigued to think of an excuse.

"Alright," Phichit said after a while. "I won't be far," he added, to Yuuri's benefit.

The second they were alone, walking side by side in a mockery of sightseeing, Yuuri knew he had made a mistake. What was he thinking, leaving himself open like this? What if this was an ambush? What if Christophe did something to harm him?

Paranoid, Yuuri looked around for his guards and was glad they weren't too far from them. No one else was outside, however, save for the five of them and Christophe's own guards, and he found that very suspicious.

"I visited the harem," Christophe commented like he was talking about the weather. "Shame it's completely inactive. I would've loved to witness it once again when it was alive."

Yuuri understood what he meant and held back a scoff. Christophe had been lifelong friends with Victor. He had visited the palace numerous times. He had probably joined Victor in his choosings at some point.

The thought made him sick.

"Tell me, ma chérie." There was a mischievous twinkle in Christophe's eye that Yuuri hated. "How does it feel to have that entire place all to yourself?"

"I'll have to wait and see," he replied dryly.

At the cold, nonchalant response, something seemed to have triggered in Christophe, his face losing all traces of cordiality.

"Have you met with Victor these past two weeks?" Christophe asked with a vicious tone. "He's been… troubled, to put it mildly."

"Oh, I'm sure his Majesty is having a hard time," Yuuri said equally as spitefully. "Entertaining all his esteemed guests and whatnot."

"His Majesty," Christophe scorned. All of a sudden, he invaded Yuuri's personal space. "Do me a favor and drop the honorifics. Let's face it, you're the closest thing Victor has to a spouse. Otherwise, I'm starting to wonder which one's truly the slave in this relationship."

Yuuri felt his indignation swell. "That's an astounding overestimation of my position."

He was not going to have this be blamed on him. So what if Victor was troubled? Why should Yuuri care? Why should he take responsibility for it?

"So that's how it is," Christophe said, a strange tone taking over his voice. "Bored already, are you?"

Yuuri flinched back as if physically struck. With the pretenses gone between them, he was overwhelmed with the ridiculous accusation thrown at him.

"I don't follow," he defended himself.

"Aren't you, though?" Christophe minimized the distance between them again, his movements purposeful this time. "You take all he has to give, reduce him to this, and now you want an out?"

Yuuri narrowed his eyes, baring his teeth as he replied, "That's not true."

Is that how Victor saw it? Is that how everyone saw it? Is that why he's been treated so strangely by people ever since he refused the Taking?

How come Yuuri was the villain in this scenario? How was that fair? Has he truly presented himself as the Witch to all those around him?

Like a beast with acute senses, Christophe seemed to have felt Yuuri's weakness and instantly took advantage of it.

"You didn't answer my question. What do you really call him?" a slender, sure finger lifted Yuuri's chin upwards. Suggestive green eyes met his. "Surely it's not just Victor. Vitya? Vitenka?" Christophe's lips were coming dangerously close. "Or Vicky, as I call him when he pleases me just so?"

Yuuri knew there were many other appropriate ways to handle this situation, but all he had on him at that moment was instincts, and those instincts flared.

He grabbed Christophe's slender wrist, almost crushing the Duke's bones with disdain, and threw it as far from his face as possible.

The Duke staggered to the side by the sheer force of it.

"Oh," Christophe chuckled, but he didn't seem unfazed. He pointedly rubbed his reddening wrist, the warning evident in his voice as he stepped away a considerable distance. "Cheri, a hand could be easily cut off for this."

Yuuri held Christophe's gaze, defiant and still blinded by the fact that he was so close to him; that he had almost kissed him just the way Bianca did; that he, Victor's friend, had the gall to talk to him in this way.

That he, a man who just appeared a month ago, was suggesting that he was more than just friends with Victor, to Yuuri's face. Like he had any chance with Victor. Like the whole empire didn't know Yuuri was Victor's favorite.

Yuuri's empty heart suddenly flooded with intense emotion. His anger completely took over and instead of defending himself, Yuuri aimed to attack. His body was no longer his own when he advanced toward Christophe with aggressive, hostile steps.

"Whose hand, I wonder?!" Yuuri warned back.

Lots of things happened at once, too fast for Yuuri to follow.

He never made it close to the Duke, for brown arms grabbed onto his back as Phichit muttered empty pleasantries. Yuuri didn't even realize his friend had come back but he instinctively pushed Phichit off of him, shouting something but not knowing what came out of his own mouth.

He felt even more betrayed. Yuuri wasn't in the wrong. Didn't Phichit see who attacked first? Victor had almost killed Bianca for far less. He didn't even think Victor's friendship with Christophe would matter.

Friendship? Was it a friendship? What in God's name was Christophe suggesting? Why was he antagonizing Yuuri so much? Was his provocation true? Was there a romantic history between the two that Yuuri didn't know of?

Vicky, his now overly active mind supplied. He calls him Vicky.

Suddenly, Yuuri was wide awake, as if roused from a deep slumber. All his energy, gone for a long time, returned to his body at once as he resisted the people restraining him.

People. Yes. Both his guards had joined too at some point, and even though he was still muttering polite apologies, Phichit sounded hysterical.

Emil was forcibly trying to turn him away, but Yuuri twisted his neck, raised his head past Michele's shoulder, and locked eyes with Christophe.

"Call my Victor by that name again!" Yuuri threatened the Duke of Switzerland as he was dragged away, sending seething looks in the man's direction. "I dare you!"

The Duke didn't look angry. He didn't look insulted. He didn't look scared at the blatant threat.

Christophe Giacometti was frozen in complete shock.


Once they were back inside the palace, Yuuri stopped resisting but his guards still bodily dragged him to the West Wing.

The guards outside of Mila's quarters knew Yuuri from his frequent visits, yet it was still strange how they didn't question further and allowed them entry so fast.

"Go play with the dog," Michele ordered desperately. "And don't assault anyone."

Michele pushed him inside the quarters and firmly closed the door on him.

"Yuuri!" came Mila's amazed voice. "Perfect timing! I was planning to send someone to fetch you."

Yuuri didn't answer. His body was no longer uncontrollable, but there was still a residue of rage lingering under his skin.

Thankfully, Makkachin trotted to him at once and when he kneeled and greeted her, he instantly felt her soothing charm.

When he was in condition to look up, he saw that Mila wasn't alone. Beside a handmaiden who stood next to her, Yuuri was surprised to see Seung-Gil Lee in the room too.

Yuuri had seen him a couple of times and that handsome Korean knight was something else. If he thought Otabek was a quiet knight, then Seung-Gil Lee was practically mute. Yuuri was sure he had never heard the man speak.

Yet, it wasn't his presence that was shocking, rather, it was how he was standing in front of a music stand without his armor.

At Yuuri's silence, Mila grew sheepish as she approached him, a stack of papers in her hand. "I was planning to surprise you."

"What's happening?" Yuuri asked, alarmed.

Her piano was uncovered, her handmaiden was standing by it readily, and her knight was holding a wooden violin. Yuuri could guess a thing or two from that, since Mila was one of the best pianists in the palace and often asked Yuuri to be her page-turner.

She showed him what she was holding. "You dropped this the last time you visited."

At first, Yuuri didn't know what he was looking at. He got distracted by Makkachin licking his face, and when he looked back, he realized they were the sheets of music Ketty had given him.

Yuuri had completely forgotten about them. He assumed he threw the gift away when his mind wasn't there. He hadn't even read a single line.

"I learned the composition because I had nothing else to do. It's an excellent piece, but it's a bit too complex so I had to simplify it. And Seung-Gil didn't have much time to practice with me because I was doing it with—" Mila chuckled nervously. "We're both excellent at sight-reading, though, so enjoy our performance!"

Yuuri stood up, not knowing what to do with himself. In the corner of his eye, he saw the handmaiden bringing a chair over. "Y-You didn't need to, Mila."

"You always cheer me up." She pouted. "It's only natural that I try to do the same!"

"Much ashamed," he said, the weight of his pathetic state crashing down on him. He was once her support, and look at him now.

A fragile, useless thing that couldn't function like normal. Belatedly, he realized he was so out of his mind he almost mortally attacked a Swiss royalty before coming here.

What has his life come to?

"Nonsense. However, you have been very absentminded as of late," she said, walking to the gorgeous white pianoforte. "Sit down and pay close attention this time, will you? Whoever wrote this piece put a lot of heart into it."

Yuuri doubted that. Ketty mentioned something about following his story, but what could that amount to? All the stories about him were lies, exaggerated, inaccurate, and a fictitious haven that didn't exist.

He sat down, however, and watched the trio prepare their private performance. He felt very flattered to have the Princess do so much and, now that his anger subsided, his mind was once again clear.

Mila smiled at Yuuri as she sat down. She closed her eyes for a focused moment, nodded to Seung-Gil, and began playing after he tapped the music stand three times.

Mila was a beautiful girl and an equally beautiful performer. Her face was serene and with no trace of her playful youth. Her elegant, nimble fingers danced across the keys, her shoulders shook in a duet, and her short hair joined the performance every time she bobbed her head.

Yuuri did his best to pay attention, but the more he listened, the more his heart moved with the notes, physically hurting him. It was a beautiful piece, indeed, and Ketty had downplayed her skill tremendously.

Yet, it was not the happy, seductive, and mysterious melody that he had predicted. He thought, clinging to the clarity in his mind, that Ketty perhaps wasn't fooled by the tales she had heard.

Ketty didn't write a pretty piece to appeal to his artistic side. No. She had written a story. A story that couldn't be told by words, no matter how hard Yuuri tried in the past. Instead, the events were turned into lyrics to her song .

With its first notes, Yuuri transcended beyond that room and was thrust back into Hasetsu. Minako was praising him for doing well in dance practice and taking him to the dining hall to eat with his family. His father was being silly with his chopsticks. His mother was laughing as she reprimanded him. Mari appeared angry at everyone, but she still snuck the best meat from her plate onto Yuuri's.

There was a high, abrupt note, and Yuuri suddenly lost all of them. His mind was empty as he listened to the shores and heard nothing. The Clergy was beating him with a cane. Yuuko was crying silently, the boy with yellow and red hair was crying loudly, and Yuuri did neither on the outside, but both on the inside.

Low notes joined the rest, and Takeshi hugged the woman he loved and broke her heart along with his own. Yuuri was cutting his hair. He heard a loud, thunderous bell from the shores. He was in the sea. He was running. He was attacked and thrust into the back of a carriage. The Merchant looked happy as he locked his cell. Yuuri was spitting into a white cloth and his broken jaw ached agonizingly. His mind was empty once again when he stared outside carriages and boats, when Madams grabbed Yuuri's hand and assaulted him with it.

A violin joined the melody and suddenly everything changed. The cycle broke and Victor's eyes flooded his world with an incandescent blue. He saw Minako, but their reunion was sad. He danced with Yurio, but he was scared. He made friends, but didn't appreciate them. An innocent girl died, but she lived. He ran away from Victor, but Victor chased after him.

The melody was moving too fast, but so did Bianca as she pushed him into the harem's entrance, only to break her own heart. Victor was kissing him, only to make Yuuri cry. Michele hurt him, only to dedicate his life to him. Yuuri was reading, reading, and reading, only for Victor to not listen.

The melody turned discordant and chaotic, the piano and violin fighting against each other. Yuuri was miserable when he saw Victor dancing with another man. Yuuri was happy when he was performing. He was dead when Minako yelled at him, alive when he had sex with Victor. He was broken when Michele caught his ankle, whole when he was kissing Victor. He was furious when he was fighting with Victor, and affectionate when Victor survived the attack. He missed Victor terribly, but Victor returned.

And then, Victor finally gave Yuuri the choice to leave him, but Yuuri couldn't bring himself to do it.

The melody came to a somber slow, the piano playing alone, delicate and sorrowful. Yuuri was sitting in front of Mila as she played. His mind was empty, exactly like when he stared at the shores, like when he looked outside the carriages and boats. He felt too much and nothing at once. He thought a thousand yet zero things. Nothing was helping. And if nothing helped, then there was no point to any of it.

Mila continued playing.

Yuuri wanted to tell Mila to stop, that there was nothing beyond this. The story concluded and they arrived at the present. But the melody carried on, entering uncharted territory.

It was gradual, how the soul slowly returned to the song, but the sadness still clung to it. Then, as if to shed its new skin, the notes quickened and brightened, punching him with a discernible feeling he had lost long ago.

There is a beyond, it told him. There is a dawn.

The violin returned and as though it now made peace with the piano, the two instruments no longer fought and now played in harmony. Soon, they turned chaotic again, but it sounded much more pleasant to the ears. The handmaiden turned the last page, but the violin didn't abandon the piano until Mila pressed the very last note.

Yuuri's eyes fluttered. He tried to see the three people in front of him and praise them for an incredible performance, but his eyes were blurry and his throat was tight.

Mila looked at Yuuri and whatever she saw made her dismiss the others in the room. Once they were alone, Makkachin jumped to lick his face again and Mila was walking toward him.

"Yuuri, rodnoy." Mila smiled. "Now we've both seen each other cry."

And just like he once did for her, she wrapped one arm around his neck, patted his head, and let him sob into her chest like a child.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but it was his heart, instead of his mind, that was breaking over and over again and realigning to correct itself.

"My, my," Mila said after they were both silent for a long time. "At the banquet, Georgi will be making a mockery of himself with his recital. Yurio will bear his fangs. And now, with such ardent response from you, I've decided that I'll play too."

"Y-You should," Yuuri said quietly, his sobs subsiding.

"But on one condition, Yuuri," she said, beseeching. "You'll have to dance to it."


In the following week, like a prophecy, the dawn came. It was slow, painstaking, but it unhesitatingly breathed light into his life again

Yuuri wasn't completely better—he still didn't feel like himself sometimes—but he was better.

He found, more often than not, that he was no longer tired.

He had only heard the composition once and it was all he needed. No melody had ever touched him so deeply, and he could work pieces of his abandoned choreographies around it, choreographies that he wistfully created but was never allowed to dance to before.

That's it. It all came back to dancing. How could he ever forget? He will no longer adhere to his owners' demands. He was going to wear a mask and a beautiful, sparkling, dignified suit because he wasn't going to dance as Yuuri of the Forbidden Kingdom.

No. He was going to dance as himself. He was going to dance the way he dreamed of ever since he was a child.

However, there were things he needed to do first, things that he had been neglecting for too long.


"… Michele and I kept an ear to the ground," Emil was reporting. "But no one's talking about the incident with the Duke."

Yuuri was surprised, to say the least. "Why would he remain quiet about it?"

"I saw that bastard that evening looking smug." Michele sneered. "How typical. Looks like he only set out to get under your skin and succeeded."

Irritation still flowed in his blood, but it was overshadowed by the relief that washed over him. Whatever Christophe's objective was, Yuuri was glad there was one thing off his mind for now.

"Even the Tsar was looking less murderous," Phichit added. "But seriously Yuuri, all that just because he called his Majesty a name?"

Yuuri grimaced in embarrassment. "I'm sorry for pushing you."

"This better be the last time! Yuuri, I'm too fragile and delicate for this. I've never been in a brawl before!"

"Well," Michele replied with a smirk. "Perhaps next time, you'll learn not to shout pleasantries in the middle of it."

"Indeed, indeed," Emil grinned. "'You have to enjoy the flower beds' aren't good fighting words."

"I refuse to learn your brutish ways!" Phichit replied indignantly.

Before they could argue further, a knock came from the door. Yuuri allowed entry and Bella entered the room shortly after, completing the list of people he wanted to talk to that afternoon.

Yuuri tried to relax on Minako's desk chair, but it felt too big for him.

He was convening with all those who agreed to work under him, mostly to reassure them that there will be a future staff. He wanted the news to remain a secret and Minako's office was the most suitable.

Minako was rarely there with the upcoming birthday banquet, anyway, which was finally set to a date.

Sara, for one, was in high spirits—she had cried when Yuuri told her about her promotion and relentlessly expressed her gratitude. Now, though, she was fully embracing her new role as main handmaiden, shaking her head at Yuuri like a disapproving mother.

"You and his Majesty are as bad as each other, really," she scolded.

The words reached him too late. Yuuri was busy avoiding looking at Bella, for he couldn't muster the courage to tell her his decision yet.

"We are?" Yuuri felt his neck crack with how quickly he turned his head.

"You best believe it! I've known him since I was a child and he's always been kind to me. But ever since you and I had that kissing lesson, my life's been hanging by a thread!" Sara announced like she was holding that in for a long time. "Every time he passes by me, he gets irritated and orders me to get out of his sight! I feel like he's keeping me alive only because you like me, Yuuri!"

Before Yuuri could argue it was because of her affair with the Princess, he realized the timelines didn't match and shut his mouth. It seemed that kissing Yuuri was a bigger slight against the Tsar than being indecent with his sister.

"That's exactly how I feel," Leo suddenly added, his eyes wide. "Amigo, I swear his Majesty wants me dead! Whenever he looks at me, I feel my soul leaving my body under his condescending eyes. It started happening after you included me in your dance, I tell you!"

Leo shuddered at the end of his admission, but so did Yuuri. This was all new information to him and at first, Yuuri felt bad that his friends had to go through this because he acted untowardly with them, but then he remembered Victor's reaction to both their names and finally understood why the Tsar sounded so displeased.

But there was also something more important to consider. As main handmaiden and sole male servant, Sara and Leo will henceforth spend the most time with him.

Yet, despite his dislike of them, Victor didn't object to them at all.

Sara was wrong. They weren't as bad as each other. After all, Yuuri almost assaulted Christophe at the slightest provocation.

"But there was one woman that upset his Majesty the most," Isabella chimed in eagerly. "He was in a foul mood for an entire week because of her."

Yuuri knew what she was going to say, so he drank his tea and willed himself to tune out anything about Bianca of Rome.

"It was someone called Yuuko, I think."

Yuuri felt his throat close up and the next thing he knew, he was coughing out the sip he took. Sara was next to him by the second cough, dutifully handing him a handkerchief.

His surprise was immense and his friends observed his telling reaction, getting surprised in turn.

"Huh," Leo said, just to add salt to the wound. "I didn't think you had it in you."

"I-It's not like that!" Yuuri rushed to say.

He knew there was no way Victor had any private information about Yuuko. Yuuri had told him she was his sister and Minako was long gone before Yuuko moved to the Hasetsu palace. All his teacher knew was that they were childhood friends.

'Baby love,' Mari used to sing, sometimes close enough for Minako to hear.

He understood, in a moment of shame, how awful of a liar he was. For Victor to bring it up to Minako, it meant he already suspected something. And if Minako mentioned the European dancer to Yuuri so obliviously, then Mari's songs must've reached Victor's ears too.

He ignored all the questioning stares and chose to placate them instead.

"His Majesty approved of all of you," he said, mustering all the confidence he saw Minako exhibit. "No harm shall befall you as long as you work under me."

Yuuri didn't like making promises and this was certainly a heavy one, but he felt determined enough to make it. If he couldn't guarantee his own staff's safety, then what would he be good for?

"Yuuri, dear." Sara glanced meaningfully at her twin brother. "That much is obvious, isn't it?"

He knew what she was implying—that accompanying Yuuri was a safety blanket, that the Tsar gave Yuuri privileges that he wouldn't extend to anyone else and that he'd let Yuuri get away with pretty much anything.

Yuuri let the thought embolden him. With his newfound resolve, he finally brought himself to address Bella, his direct contact with Victor.

"Bella, is the next Taking rescheduled because of the banquet?"

At the unexpectedness of the question, everyone's heads whipped towards him. This topic had been heavily avoided for the past couple of weeks, after all, for he shut down any slight mention of it.

Yuuri had made his decision at last.

That day, Mila and Ketty showed him there was a beyond, but they weren't the only ones who helped kick him into action. As vexing as Christophe was, he also helped Yuuri recognize some things.

Firstly, he couldn't dissolve the arrangement with Victor.

No, he didn't want to dissolve it, as ill-conceived as it was. He played at considering it, but he was merely taking weeks mourning an option he'd never choose in the first place.

The Tsar was Yuuri's new poison now that the voices were weaker, but instead of slowly killing Yuuri like they were, Victor was bringing him back to life. Both were equally painful, yet Yuuri accepted the former and resisted the latter.

Yuuri needed to reverse that.

Secondly, every time Yuuri avoided Victor, it only made everything worse. Putting distance between them only escalated their problem.

Victor was avoidant and hard to understand, but it was because Yuuri was equally so. If he wanted to understand Victor more, Yuuri had to allow him in.

Thirdly, Victor was his, but if Yuuri didn't fight for him, it'd be meaningless to both of them.

If he wanted to be with Victor the way he wanted to, Yuuri had to take.

"Not at all!" Bella beamed, speaking much louder than necessary. "It'll be at the night of the banquet."

Yuuri closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke in an assertive voice, "Then please inform his Majesty that I will attend it."

The handmaiden glowed from head to toe.

"Right away!" she said breathlessly.

Isabella bolted out of the room as quickly as she could, like she was on her way to announce the end of a war.

"I don't think she looked that happy even when JJ proposed to her," Sara joked.

"Understandable, that," Michele said pettily.

Now that Isabella—who was essentially Victor's spy—was gone, Yuuri faced the rest and voiced his true intentions.

"I want to intercept the Tsar before the banquet," he announced, to everyone's puzzlement. "Preferably in a place with fewer witnesses."

Michele gave him a skeptical look. "What? You want to assassinate the man now?"

"You need to stop saying things that could get you hanged!" Emil pleaded.

"Michele, it's good that you warn me whenever I make a mistake," Yuuri said tiredly. "But could you please stop questioning everything I do?"

"Aye, that's fair," Michele conceded with surprising easiness. "You're the boss now."

At that moment, hearing those words, surrounded by those people, and sitting on that desk, Yuuri came to the surreal conclusion that, indeed, he was.


"Pig, I have an idea to run by you."

Exhausted, Yuuri wiped his sweat with a towel and eyed his student warily. "Do you want to change any of it?"

Yurio shook his head. "I haven't been practicing as much as I wanted to. I don't think I'll nail the performance like last time."

Yuuri frowned at that blatant lie. That week, they doubled their efforts and had sessions twice a day. That afternoon, in particular, they practiced so vigorously that half of Yurio's damp hair was clinging to his sweaty face.

Ever since he found out Yuuri was performing as well, Yurio didn't allow him to practice alone and was vigilant as he watched Yuuri, sometimes in awe, and sometimes inquisitively.

"Yurio." Yuuri didn't think he'd ever have to deal with a confidence issue with his student, but he was more or less an expert at it. "Physically, you're more than ready. Don't let your mind fool you otherwise."

"I don't want to dance," Yurio grunted. "You dance instead."

"I'm planning to." Yuuri's frown deepened. The Tsesarevich was looking away and that was never a good sign. "Yurio, what is it?"

"Wear my mask. And my mane. And a similar costume," Yurio blurted all at once.

Yuuri threw his head back. "What?"

"If I'm absent at every dance, it'll be obvious it's me. And I don't like that! I want to keep this side of me separate if I'll rule the empire one day."

"Oh?"

"And—And you said you were planning to wear a mask too, right? So if people think we're the same person, we can cover each other and our identities won't be exposed!" Yurio looked exhausted from how fast he was speaking. "I-I know I'm nowhere near your level, but our styles are the same! Eventually, I'll be on par with you. And I'll become taller, too! Our sizes won't be different, I tell you!"

Hearing all that, it sounded like Yurio was trying to convince him that sharing an identity with the Prince won't drag him down, which was ludicrous and alluded to an actual confidence issue.

Furthermore, Yurio was thirteen. For him to reach Yuuri's physique, it would take many years.

The thought that Yuuri would stay here by then was a prospect that was slowly becoming a reality. And more than that, the fact that Yurio viewed his future with Yuuri by his side was one of the most heartwarming things he'd ever heard.

Without saying a word, he unsolicitedly grabbed Yurio's head and ruffled his golden hair, chuckling as he imagined their shared dancing career.

"Pig! Get your filthy hands off me!" Yurio shrieked. He then stopped, his eyes widening. "That's a yes, right?"

"Oh, I wonder…" Yuuri drawled playfully, inviting another bout of curses from his student.

Really, for such a rude, entitled little brat to seize his heart like this, Yuuri almost laughed at how weak he was to him.


"Yuuri, are you sure you haven't changed your mind about the Taking?" Bella asked anxiously.

"I have not," Yuuri said for the fifth time, remaining still as Sara buttoned his black shirt. "And are you sure about what his Majesty is wearing?"

"Yes, it was designed by the same tailor," Bella assured him, then turned anxious again. "If you haven't changed your mind, then why are you meeting with the Tsar beforehand? Is there something about tonight that isn't to your liking? Do you have a complaint about anything?"

Yuuri had to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes. Bella's only weakness was being in the dark, it seemed. "You'll see."

"Alright, then," she started heading to the door. "I'll—"

"Bella, stay here," Yuuri ordered firmly.

Heeding his command, Bella slumped on his bed in total defeat, drained of all her usual cheerfulness. Somehow, Yuuri found her loyalty to Victor endearing.

Sara brought out two black gloves for Yuuri which covered his arms but only slipped through his thumbs. Next, she grabbed a suit jacket and carefully maneuvered it on him without causing a single crease.

Then, she began the long and arduous process of fastening all the belts, chains, and epaulets Yuuri brought out from the storage room. By that point, Bella had instinctively joined her in preparing him.

"Found it!" Leo hooted from some corner in the room. "Is this the one?"

Yuuri looked at the small linen bag Leo was holding and exhaled in relief. "Thank you. I thought I lost it."

Leo slipped it into his pocket and proceeded to grab Yuuri's boots and help him put them on. With three people manhandling him, he barely noticed the door bursting open.

"They started moving," Emil announced. "We've got five minutes."

Leo zipped his boots, Bella clasped the last chain, Sara fixed his collar, and Yuuri was finally ready.

Michele cocked his head inside the room. He looked at him with raised eyebrows and to Yuuri's astonishment, he nodded in approval. "You look good."

It was the first time Michele ever complimented him like that, but Yuuri supposed it shouldn't be surprising. After all, it was the first night of the Taking that he dressed as a man.

Yuuri looked at the mirror and he was taken aback as well.

He knew Victor was going to wear a similar suit, but Yuuri still made sure to be decked out in gold accessories to match him. The suit—which was approved by Yurio—was sparkling even in his dimly lit room. The tiny speckles of crystals were unending and the ombre of white, silver, and violet made it no less than a piece of art.

Choking up, Yuuri looked away.

He felt beautiful.

Yuuri ushered his staff outside and walked as quickly as he could, almost jogging to make it on time to the Northern stairway.

"Yuuri, wait!" Leo rushed to his side. "You forgot to put this on."

Yuuri grabbed the beautifully embroidered, navy blue bag in confusion. He shook his head, putting it back in Leo's hand and trusting him with it.

Yuuri smiled. "This is not for me."


Led by his two guards and followed by his three servants, Yuuri walked the palace with a proper attendance and a determined stride.

However, no matter how confident he felt, how handsome and powerful, he still lost all his courage the second they rounded the corner and saw the Tsar.

While preparing for the banquet, Yuuri considered wearing his favorite color but ultimately decided it was not the time. There was an abundance of outfits in his storage that were blue, but instead of wearing any of them, he made a resolution with himself.

Yuuri swore that he'd only wear blue when he was completely and incandescently happy.

But seeing Victor, with his scintillating blue eyes, fresh blue boutonniere, and teal blue suit weakened his resolve, the dream-like image punching the soul out of Yuuri where he stood.

Victor's attendance, thrice the size of his own, were surrounding him in every direction, but the Tsar stood out like a beacon of light, ravishing, imposing, and the most beautiful Yuuri had ever seen him.

Yuuri felt as though no force in this universe could withstand that sight and remain firm. Thusly, he forgot all he was planning to do. All the words he practiced flew out of his head and into the void.

Victor didn't notice them, his attention directed at the servants carrying wooden boxes toward the stairway. The calm and demanding persona he wore with his subjects was present, but there was a certain restlessness about him, an irritation that clung to him as he listed his orders and spoke to five other people at once.

Soon enough, though, the people around the Tsar stopped speaking, their eyes bulging as they noticed the arrival of Yuuri and his party. Their unresponsiveness seemed to have irritated Victor further, for he turned sharply to where they were looking.

Yuuri saw, in detail, how Victor's domineering mask slipped from his face.

"Yuuri?" with no other soul daring to speak, Victor sounded overly loud, Yuuri's name heavy in everyone's ears.

There was a dramatic change in his demeanor that couldn't be more noticeable. Yet, Victor didn't look happy to see him at all. If anything, he looked apprehensive as he separated himself from his attendance.

"What's the matter?" the Tsar implored, walking so quickly he was in front of him in no time. "Did something happen?"

While he was speaking to Yuuri, his cold, reprimanding glare was directed behind him at Bella, who no doubt already berated herself for not telling him beforehand.

Yuuri's mind was in shambles. He couldn't remember why he was there, either.

Victor wasn't wearing a tie. His blue shirt was left open. Some treacherous handmaiden had decided to display the Tsar's naked chest for the occasion, toned and even firmer than Yuuri remembered.

Yuuri stared at bare skin that only ended at the golden belt around Victor's waist and suddenly, he wanted to reprimand Bella too.

"Yuuri?" Victor urged again, his voice turning hesitant. "Solnyshko, is everything alright?"

Yuuri's eyes snapped back to Victor's face, to the furrow of his silver brows, to the frown on his heart-shaped lips, and finally recalled why he came.

"I-I—" Yuuri shook his head and willed himself to calm down. This was the worst time to stutter and sound unsure of himself. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

Victor turned around immediately, his face hard as stone as he made a brusque gesture with his hand. Every person in the vicinity dispersed at once, including Yuuri's attendance.

By the time everyone ran for their lives and stood far away from them, Victor was back to facing him, his features softening again.

Velichestvo's Dioscuri, Yuuri thought again in awe.

Thinking about Victor's special attentiveness made him lightheaded. Yet, looking at Victor was much more distracting at the moment. Yuuri couldn't afford to be weak and directed his eyes somewhere else.

His eyes landed on the men in the back, who stood stiffly in their spots, looking strained as they held the wooden boxes.

"They look quite heavy," Yuuri commented, trying to aid the poor servants.

"Oh?" the Tsar didn't seem to hear a word as he took in Yuuri's matching suit, his gaze intense, almost vehement. "Yes?"

Yuuri gulped. He tried not to squirm when Victor's eyes followed the movement of his throat. "The boxes. What are they for?"

"Gifts. For the nameday. From the harem," Victor answered rather inarticulately. "The concubines went overboard this year."

"They did." Yuuri gave a taut nod. "I watched them prepare very lovely things for you."

"I don't care," the Tsar said dismissively. "I'm giving them all away. I haven't looked at a single one, I assure you."

The warmth inside Yuuri worsened.

The gesture didn't escape him. He had watched the concubines for two months preparing meticulous, handmade gifts as a last-ditch effort to regain the Tsar's favor. All that effort, only for Victor to toss them away just for Yuuri's sake.

The tense silence stretched between them. Yuuri couldn't bring himself to say or do anything; he felt like his heart would erupt from sheer nervousness.

"I shouldn't have presumed," Victor suddenly said with a shake of his head. "You've changed your mind, haven't you, Yuuri?"

Victor pressed his lips together and finally looked away. Yuuri hated the solemness that took over his handsome features.

Yuuri hated that empty smile even more.

Since that last meeting, he and Victor seemed to have taken a hundred steps back. The Tsar was skittish around him, like something as little as the wrong intake of breath would push Yuuri over the edge of anything. Even worse, he seemed to have lost all faith in Yuuri ever wanting him.

Strangely enough, Yuuri wasn't sure if he disliked it. It felt like, for once, Victor was the one at his mercy.

Yuuri pushed away his anxieties and slowly looked over at the boxes. "Will you throw away mine too?"

The words didn't register for a few quiet, pregnant moments. Once they did, Victor uncrossed his arms in haste, looking between Yuuri and the boxes gapingly.

Yuuri shook his head and called behind him, "Leo."

Leo must've caught on because he didn't need any further instructions. He stood by Yuuri in an instant, presenting the blue linen bag with a proper flourish and placing it on Yuuri's outstretched palm.

There was a mischievous smile on his friend's lips as he walked away, for the Tsar looked absolutely stricken.

"I haven't changed my mind," Yuuri's voice was quiet as he handed him the bag. "Please accept my humble gift."

Still in his stupor, Victor took awfully too long to take out his gift, the gift Yuuri started preparing the moment he was made aware of the upcoming nameday.

In his mind, Yuuri knew it was expected of him, but as the weeks went by and no one around him mentioned it, Yuuri started to doubt himself. Furthermore, judging by Victor's astonishment, neither he nor did anyone else expect Yuuri to have a gift prepared.

'You take all he has to give, reduce him to this, and now you want an out?' Christophe had accused him, as though voicing everyone's thoughts.

Did Yuuri really appear so unreliable as Victor's favorite? It felt discouraging, to have everyone constantly doubting his desires for the Tsar. It was one of the things he set out to change.

Victor stared at the golden ring like he had never seen something like it before, like it wasn't the most common piece of jewelry in the Eastern courts. He brought it close to his face, inspecting the inscription on the inside like he was reading a foreign language.

Yuuri knew there wasn't much to the ring, but even he thought the inscription was impressive. Phichit had come up with a stunning font Yuuri had never seen before, and Mila's jeweler couldn't have done it more perfectly.

Needless to say, 'Prince Pierre' was perfect to write for Victor so he'd never forget the name again, so he'd have a piece of Yuuri to remember as long as that ring remained in his possession.

So that Victor would keep it as dearly as the wilted rose, but hopefully never have a reason to toss it away.

Yuuri grew nervous when Victor didn't say anything. He had gathered every ounce of courage to present the gift but soon enough, self-doubt infested his brain. The gold band looked awfully plain compared to the priceless rings Victor owned in his dresser, the priceless rings he was already wearing.

Yuuri flexed his hand, muttering, "I-It's not much, but—"

Victor grabbed his wrist, hard, and pulled Yuuri's entire body toward him.

"Do it properly," Victor insisted, his voice sonorous.

Yuuri received the ring back and didn't know by what miracle his hands didn't shake when he took Victor's in his.

Yuuri felt bold enough to slip the ring on Victor's ring finger, but not presumptuous enough to put it on the Tsar's left hand.

He realized, happily, that his measurement that night was correct and the ring fit Victor's elegant finger perfectly.

"It's late, but I wish you a happy nameday," Yuuri said hesitantly. "I—I hope you'll wear this for the banquet."

Having finally voiced his true intentions, Yuuri waited with bated breath.

He wanted Victor to enjoy his gift but more than anything, he wanted everyone around the Tsar to see him wearing it, to know that Yuuri wanted him too and wasn't using Victor for his own gain. He wanted all the Chinese Dukes and Christophe Giacometti's of the world to understand that and stay away.

"I'll never take it off," Victor declared with no hint of humor.

The Tsar threw the bag unceremoniously as if to prove he wouldn't ever need it. Yuuri's breath caught in his throat when the happiest, most dazzling expression took over Victor's face.

He finally understood all the gift-giving business. If something as silly as a plain ring made Victor that happy, then perhaps Yuuri will finally have a use for his colossal allowance.

Victor held Yuuri's right hand and brought it to his smiling lips. His blue eyes shifted momentarily before placing a sweet kiss on Yuuri's ring finger.

"You don't have a matching one, darling?" Victor asked.

"N-No," Yuuri hurried to explain himself. "This—This is only for luck. It has no other meaning."

"Why, but it means a lot to me." Victor did not blink when he spoke his next words with a dazed look, "My darling, this comes second only to when I received my crown."

The warmth he felt in his heart spread to his entire body, heating every inch of Yuuri's face.

It was useless, so unfairly useless. Yuuri could only think of dissolving the arrangement when he was away from Victor, because when he was with him—with his unparalleled beauty, his passionate and poetic words, and his heated touch—Yuuri could only fight in vain to not drown in his desires.

"How could it not? When you look so gorgeous tonight?" Victor went on, staring at him with eyes that seemed possessed. "I feel that if I look at you for too long, I'll go blind."

Yuuri wanted to say that it was the opposite, that it was Victor who looked otherworldly, worth a thousand ballads. He was about to voice it out loud, too, but Yuuri caught himself and remembered there was something else he wanted to say.

"I sincerely hope you won't," Yuuri replied, his words careful. "Since I'll be dancing tonight."

"I know, solnyshko. I look forward to your performance the most."

Yuuri looked away. "But if I recall correctly, you didn't enjoy my performance last time."

Victor's hand squeezed his, his grip almost painful. "Ah, no, indeed I did not."

Despite his better judgment, Yuuri pressed on, "Was there something specific that angered you?"

Victor's smile was no longer warm. "You know perfectly well what angered me, sweetheart."

Yuuri did know. After all, Minako had yelled at him quite viciously that night, admonishing him for dancing inappropriately in front of so many people. Not to mention Leo, whom Victor apparently was quite resentful of for dancing with him in a flirtatious manner.

"I can make a guess or two," Yuuri said curtly.

Victor, for his part, remained untroubled. "Then I trust you won't do it again, Yuuri."

Yuuri summoned fearlessness he didn't know he possessed and retrieved his hand. "It depends."

He was clueless when he received compliments and affection, Yuuri realized, but he was an expert at confrontation. Yuuri decided to use that to his advantage for once.

He expected Victor to bristle and show his irritation, but he only seemed perplexed. The hand with the golden ring remained extended. "Depends on what, exactly?"

Yuuri narrowed his eyes. "You know perfectly well that I got angry as well that night."

Victor's eyes widened. "Yes, but on my end, I cannot guess as to why."

"You chose me every fortnight." It was Yuuri who bristled and showed his irritation. "But you didn't do anything with me besides read. It makes one wonder, especially when you spent that banquet entertaining suitors all night."

Yuuri never thought he'd confront Victor about this one day, but he wondered why it took him so long. The shock and remorse that took over Victor's face felt satisfying to no end.

Victor's facade crumbled. He approached Yuuri with his arms extended to touch him. "I did not know you were in that banquet hall, had I known—"

"It shouldn't matter if I was there or not." Yuuri sneered, putting a hand against Victor's chest to stop him.

"You… You're absolutely right." Victor winced. "I slighted you, didn't I? I don't know how that escaped me."

Triumphant, Yuuri replicated Victor's cold smile. "Then I trust you won't do it again, Victor."

Victor merely stared, the bold words leaving him befuddled. Yuuri knew that—perhaps for the first time—he won the argument against Victor, and he felt quite exhilarated.

Then, Victor's features became blank, his vivid eyes shining with intent.

Suddenly, Yuuri recalled that exact look when a drunk Victor stared at him. Suddenly, Yuuri realized his gloved hand was flat on Victor's bare chest.

And suddenly, Yuuri knew that Victor wanted to kiss him.

Yuuri couldn't accept the kiss, no matter how much he wanted it. Instead, he stood on his tiptoes and roughly pressed their foreheads against each other.

"Victor," he demanded fiercely. "Don't you dare take your eyes off me."


"That was a great performance, dear!" Sara praised him as they neared the banquet hall.

"I haven't performed yet…" Yuuri said, still feeling lightheaded.

"I wasn't talking about that!"

"Oh."

"After you left, the Tsar announced he was in a good mood and awarded a bonus to everyone present," Leo informed. "Including us!"

Leo and Sara bumped shoulders excitedly, yet whether it was due to the material reward or the success of the meeting, it wasn't clear.

It didn't matter. He wasn't paying attention. All he could think of was the state he left Victor in.

The Tsar looked about ready to feast on his flesh.

All the nerves in Yuuri's body stood on end and he wasn't calming down, no matter how hard he tried.

Before, he used to hate that helpless feeling, but now , it felt quite addictive.

"Yuuri!" he heard a voice at the end of the hallway. "We're over here!"

Yuuri waved at Mila but before he followed her to prepare for their performance, he turned to look at his staff meaningfully.

"Uh, please keep a close eye on his Majesty," Yuuri instructed, abashed at the request but still firm on Victor keeping his promise. "I want to know whom he dances with tonight."

"Done!" Bella, who was an expert informant, conceded.

Now, all that was left to do was to trust Victor.

Somehow, Yuuri no longer felt it was difficult.


"Stay still, goddamnit! It has to be put on properly!"

"Are you sure it's black? It looks a dark grey to me."

"My goodness! I missed a split end!"

A dresser, a set of couches, and clothing racks surrounded him, but it was the three siblings of the royal family that filled the room with their demands.

Yuuri was feeling overwhelmed by the noise and hands reaching for him, but they were running out of time and he had no choice but to multitask haphazardly.

Georgi, for the most part, sat compliantly as Yuuri painted his lips with the darkest color he could find. The Tsarevich's makeup was nearly done, but the angle in which Yuuri worked was rather difficult.

Yuuri was leaning toward the oldest Prince with his knees bent, helping the youngest by remaining still while Yurio fixed the golden wig—or mane, as he called it—on Yuuri's head. Yurio was uncharacteristically fussy about Yuuri's costume, refusing to let anyone else do it.

Mila grabbed Yuuri's free hand and shoved a pair of scissors onto it, pointing to a strand of her perfect scarlet hair.

There was no split end, but Yuuri was too used to the Tsarevna fussing over her hair to argue otherwise. He used his other hand to distractedly cut the invisible split end.

"What is going on here?"

Once the intruding voice reached their ears, all four of them stopped moving while still entangled with each other.

Yuuri didn't dare lift his head. To be found like this, with one hand holding a brush against the Tsarevich's lips, the other cutting the Tsarevna's hair, and his head seized up by the Tsesarevich, Yuuri didn't even want to see how Victor would react.

Together, they must've made the most unlikely and bizarre sight. Yuuri was technically bowing already, so there was that.

He sneaked a peek at Victor to find him as stunned as the rest of them, peering at the wild scene in disbelief.

Eventually, the Tsar ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply like he was taken by the biggest headache.

"Don't bother Yuuri too much. If you upset him, I'll be very mad," Victor said, sounding defeated. "Good luck to all of you."

With these curt words, Victor exited the room and left them to their own devices.

Yuuri didn't know what to make of it. Shouldn't he be warned not to bother them? Moreover, why did it sound like it wasn't Victor's first time scolding his siblings for this?

"Arrogant bastard," Yurio spat venomously after Victor closed the door. "Rich coming from the man who upsets you the most!"

"Oh, my," Mila said casually. "You could be hanged for calling him that."

Georgi clicked his tongue. "It's life in prison, not hanging."

"No. You're royals," Yuuri corrected them tiredly. "It'll be a decade of confinement in your private palace quarters."

"Ah," the three of them muttered.

Soon enough, the Feltsman trio went back to their perpetual chaos.


Yuuri watched the orchestra enter through the backdoor with bated breath.

His hands twitched, his feet shifted, and his heart moved widely, but none of it was due to his usual anxiousness.

Instead, Yuuri felt giddy, excitement surging with each pump of his blood.

Last time, he only heard Ketty's song with two instruments, but as Mila informed him, the piece was originally quite complex. He couldn't wait to hear it performed properly.

No, Yuuri couldn't wait to dance to it.

He'll dance a dance he loved, in front of Minako, in front of his friends, in front of art-oriented foreign guests. In front of Victor.

I'll make them proud, Yuuri promised as he fixed Yurio's wooden mask on his face. I'll make myself proud.

"Rodnoy," Mila whispered in his ear. "Please don't be upset with me."

The double doors opened in front of them, engulfing them with the light from the banquet hall, and the Princess left before Yuuri could ask what she meant.

Yuuri waited for the cheers to die down before he followed her into the hall.

The light blinded him for a second after he crossed the door, but then his eyes opened up to a massive scene. Even without his spectacles and through the narrow holes of his mask, Yuuri shuddered at the extravagance of it all.

He had never seen so many people in one place, and it was made even more surreal by the mix of all the foreign guests, the foreign staff, and their different styles and fashions. Everywhere he looked, he saw a different headpiece, a different dress, and different hair and coloring.

Yuuri was aware that everyone he ever heard of, read about, and befriended in Russia was present, but the mask worked like a protective charm, emboldening him as he moved.

Some must've recognized Yurio's white and silver striped mask, for a couple of them cheered for him too. Mila was already seated on her piano chair, smiling fondly as Yuuri approached the middle of the hall.

Yuuri spotted Christophe eyeing him on the royals' table. He held none of his mockery from before, nor his contempt or jibing, if anything, he was eyeing him like he was an addition to the dessert course. Yuuri's body shriveled in discomfort and he pointedly ignored him.

Then, the cheers returned all of a sudden, so loud and robust that Yuuri felt the ground shaking under him.

His eyes caught a blur of blue and when Yuuri stopped at his spot in the center of the hall, he turned to see Victor, of all people, standing in front of Mila's pianoforte.

An enthusiastic Bella rushed to the Tsar's side and Yuuri realized, belatedly, that he had been bested again when Victor received the wooden violin with a triumphant smile.

As it turned out, Yuuri was not the only one with a surprise tonight.

Victor brandished his bow with a performative wave, his finger stretching purposefully to pull attention to his glowing ring. The Tsar's hands that were filled with other rings last Yuuri saw him, were now completely bare, the golden ring standing alone, proud and unashamed.

The cheers loudened and Yuuri became deaf to them all, his ears ringing as he met Victor's determined gaze, as he realized Victor must've practiced that melody for weeks to be able to come here to join the orchestra so confidently and play for him.

Play for him. Victor was going to play Yuuri's melody, for him, in front of everyone who mattered in Russia. Wearing his ring.

Yuuri looked away, steeled his shoulders, and willed himself not to crumble.

Behind him, the orchestra was ready, and most likely by Victor's signal, the maestro started his three opening taps.

With every loud tap, the noise died down and Yuuri felt his emotions mellow, and finally, he managed to forget that it was the Tsar of Russia playing for him and initiated his performance.

This one was a rather simple dance. Yuuri first choreographed it years ago when he found himself all alone and missing his family terribly. He had wanted to dedicate this dance to all those he'd lost forever, to commemorate the only people who loved him but would never be with him again.

However, with his eyes finally open and his heart receptive, Yuuri found that he was not alone.

He had lost a family, but somewhere down the line, without him noticing it, he found new loved ones who supported him even when he was at his lowest, even when he was unworthy of it.

Yuuri didn't know how to appreciate them but he decided to start learning. As long as they were in that hall, Yuuri wanted them to know their efforts weren't in vain.

Rivet his hands together, and slide them up his body reverently. Look up, throw one arm to his side, and the other in front of him.

Gather all the affection inside of him, rouse it from its slumber until it was something tangible, and release it into the air. Watch it float above him, catch it, and cast it toward all those he held dear.

Spin, spin, and spin, jump with flawless posture and viscous strength, and move with legwork he had perfected for years.

Show them, and all those present, that dancing was his first and last love. Dancing was the language he was the most fluent in, and dancing was when he spoke with honesty his tongue didn't have.

The violin cut through the melody, Victor annexing the performance and making it partly his. All notions of him going through this solo dissolved and the last flickers of loneliness ceased from his heart.

Yuuri felt his feet wobble but didn't let it outwardly show, and instead looked toward the people he dedicated the dance to.

Minako, standing still for once at the entrance of the hall, was the first to receive his affection. As his arm extended toward her, he remembered how she had once taken him into her arms, assuring him that he did not lose her like all the rest.

Yurio tried to hide his smug grin when Yuuri pointed at him and another memory flooded his sight, of the boy trying so hard to hide his tears when he couldn't free Yuuri.

Otabek looked proper in his formal suit, as proper as he was when he told Yuuri he was a great teacher.

Phichit cheered louder than everyone else, just like how he cheered him on whenever he was down.

Leo was laughing, just the way he did when he found out Yuuri's identity and didn't judge him for it.

Sara and Isabella watched him attentively, no different from when they took care of him and told him how beautiful he was.

Michele and Emil weren't looking at him but rather around him, always protective of him when he was with people he didn't know.

Ketty was leaning against a wall, raising a wine glass to make a toast to him, celebrating Yuuri just like her music did.

Blinking past his tears, Yuuri made his last jump and pirouetted back to face the crowd. Stopping at last, he stretched both his arms at either side of him, gathering all the affection he received in return, and brought his hands back in front of him to savor it.

Yuuri leaned back and put a hand against his chest, extending his arm wide to dedicate the most tender part of his heart to the one at the center of the hall.

His hand meant to land on Mila, the one who helped him escape the darkness and reminded him of his first and last love, but she was obstructed from view.

It was Victor, whose eyes never left him for even a second, who stood tall and blue at the receiving end of Yuuri's heart.

Yuuri felt it beat wildly against his hand, filling to the brim and overflowing, as though the affection he received from Victor equaled everyone else's combined.


Victor did not dance with a single person outside of his family that night.

And if Isabella's observations were trustworthy enough, Victor didn't acknowledge a single suitor. She even went as far as to say the Tsar didn't speak much at all, looking so distracted even his own family couldn't properly interact with him.

And the minute it was still improper to leave, but far enough into the banquet to not offend too many guests, the Tsar abandoned his nameday celebration and retired to his private quarters.


The night of Tsar Victor's twenty-fifth nameday was one he couldn't forget, but at the same time, there were parts of that night Yuuri did not remember at all.

He knew he had finished the best public performance of his life as of that day, a performance that cemented his style and technique as a serious, competitive dancer for the rest of his future.

He knew he had been so happy, so unbearably happy he didn't know what to do with that foreign emotion. He knew that, for the first time in his adult life, he felt like he belonged where he was.

But he had been so exhilarated, so taken by such a historic performance, that he did not know when or how his feet carried him out of that banquet hall to get ready for the Taking.

He didn't know if he was early or late when he stood in front of the North Wing, but he vividly remembered a slender, pale hand grabbing him and dragging him to the other side with excitement that rivaled his own.

Yuuri remembered his back hitting the wall and a pair of brilliant lips landing on his, taking the remainder of his breath away.

He tried to kiss Victor back with equal fervor but it was a futile endeavor. Victor was kissing him with such passion and abandon, that when Victor's tongue slipped into his mouth, all Yuuri could do was helplessly moan at the onslaught.

Hearing it, Victor kissed him even harder, devouring all that was left of Yuuri.

No dream or fantasy he conjured could ever come close to reality and Yuuri was in the clouds, feeling so elated he swore he could grow wings.

"Victor," he breathed in-between frenzied kisses.

"Solnyshko," Victor punctuated the word with a bite to Yuuri's lip.

"Victor, let's get to the bedroom," Yuuri pleaded weakly.

"Why?"

He looked at the North Wing entrance right next to them. "The guards…"

"What about them?"

Yuuri met fierce, glowing blue eyes and almost whined. "Victor."

The Tsar groaned, kissing him so hard Yuuri thought he could never breathe properly again. "Say it again. Like that."

He gasped against Victor's lips. "I will if you listen to me."

"Let them hear us. What of it?"

"You want them… to hear me?" Yuuri asked, his vision clearing as a pang of anxiousness zapped through him.

Yuuri didn't know what happened first, the firm smack of lips against his cheek, or Victor's arms hoisting him by the thighs, easily carrying him away.

"I'd have to cut off their ears," Victor said, but only half-jokingly. He grumbled unhappily as he turned them around the hallway. "You've become too light, my love."

Something about the casual way Victor called him his love turned Yuuri a little insane with desire. He grabbed Victor's jaw, claimed his lips, and vowed to never give them to anyone else.

He swept the roof of Victor's mouth with his tongue, drowning at the taste of him and making the Tsar stumble against the nearest door.

Big hands slipped down Yuuri's pants, seizing Yuuri's backside and squeezing appreciatively. Yuuri gave back in kind as he wrapped his legs firmly around Victor's torso, finding an angle to rub their clothed cocks together and wrenching another pleased groan out of Victor.

Suddenly the door behind them opened, the Tsar forsaking the bedroom and taking them to the nearer study instead.

The light in the room was faint and it had been left relatively warm, but Yuuri still felt his skin burn when Victor licked along his jaw, finding a sensitive spot that made him squirm.

His jaw had been broken once by a vile, loathsome man, the phantom aches returning whenever he remembered his earlier days of slavery. But with Victor's fervent touch, Yuuri felt the memory of it leave him.

The top buttons of his shirt opened one by one, allowing a trail for Victor's lips to lavish his collarbones with possessive attention. Yuuri's shoulders rolled in pleasure, hands flying to his lapels to rid himself of his jacket.

Victor firmly grabbed his backside, binging their torsos flush together and stopping his hands. Yuuri gasp at the rough press of their groins and lost all train of thought.

"Don't take it off. You look divine in my clothes," Victor said against a blooming mark on his collarbone. "I wish you would never wear anything else."

Another rough squeeze on his backside and Yuuri felt the world spin as Victor deposited him on a sofa with surprising carefulness. The world was turning, blurring, and suddenly coming to cruel focus as he finally got a clear look at Victor.

Yuuri's cock became fully hard by the sight alone.

Panting loudly with eyes almost completely black, Victor looked every bit of a bewitched, ravenous man, and Yuuri didn't know how he ever doubted Victor's desires for him.

His cheeks were dark with desire, mouth opened to let the pants escape through his glistering, kissed lips. Yuuri did not remember touching Victor's hair, but he must've fondled it like a madman for it to fall so messily against his forehead.

Yuuri reached a hand to that face to make sure it was real, but Victor grabbed it, bringing it to his sighing lips.

"After tonight," Victor said, kissing his gloved hand. "I'm convinced that nothing brings me more joy than watching you dance. совершенно роскошный."

Victor had no right to say that, not when he looked sinful peering at Yuuri behind his hand like that, his gaze beseeching and sultry, his golden ring bearing a majestic shine against his skin.

"You…" Yuuri shook his head, refusing the compliment. "You didn't seem so pleased at the previous banquet."

Victor paused before he could give his hand another kiss, his face darkening.

"I was, but only for a fleeting minute." His hand pressed against his chest, purposeful and tantalizing. He never ceased being gentle, but Yuuri felt hostility in the air that was not directed at him. "Alas, you were dancing amidst unwanted concubines with no one to announce you, no one to recognize you as my beloved."

If Victor looked bewitched, Yuuri didn't know what his own face looked like. He listened to Victor answer a question he already knew the answer to, savoring every word like he was starved for it.

His gut tightened as Victor's hand slipped lower, his body reacting wantonly to every sliver of touch.

"What a terrible night, indeed…" Victor's voice was leveled against his neck, even as his hand pressed against his pelvis, even as Yuuri's back arched against the sofa for him. "Having to sit and listen as royalty around me started bargaining for you, making offers to me and outbidding each other." Victor sucked on his throat, biting the sensitive skin and turning Yuuri into a whimpering mess. "I almost grabbed you, bent you over the table, and took you right then and there in front of them."

His cock twitched under Victor's hand, an encouraging, filthy moan slipping past his lips.

Yuuri had danced at that previous banquet with the sole purpose of seducing Victor. He never imagined he had been so effective, and every word Victor whispered was a form of validation that went straight to his leaking cock.

"Ah, but no, that's foolish. I would never." Although seemingly calm and firm, all Yuuri could see on top of him was a red-eyed beast, growling with a drooling mouth. "Yuuri, if anyone else sees you like this, I'll burn their entire nations to the ground."

Yuuri mewled, feeling his premature release on the surface, then he whined, with all his chest, when the pressure on his cock suddenly ceased.

"Yuuri." Victor's face came so close that Yuuri could count each one of his pale lashes. "Do you want me?"

"I do," Yuuri begged.

Victor did not move. "Are you upset with me?"

Yuuri felt confusion cutting through his lust. Did he have a reason to still be upset? Victor did everything Yuuri asked him to do. He played for him. He wouldn't have come here otherwise. "I'm… I'm not."

Victor bent down to nibble on Yuuri's ear, startling him. He took his earlobe into his mouth, sucking at a place Yuuri never thought he'd enjoy this much.

Victor licked thoroughly inside his ear and only when he got a moan out of Yuuri did he continue, "Then that's a first for us, isn't it?"

Before Yuuri could comprehend what he meant, Victor circled his arms around him, pulling him away from the sofa in another impressive show of strength.

With his feet wobbly and surprised, Yuuri hurriedly grabbed onto Victor's shoulders, making Victor smile in self-satisfaction and kiss his fondness into Yuuri's mouth.

"Yuuri, I must apologize." He said morosely, grabbing his hips and helping him stand. "I've been a terrible lover to you all this time."

The word echoed and buzzed in his head, his scalp tingling as Victor peppered kisses on his forehead. He felt the Tsar's clever, practiced hands working the front of his pants, but he was too distracted to reciprocate.

With endless satisfaction, Yuuri realized that he was, indeed, Victor's lover. His only one.

He felt Victor move and when Yuuri's eyes followed him, all of a sudden, there was a sight before him that would send the entire royal council into outrage.

The Tsar of Russia was kneeling in front of him.

Yuuri almost fainted right then and there.

Victor looking up at him like that, his swan-like neck bent upwards, his face so close to Yuuri's unclothed cock, was a view so dream-like he didn't want to wake up.

"Yuuri," Victor drawled with a wicked voice, caressing Yuuri's hips with intent. "Allow me to treat you with the reverence you deserve."

Yuuri cursed filthily, a word in Japanese, then a word in French, as the Tsar's perfect, soft lips wrapped around his cock. When the words registered, Victor swirled his tongue against his length, pulling Italian curses out of him too.

Victor hummed around his cock, seemingly delighted to hear the filthiest words Yuuri knew. The vibration against his aching member sent Yuuri's spine into an arc, pushing more of his cock into that mouth.

Maddeningly enough, Victor swallowed the rest of him with ease, receptive and eager.

He had never experienced such tight, wet heat around him, and the fact it was Victor's mouth… He was not going to last. Not a single minute. He didn't have the experience, nor the mental fortitude to withstand such a barrage of pleasure.

"Victor!" Yuuri cried in warning.

His hoarse cry did the opposite of what he intended. Victor's eyes, hooded and pleased, glowed at the sound of his name. The only remaining blue in his irises, a thin shimmering ring, turned dark with an insatiable hunger.

His eyes never leaving Yuuri's, Victor hollowed his cheeks and sucked —back, forth, and back—before pushing Yuuri's cock deep into his throat in one ruthless motion.

Yuuri screamed, his hands finding purchase in Victor's hair, clutching at the silver strands for mercy. "I-I won't—I can't— Victor!"

Victor merely caressed his thighs in encouragement and did not pull away. Yuuri understand exactly what he was planning to do, but he wouldn't allow it.

He had the Tsar on his knees for him. He had the Tsar pleasuring him in ways sacrilegious to royalty, telling him how badly he wanted to claim him in front of everyone who dared to look at Yuuri twice.

Crazed with want, Yuuri was overcome with the urge to claim him too.

His grip on Victor's hair tightened. At that, Victor paused, his eyes closing and his brows furrowing in pleasure. He pulled Victor by the hair and the Tsar went willingly, and only when the head of his cock passed his swollen lips did Yuuri release.

His vision blurred.

Yuuri opened his eyes a moment later to witness Victor's perfect face covered with his spend and his vision blurred again, the world turning completely white. Every ounce of energy escaped him as his knees gave out, his body falling onto Victor's waiting lap.

Yuuri's limp head landed on Victor's shoulder and for a while, none of them spoke. He savored the Tsar's unrelenting scent, now mixed with a distinct smell of sex, and didn't find it appalling. And when Victor's hand cupped the back of his head, stroking his hair as if in praise, all Yuuri could do was sigh in contentment.

"Ah," Victor broke the silence, his voice coming out wrecked against his ear. "But I really wanted to taste you, my darling."

Yuuri rolled his head to the side, dizzily eyeing Victor's profile—now filthy—without saying a word.

Victor looked so beautiful like this. Never, not in his wildest, most shameless dreams, did he entertain such a sight. Now, Yuuri was the only one ever privy to it.

Incapable of finding the right words, he ran his hand across Victor's streaked cheek appreciatively. The Tsar was silent and bemused as he followed the movement of his index finger.

Yuuri coated it with a generous amount of thick white liquid and without thinking, he pushed it straight into Victor's mouth.

Yuuri's voice came out even more wrecked. "It looks good on you, Victor."

Victor completely stilled. Yuuri wasn't sure he even tasted it properly because, in the next moment, he was pushed to the floor with Victor on top of him, seeming to have gone feral.

"Fuck," Victor hissed against his neck, ripping Yuuri's shirt open with his bare hands. "Fuck."

Yuuri had never heard him curse like this before. If anything, one would assume the Tsar of Russia didn't even know words like these, but Victor seemed to have abandoned the last bit of his regalness. What's more, he no longer seemed to care so much about Yuuri's outfit as the buttons popped from his shirt and the fabric tore.

Victor bit his collarbone without any of his previous gentleness, and Yuuri gasped as his cock hardened once again, the pain only echoing his pleasure.

"I'll do it, I swear I will," Victor said lowly, half his words turning Russian. "I will burn entire nations to the ground."

Yuuri moaned his approval, lifting his spine off the ground and goading Victor further. Nimble fingers slipped into his waistband, heeding his plea and removing his pants and underwear, freeing Yuuri's legs at last.

"Fuck, darling," Victor cursed again when he noticed Yuuri's cock at full mast so soon.

Yuuri was inexperienced, as he couldn't hold his release like Victor could. What he lacked in experience, however, he made up with his stamina and enthusiasm. He was sensitive, easily aroused, and had a very short recovering period, points that the Madams relentlessly praised him for.

During their past sexual encounters, the slightest touch would've reawakened his arousal, but Victor didn't try to and Yuuri was too emotionally spent.

This time, however, Victor was even more giving than usual, reigniting Yuuri's arousal with ease. Yuuri couldn't believe he ever thought he needed to get Victor angry to satisfy his sexual desires.

Seducing Victor, it seemed, was the easiest thing in the world. And Yuuri will never waste his time waiting again.

Victor was kissing up his abdomen, worshipful but predatory as his teeth scraped against his visible ribcage. He opened his eyes, sending Yuuri an esurient look, before his hands settled on his backside, parting his cheeks with enough pressure to bruise.

A slender finger grazed his rim, already slick and wet, and Yuuri's breath stuttered in anticipation. His legs wrapped around Victor's back, pulling him closer impatiently, wanting Victor inside him again as soon as physically possible.

Seeing Victor play for him tonight, with his gold ring so visible, his smile so proud, all the pent-up desires in him had increased tenfold. Yuuri made sure he wouldn't have to wait a single more minute to get what he wanted.

But Victor stopped. The second his torturous, practiced finger entered him easily, the Tsar's entire body went still.

Yuuri opened his eyes to a glower, a seething look that suddenly took over the Tsar's face.

"Yuuri," he said quietly, slowly, his words a menacing threat. "Did anyone force you to do this again? I will fucking ruin their lives, I swear it."

Yuuri's entire being filled with shame because instead of taking the threat seriously, his cock twitched.

Though Yuuri hated preparing himself, alone and embarrassed in the washroom, he decided to do it for the first time in months because he didn't want to wait.

Yet, now that he recalls, none of the handmaidens ever dared mention that part of the preparation after the first time they attended to him. Judging by Victor's reaction, Yuuri couldn't imagine how badly they were berated for that instruction.

Before, this sort of threat from Victor would've scared him, but Yuuri felt overjoyed. Overjoyed that, when he thought he was suffering silently alone, someone was fighting for him.

"No," Yuuri huffed, squeezing his legs around Victor tighter, coaxing him to move. "I wanted… I want you now —"

Victor kissed him rapturously, swallowing the rest of his words. Victor's tongue went so deep Yuuri's eyes rolled to the back of his head in pleasure.

He grabbed Victor's head, tilting it to reorient himself. His frustration, however, came back and he bit the Tsar's lip vindictively when he felt his hand stray from his behind, slipping under his shirt and wrapping around his naked waist instead.

"If that's the case," the Tsar said, smiling and unbothered by the drop of blood on his lips. He sat up, taking Yuuri with him. "I shouldn't waste my beloved's efforts."

The world spun again as Victor swept him up, his arms supporting Yuuri's legs and back. He no longer admired Victor's easy strength, resenting it instead.

"Here is fine," Yuuri groaned.

Victor kissed him again and Yuuri wondered if his lips will stay sore for weeks. "Don't be silly, darling. I don't want to hurt you."

Yuuri blinked. The word seemed foreign, far away, not at all something he feared and dreaded for the longest time. Something he obsessed over endlessly.

Sex with Victor did not hurt, save for the soreness he felt the following day, and it made the Madams' warnings sound like nonsensical tales. Yet, Yuuri knew it could easily be. He had seen enough naked men in the common showers to know Victor was well-endowed.

He prepared and stretched himself properly, Yuuri was sure, but at the same time, he knew that while Victor wasn't reckless, he was. He wanted Victor for months and no longer cared about the frivolous details.

Before he even finished his train of thought, he felt his body warm the instant they entered Victor's bedroom, heated and lit to the heavens.

In that room, Victor's scent was the most intense, the memories of their love-making distinct and echoing on the walls, and Yuuri's desires the most resonating.

Blinded by his brewing lust, Yuuri didn't notice something was amiss until Victor gently sat him down on the edge of the bed.

The lights dimmed unnaturally and a pale shimmering blue enveloped Victor before he moved away to the nightstand, undiscerned behind a thick veil.

He looked around, surprised. Victor's bed was quite the statement piece all by itself, able to fit a dozen people comfortably, so Yuuri instantly recognized the change. A massive wooden canopy had been built around it, with a stunning multi-layered curtain that took his breath away.

It was shimmering with silver. Silver and blue, that enchanting mix of colors shading everything inside the bed.

It was like the universe was playing a trick on him, thrusting him into a dream.

"When was this new canopy built?" Yuuri asked, alarmed.

Victor came back, placing a crystal bottle next to Yuuri and gently taking his hands. He peeled one of Yuuri's gloves slowly, not looking him in the eye.

There was a grimace on the Tsar's face as he sat down and answered, "Three weeks ago. Do you like it, darling?"

It must've been some time after Victor returned from Moscow. Such an expensive, grandiose veil was certainly an item he brought back with him.

"I love it," Yuuri whispered, staring at Victor, who looked like a vision eclipsed in blue from every angle of his face, white droplets still sticking to his cheek. "It's gorgeous."

Yuuri's answer seemed to pain Victor even more, his face twisting miserably as he finished taking off his other glove.

"I'm sorry, Yuuri," he said as a way of explanation. "I'm turning into the greediest, most jealous man in the world."

Yuuri couldn't take his words in, completely entranced by the way Victor was kissing his naked wrist. The memory of what Victor's wicked mouth had just done in the study will never dissipate, and Yuuri felt his pulse spike against it.

"I never thought I'd be capable of feeling this way." Victor pointedly kissed his ring finger. "The last time you slept here, I wanted to gouge out the eyes of anyone who witnessed you so disheveled."

Yuuri sucked in a breath as he felt Victor's free hand trace his bare chest.

A canopy curtain's purpose was privacy, he supposed, but Yuuri couldn't help but laugh dryly at the thought.

The state Christophe left Victor in that night was still a sore memory.

"Then what can I say?" Yuuri found himself saying.

Victor froze against him, then he gripped his waist, pulling Yuuri's body onto his lap at once.

He felt Victor's mouth back on his neck, wet and salivating.

"What do you want from me, my love?" Victor said, his words passionate and frantic. "Anything you ask of me will be granted. Every word of yours will be my law. Your happiness will be my obsession."

Yuuri didn't know how he was surviving this night, with how Victor's declarations and praise seemed to have reached new levels of extravagant. His words equaled his touch with how they fueled his desire, and Yuuri was nothing but helpless to both.

For his happiness to be Victor's obsession… Yuuri suspected it already was, for a long time, though Victor had gone about it quite misguidedly.

With shaking hands, he reached for Victor's belt, wanting the time of respite to be over because he could no longer bear the vocal assault.

Seeing Victor's partly exposed chest, Yuuri smiled crookedly. "You… You could start by wearing shirts properly. Even concubines are more modest."

Yuuri was aiming at a joke. Victor, however, hastily ripped off his golden belt, making parts of it clatter on the bed.

Victor turned him fully on his lap, his naked chest pressing against Yuuri's back. He felt Victor's unrelenting hardness against him and Yuuri keened.

"Once again, I've proved to be thoughtless and disrespectful," he cupped his chest, squeezing one of Yuuri's nipples between his fingers. "My skin is for your eyes alone, but in an attempt to seduce you, I made you doubt me."

That sounded rather familiar, but Yuuri shook the thought away. "S-Seduce me?"

Victor pinched his nipple and Yuuri writhed, moaning shamelessly as he twisted on Victor's cock.

"Yes," Victor said hoarsely, his arm jostling Yuuri upward. "Because when you stormed out, you put the fear of God in me."

Yuuri's chest landed against the bed in a whirl of movement. His sensitive nipples rubbed against the silken sheets as Victor took a hold of his shoulders, crumpling his shirt and jacket in his hands and pulling them off.

Instead of slipping them out, Victor wrapped the clothes securely around his forearms. Before Yuuri could ask him what he was doing, an absence moan wrenched out of his throat.

The feel of two slick fingers, generously lubricated and purposeful inside him, made Yuuri see stars. It shouldn't have been that easy for Victor to find his spot, but as if memorized by heart, it took him a mere instant, reducing Yuuri to a wailing mess.

The only thing stopping Yuuri from thrusting back and forth on those fingers was Victor pulling him by the jacket, keeping him at bay, which only made him shamelessly moan again.

Yuuri stretched himself properly, desperately, before coming but Victor's fingers reached depths that Yuuri's couldn't, curling and twisting in maddening ways. And every time Victor pulled his tied arms, restraining him, Yuuri felt a delicious frustration, making his cock the hardest it's ever been.

"V-Victor," his voice barely could come out, faint with a plea. "Please."

The third finger was mean, the fourth torturous. Only begging crowded his mouth, the practiced ease in which Victor prepared him bringing with it the punch of backlash but none of the pain.

A unanimous curl of those fingers and Yuuri cursed loudly, like he was being tortured, doing everything he could to stop another early orgasm.

Infinitely later, he was spared, but Yuuri was left withering with nothing inside him, his restrains now feeling less of a stimulant, and more of a hindrance.

Yuuri heard a pleased hum behind him, and the wet squelching of Victor's lubricated fist around his cock. "That's why you should let me do it next time, my darling."

The anticipation was tearing him to pieces. Yuuri wanted his arms freed but before he could even vocalize it, Victor had noticed his wigglings hands and detangled the shirt and jacket, throwing them as far him from his possible.

Yuuri planted his hands on the bed and pushed wantonly against Victor's cock, pulling a muffled moan out of the Tsar.

"Your face." Yuuri peered at him behind his shoulder. "I want to see your face."

Victor stared at him, his mouth open in a trance, before flipping Yuuri on his back obediently. He grabbed Yuuri's hips, lifting his lower body towards him.

"It's yours, so look your fill," Victor said, licking his lips in undisguised hunger, before entering him with a merciless thrust.

"Victor!" Yuuri screamed, bending his back into an impossible arch.

"Fuck," Victor grated, his jaw clenching when Yuuri engulfed all of his cock with ease. "I'll make sure that's the only word you'll be able to utter."

He whimpered, knowing he already lost to that demand. Yuuri was the one who wanted this position, but he didn't think he could endure it for too long. Not when Victor was looking at him so abashedly, his eyes eating him whole, his face contorting every time they were fully joined.

Yuuri's hands pressed punishingly against the sheets, thrusting back with all his might. Even frenzied, his body matched Victor's rhythm perfectly, turning the Tsar into an equal mess of carnal pleasure.

A firm hand on his back suspended Yuuri's body in the air and he sprung up, planting his hands firmly on Victor's shoulders. Now that he was upright, every time he thrust down, he felt Victor's cock going even deeper, blinding his vision.

"My Yuuri," Victor grunted, marching into a brutal pace. "So exquisite—so perfect for me."

He felt a hard nip on his shoulder and he opened his eyes, looking at Victor's beautiful, unmarked skin. The white spend had long dissolved with their movements and sweat, and Yuuri's mouth salivated.

Unbidden, Yuuri bit on that pale shoulder.

Even in their muddled state, he realized he shouldn't have done that. Leaving scandalous, possessive marks on one of the most renowned sovereigns in the world was reckless, but Yuuri wasn't thinking.

Regardless, he was still startled by the dark, reproving look Victor gave him.

"Yuuri," he said, voice stern. He grabbed Yuuri's chin, prying him away from his shoulder. "If you leave marks so low. No one will see them."

Victor's next thrust was unrelenting, justling him upward. When he came down, Yuuri latched his teeth onto the column of Victor's throat, biting as hard as he could. His hands snuck behind Victor, his nails digging into his back until he felt the skin bleed.

By the time they both reached their climax, he made sure Victor came out of it looking like he had been through a battle.


He felt a soothing, gentle touch against his skin. The sheets covering him felt warm, but the hand on his hip was sizzling, beckoning Yuuri to wakefulness.

As per usual, he didn't remember much after their lovemaking, aside from Victor carefully maneuvering his limbs to clean him with a wet towel. The Tsar's arms were firm around him, one hand softly cupping Yuuri's head to keep it on his chest.

"I'm sorry, solnyshko," Victor said the moment he noticed Yuuri was awake.

Yuuri felt his hackles rise. It was hard to not lose his temper again, given how much pain he felt the last time Victor apologized to him like this.

"I don't seem capable of being gentle with you," Victor went on, and that's when Yuuri noticed that he was caressing the bruises on his hip. "I don't know what possesses me. I always will myself to wait, to be patient, but it always ends like this."

"Was I gentle with you?" Yuuri asked, receiving a mystified look in return. "It—It doesn't displease me."

He had so much to say, about how sex with Victor was the most liberating thing Yuuri had ever done, about how Victor always knew how to match his pace, how he instinctively gave Yuuri what he needed every time.

But that was an amount of courage he didn't have at the moment.

"Are you humoring me?" Victor softly whispered.

Yuuri frowned. "You're asking me if I'm lying?"

"No, I believe you, my treasure," Victor said against his hair. "But if I ever, ever displease you in bed, nay, if I cross any line, make you feel anything but pleasure, I beg you to tell me."

Yuuri stared at him, at the reluctant purse of his lips, his unsure frown.

"Victor," Yuuri said, whispering his words. "I… I need to tell you something."

'The truth may sleep, Yuuri, but it never dies,' Minako had said, and there had been truths Yuuri kept deep in slumber.

He decided to wake them, to see if it can finally help piece him back together.

"Victor, Yuuko—Yuuko is not my sister," he said, the memories making his heart reel achingly. A noisy, busy morning. The smell of incense as they prepared him. The sound of Yuuko sobbing in Takeshi's arms, how he never thought a human being could be capable of crying so hard. "She was my betrothed."

Every part of Victor's body tensed under him.

Yuuri knew Victor suspected something, but he wouldn't know; not even Minako was privy to that shameful part of his life.

Victor brought their naked bodies flush against each other, his voice low. "I'm sorry you had to leave her."

It was a very kind thing to say, regardless of how displeased Victor sounded, and Yuuri appreciated it.

But he imagined Yuuko, happily married to Takeshi, with a smile that never leaves her, with no tears to shed, and a child—no, children , many of them, filling their lives.

"But I'm not. I didn't want it, Victor." He shook his head. "And neither did she. But I didn't try hard enough to stop it. I didn't—I wasn't well at the time, I must admit. I can't remember much, but I had fallen into a deep depression and couldn't do anything about it."

A hand cupped his cheek, directing Yuuri's eyes to a pair of deep oceans. Victor's earlier restlessness was gone and replaced with genuine concern. "Why were you so miserable, my love?"

"I… I had always dreamed of becoming a dancer, of leaving Japan, and staying there hurt more with each passing day. But I never had the courage, never thought I'd have the courage to leave," he confessed. "But then—then one morning, I saw her, and I imagined being married to a woman I didn't want, and… well, that was the day I escaped."

Victor's eyebrows creased in surprise. "That's why? You… escaped a marriage?"

"Yes." It sounded so silly, now that he put it into words.

Escaping an advantageous marriage to such a lovely woman. Leaving a life behind filled with marital bliss, wealth, and political power.

Truly, it was not a riveting tale.

He didn't think he'd ever have the courage to tell Minako. His spoiled, selfish, and vain young self was nothing but shameful.

Victor was stroking his hair, silent and contemplative, and Yuuri feared he still didn't get the point.

"Victor," he stressed. "I didn't want her, so I ruined my own life. And when I became a concubine—" Both of them tensed at that, but Yuuri willed himself to go on, "None of my owners wanted to touch me. But if they did, I wouldn't have just ruined my life, I would've ended it."

Victor's hand stopped its ministrations. Yuuri's heartbeat quickened, knowing Victor finally understood why he told him this now.

"Touching you is different," Yuuri said, feeling his face heat. "Do you understand?"

"I understand." The honest smile on Victor's face was a thing of magic, his eyes two lovely beacons of light. "It's harrowing to bed someone you don't want with all your heart. I'm glad you've never been through that."

It was said smugly, Victor turning visibly jubilant before he claimed Yuuri's lips in a kiss. Yuuri instantly opened up to it, welcoming him easily.

It wasn't chaste like the one he gave him in the study, but it wasn't one from the throes of passion. It was simply a kiss that made Yuuri feel wanted in a way nothing else did.

They came out of it panting and flushed. Victor, however, took Yuuri's compliance as an opportunity.

"I know now why you were angry at the last banquet," he said, enunciating it with a gentle caress on Yuuri's waist. "But you didn't tell me why you were when I returned from Moscow."

Yuuri leaned into his touch, contentment too deep to think too much about his answers. "I saw Duke Giacometti before I entered your quarters."

"What did that fool say to you?" Victor's jaw clenched. His anger was evident, but not at him. "That's the second time he's upset you. I'll burn him on a pyre, just say the word."

Yuuri tried not to be too pleased with the blatant disregard for the man, but then he realized Victor already knew about their scuffle.

It's not that Yuuri expected a hard reprimand regarding what happened, but he still acted unseemly toward royalty. Victor didn't only ignore it, but he was angry at the wrong man.

'Even the Tsar was looking less murderous,' Phichit had mentioned.

Yuuri remembered what he yelled at Christophe in the heat of anger, and realized that perhaps, Victor wasn't as hard to read as Yuuri thought.

"You two seem very close," Yuuri said conversationally, or at least he hoped he sounded like it.

"He's a close friend. I've known him most of my life," Victor said, then his eyes narrowed, instantly catching on. "Oh, solnyshko. Chris is quite a jester, I hope he did not suggest otherwise… I really will burn him alive."

Yuuri quirked an eyebrow doubtfully.

"Yuuri, my dearest, my love." Victor kissed his eyelid, his cheek, his lips. "I haven't been with anyone else since you've arrived. I've not even thought of anyone else."

Yuuri gulped, wanting to test it was true. "Who was the last person you were with?"

"It was one of the concubines, a woman," Victor answered without thought. "She had short hair, I think."

A petty part of him felt satisfied that, although Victor antagonized Bianca so much and had her banished personally, he couldn't even remember she was the last person he slept with before Yuuri.

The hand on his head pressed him even harder against Victor's chest. "Do you hear this heart?" Victor said. "It only beats for you. I can't control it. And I don't want to."

Yuuri's ears instantly decided to supply him with the sound of a steady beat, and he felt his own heart flare at the dramatic words.

He truly needed practice if he was ever going to get used to the way Victor talked to him.

"You made me so happy on this nameday, Yuuri," Victor said and Yuuri needed practice to get used to his rare, genuine smile too. "When is yours? I'll make it the most spectacular day you've ever had."

Yuuri frowned in contemplation. It took him a moment to remember and translate the date into English. "November twenty-sixth."

"That day?" Victor looked shell-shocked, his face falling. "Is that why you refused to see me?"

Yuuri wasn't one to keep a close track of the calendar, so he didn't remember when that was. It was about two months ago, but Yuuri couldn't pinpoint the day.

"I'm a terrible man," Victor went on, not waiting for an answer. He seemed quite crest-fallen. "Let me make it up to you."

Yuuri winced. "I don't—"

"I'll get you a gift you like this time, I promise," Victor hastened to say. "I told you, didn't I? Anything, and I mean anything this world has to offer, is yours."

Anything this world has to offer… Yuuri mulled it over but at that moment, he couldn't think of a single thing outside of his freedom that he wanted.

But then an enlightening thought came to mind and Yuuri realized there was something.

"Let me take care of Makkachin when Mila is away," he decided. "That would make me happy."

Victor looked bewildered at the request. "She's yours as much as she's mine. You could spend as much time with her as you want. I hope you know that."

"But she's a rather busy lady." Yuuri chuckled. "She doesn't have much time for me."

"I will clear her schedule," Victor said in amusement. "So dogs are your favorite animal, I take?"

"Of course," he said, enjoying the mundaneness of the conversation. "Cats are lovely as well, but I hear they're less clingy as they mature into adulthood."

"What else do you like?" Victor stroked Yuuri's cheek lazily. "I want to know everything about you."

Yuuri tilted his head. "What do you want to know?"

Victor hummed, mulled it over, then smiled faintly. "What's your favorite color?"

Yuuri looked into Victor's blue eyes and laughed.


It was two days later when Victor delivered his promise.

He came back from his morning practice with Yurio to find Sara waiting with a glowing look on her face, which was never a good sign.

Yuuri sighed deeply. "Another gift?"

"Yuuri, you'll love this one, I promise!" Sara said, which meant nothing; she made the same claim every time. "And please don't throw it aside. His Majesty put a lot of thought into this one."

"How big is it?" Yuuri asked, dreading the answer. He was still sorting through all the gifts he received from Moscow, each one more expensive and hard to store than the last. "And I don't throw any of them aside. Stop making me sound so terrible. You're not telling him that, are you?"

"No, no, but you still neglect them!" she scolded.

He enjoyed every single one, he did, but Yuuri also had no occasion to wear or use most of them. It was only appropriate to keep them safely in the storage rooms. His last two days were quite busy with that task alone.

"You didn't answer my first question," he said tiredly.

"We… have enough space for it," she said vaguely, making Yuuri groan.

A colossal one, then.

"I admit, it would've been better to gift it after the renovations," Sara conceded. "But his Majesty wanted it delivered as soon as possible."

I'm sure he did, Yuuri thought, regretting telling him about his nameday, something he stopped caring about years ago.

Sara led him to his room and unbeknownst to him, Yuuri would soon experience a feeling so intense that, for as long as he lived, his life wouldn't be the same.

Bella was waiting in his room, sitting on his bed and standing up quickly upon his arrival with the brightest glint in her eyes.

She bowed, handing him his gift. "For you."

She instantly left the room, leaving Yuuri to stare fondly at the velvet box in his hand. With it came a note containing the following:

"I hope you make a sad and miserable man happy by putting this on.

Happy Belated Nameday, My Love - VIIIN"

Inside, he found a ring. Victor could have gone extravagant with it, he could have laced it with diamonds and rubies and all the other rare materials in the world, but he chose not to. Instead, the ring was a replica of the one he had given Victor.

Sara was a very mischievous handmaiden, to have misled him like that, but she was right. He loved this one.

He turned it, inspecting it for an engraving, and he felt tears well in his eyes as he read on.

'World's Greatest Dancer' it said simply, generously, perfectly.

Yet, as perfect as that gift was, and as impossible it was for Yuuri to not comply and wear it, it still felt incomplete without Victor there. At that moment, all he wished was to thank Victor in person, against his lips.

And that's when he heard the quiet rustle.

Surprised, he turned to the side. There was something on his bed that he hadn't spotted before. A basket, right where Bella previously sat. And, buried somewhere between the tiny blankets, a brown bundle was peeking its head out.

The velvet box fell on the floor in his haste to reach for the bed.

Yuuri's intimate desires were completely forgotten as he delicately handled the basket, his brain buzzing against his skull.

He gathered that small bundle in his arms, flopping down on his bed as every last bit of energy whipped out of him.

He risked a glance at his second gift and was met with the most precious pair of round, black eyes.

Yuuri found himself, for the first time in his life, crying in happiness.

His body then shook from a revelation that came from a part of his heart that he never knew existed.

"Victor," he said, allowing the small, beautiful poodle in his arms to lick his tears. He spoke loudly, loud enough to fill the room with the sound of that name, the name of the man he had fallen for harder than he ever thought he would for anyone. The name of the man he loved. "I name you Victor."


+ Tuileries: The name of the royal palace of Paris

+ Solnyshko (солнышко): My sun

+ Velichestvo's Dioscuri: The Majesty's Gemini (It essentially means Victor has two faces)

+ Ketty Abelashvili: Is actually a canon character from the show. She's Yuuri's friend who composed the music for his Free Skate. She is the composer of Yuri On Ice!

+ Q'inuli (ქ'ინული): Ice

+ Dame: Female version of 'Ser'

+ Mordovia: A Republic in Russia

+ Hürrem of Istanbul: She shares a name with the main character of Muhteşem Yüzyıl, the series that inspired this fic!

+ Dogeza (土下座): To prostrate while touching one's head to the floor

+ Rodnoy (Родной): Dear (said to close family members)

+ Epaulets: is a type of decorative shoulder pieces

+ Yuuri and Victor's suits: image (they're basically the reverse of their duet costumes)

+ совершенно роскошный: Absolutely grogeous

+ If anyone is still tracking the timeline, Yuuri's birthday was on the day he tried to kill himself.

+ Yes. Yuuri did have a mental breakdown in this chapter.

I went through a rough patch myself and on one particularly bad day, the Yuri on Ice music came on shuffle and I got extremely emotional while listening to it. It was a very intense experience, one I remembered very vividly, so I wanted to write about it. That scene was very personal to me and I hope everyone battling mental health can find their own dawn.