CHAPTER 8: Night

He was up late. Again. There wasn't a soul to be seen as he roamed the empty hallways, guided by moonlight and years of habit. His wool socks slid soundlessly against the waxed parquet, and he made his way to his destination without interrupting anyone's slumber. He stopped in front of the familiar double doors, and pushed them open. The doors had been locked, of course, but he had had a double of the keys for years now. The dance master had known him since he was eight, and had quickly learned how to handle both his paralyzing anxiety and blinding potential. Giving him a spare key had been an efficient way to allow him to get some personal practice, as well as alleviating the crushing stress that always came with an upcoming performance. And that was exactly what he was trying to do as this time of the night; they had a show the next day, and he had been on edge all week. He could not sleep, of course, since the only thing that felt right to do was practicing. So, as he often did, he had slipped out of his bed long after everyone had fallen asleep, grabbed some clothes, and sneaked out of their room without waking up Phichit.

Thankfully, opposite to the studio's doors were tall windows that allowed the moon to illuminate the room. A single additional candle would suffice. He crouched in front of the mirror-covered wall on the right, lit the wick, and took a few steps back. Slowly, he let the memory of his performance's music fill him, despite the absence of his designated musician and best friend. Phichit had chosen to play the violin for this piece, and as always, he had made it match perfectly the lively feel of the piece. They had practiced together so many times in the past few days that he didn't even need to hear the music anymore to hear it in his mind. His body moved on its own accord, executing the movements precisely out of sheer muscle memory. Grace and control exuded from his body with each step he took, no hesitation to be seen.

However, something was still missing. The piece had been created to fit with the general idea of the show, which was to distract the crowds from the quickly escalating conflict with the neighboring country; it aimed to alleviate some of the pervasive tension felt throughout the whole region. But no matter what he did, he simply was not feeling the happiness and wonder he was suppose to convey. Through all of his performances, he had always tried to express the most honestly his deep, inner feelings, and showcasing joyfulness at this moment was far from being honest with himself. Worry, fear, and nervousness had taken over his mind weeks ago now, the nagging feeling that these diplomatic negotiations could simply not end well having never left him ever since word of the dispute had gotten out. He understood the positive intention behind holding such an event, especially in one of the county that was closest to the border, but no matter how much he tried, nothing felt right when he danced. Exasperated, he stopped halfway through his routine, went back to the middle of the room, and started again from the beginning. He only had half a night left before the show, and he would have to make the most of them and somehow make it work, if not for his sake, then for others'.

He had been at it for hours when exhaustion washed over his sweat-covered body. He went still, legs giving up under him. It would have to be enough for tonight, or he would not even be able to stand later in the day. He still had not managed to convey the story of the song, his reflection laughing at him with every ill-interpreted move. He had tried mustering up all of his happiest memories, but they all felt somewhat distant and foggy, and it barely made any difference. There was only one last thing he could think of that might help this hopeless situation.

Stumbling slightly, he dragged his tired body to a door at the back of the room. He opened it to reveal a closet, and blindly searched through the various pieces of clothing stored in it. He quickly found what he was searching for, and easily tugged the silky fabric off its hanger. He grunted as he sat down just outside of the closet, and began to remove his clothes. The yellow and gold costume lying on the floor beside him was mocking him with its happy little swirls and joyful colours as he slipped out of his training gear. Hopefully, wearing them might somehow influence how he interpreted the choreography. Somehow. He huffed and grabbed the skintight bodysuit, fatigue making his patience wear thin as he fumbled with the fasteners on the front.

What he didn't know was that, as he carelessly put on the first mesh-covered leg, guards and watchmen of the castle were soundlessly falling, bodies lifeless before they hit the ground. Black waves of enemy soldiers were quickly filling the hallways, making it halfway through the castle before the first scream was even heard. In an instant, the world crumbled, without him ever knowing it. People shouted and ran, doors were smashed and flesh was ripped through a noisy chaos of gurgles and swords clashing. The remaining guards were desperately trying to lead an escape, as invaders relentlessly kept coming in.

And there he was, fastening his last button, and taking place in the middle of the room to go through his routine again, completely oblivious to the tragedy unfolding on the other side of the doors. The walls were so thick and finely soundproofed that he barely heard a ruffle before four armed silhouettes smashed the doors open, three men and a woman, brows raised in interest as they caught sight of him.

''Oh, here's a pretty one.''

''Care to dance for us a little, lovely?''

''I bet he's a whore, look at his flashy clothes. That ass ain't on display for nothing.''

"Even if he wasn't, he shouldn't dress like that if he didn't want us to think so."

''Think the general would like to have him?''

''I'm sure he'll be nicer to us if he can finally release a bit of... stress.''

''Hey, maybe he'll even share him with us, ya know, as a reward for capturing him? I haven't seen such a fine piece of bitch in a while...''

''Don't dream too much Radley. Start by knocking him out, then we'll see what we'll do with him.''

Of course, he didn't understand a word of what the intruders were saying, but there was no need to. The weapons in their hands and the way their adrenaline-shot eyes ogled him made it clear they didn't want him any good. Pure fear rushed through his body, chasing away the tiredness he felt a second ago in the blink of an eye. He quickly assessed his situation; he was on the fourth floor, and a jump out of the windows was out of the question. There was only one exit, which was currently blocked by the four soldiers, and he had no weapons at his disposition, except for the candle lying on the floor a few feet away from him. It was desperate, at four against one, but it would have to do. He reached for the candle before the others could make a move and threw it at the closest soldier, who screeched in pain and fell back against the wall when the hot wax landed on his face. He then jumped through the newly created opening, reaching for the door with all he had. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough; the woman quickly reacted and grabbed his arm mid-sprint, using his momentum to throw him on the floor. He scrambled to get up, but wasn't nearly fast enough, and a heavy fist immediately connected with the right side of his face. His glasses went flying across the room, and he was effectively glued back to the ground. Black spots appeared in his field of view and dizziness filled him as he tried to get up yet again, despair keeping him moving despite his exhausted state, but a second hit landed hardly on the back of his head. Yuuri lost consciousness before he even hit the floor.

His whole world seemed consumed by fog, sounds and sights barely reaching him through the white noise. He thought he could hear his name being called repeatedly above him, but then again, he might have just been dreaming. Something damp and cold kept being pressed against his forehead, and there seemed to be another one or two voices speaking in hushed words around him. Confused, Yuuri struggled to crack open his eyelids, only to see nothing but darkness. It took a moment for his vision to come back to him, black spots gradually vanishing from his sight. The first thing he saw were crystal blue eyes clouded with concern he didn't quite recognize, even though they felt familiar. Not remembering where he was, he curiously looked around him, but as soon as he recognized the typical mirrors and wooden floors of a studio, panic brutally flooded his thoughts all over again. Increasingly violent shivers began wracking his body, wild eyes instinctively searching for an exit.

''Yuuri? Yuuri, what's wrong?'' He could barely suck in small, shallow breaths, much less answer a question he wasn't even sure to comprehend. His hands moved on their own, one of them tightly grabbing hold of a silky shirt, nails digging in the strong arm muscles underneath it, while the other weakly shoved at a shoulder. His body was still unsure whether he should cling to the man holding him or get away from him as soon as possible, images of other men in armor mingling with the one in front of him. Somehow, Yuuri managed to gather whatever snippets of sense he could find through the panic and croak out a few words.

''G-g-g... Get me out... Get m-me out... Get me out! GET ME OUT!''

Before he knew it, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, shaking limbs kicking and hitting whatever felt like it was holding him back. Despite Yuuri's violent struggle, Viktor managed to half-carry, half-drag him out of the room, and he quickly scrambled away from the door the second he was laid on the floor in front of it. His back soon hit the wall behind him, and he raised his knees against his heaving chest, protectively wrapping his arms around himself.

As soon as he got out, Yuuri stopped screaming and began mumbling in his mother tongue instead, much to a very worried Viktor's dismay, who rushed to his side after closing the door.

"Yuuri, I can't understand what you're saying. Please tell me what's going on."

Yuuri didn't seem to even notice him, and kept rambling to shadows and people only his eyes could see.

"Please, please don't hurt me... Let me go, please let me go, my parents will be worried, please, have mercy..."

Viktor grabbed a hand that was scratching too hard one of Yuuri's leg, holding it between his even though it tried to snap back to its original position. He held it away nonetheless, and tried to make eye contact with the man in front of him.

"Yuuri, please, I need you to listen to me. You are hurting yourself. You need to try and breathe, all right? Can you breathe with me?"

Viktor took the hand he was still miraculously holding and spread it against his chest, before inhaling deeply. He waited a few instants before slowly letting the air out, keeping his gaze locked on the other's eyes. He repeated the gesture again and again, waiting for Yuuri to eventually understand what he was doing and try to mimic him. Relief washed over him when his protégé finally did so, even though his breaths were staggered and irregular.

"Yes, that's perfect Yuuri, you're doing great. Keep breathing with me, that's right."

Seconds melted into minutes, time slowing down as Yuuri gradually moved from taking ragged inspirations to deeper, more controlled ones, albeit still shakingly. His eyes seemed to regain some focus, and they finally widened in recognition as they gazed over Viktor's face. However, they suddenly became blurry as they quickly filled with tears, a choked sob escaping his lips. Yuuri slowly lowered his forehead to his knees, muffling his soft cries in the fancy fabric of his pants. The hand that had been laid on Viktor's chest was now gripping the man's shirt, imperceptibly tugging him closer. Hesitantly, the prince moved forward to wrap an arm around his protégé's small frame. To his surprise, Yuuri simply leaned against him, his fingers still clutching at the fabric.

"...Thank you." Yuuri whispered between two soft sobs. "I'm sorry."

Viktor did not answer right away, gently caressing Yuuri's shoulder for a few moments, basking in how blessed he felt for being able to do so.

"Don't apologize. I'm the one who's sorry for making you go through this. I'm not sure what happened, but whatever triggered it, I won't expose you to it again."

Despite what he said, Yuuri tensed. He knew Viktor simply meant to reassure him, but the prospect of having to tell the prince why he had panicked terrified him. His... experience with this country's people had taught him dancers did not have a very good social status here, to say the least. They were often associated with prostitutes, and well... sex workers were not faring any better. He avoided telling Viktor of his profession in the first place for this reason, instead bending the truth and saying he worked in the kitchens with his parents (which he did, but only occasionally). Yuuri still wasn't sure he could tell the prince he was a dancer without any consequences; if he knew, he might change his mind about his faith. After all, he didn't even know why Viktor had brought him to the studio, perhaps he simply wanted to introduce him to his friends, or maybe he wanted to show him his future career. In any case, Yuuri simply could not risk revealing himself without being entirely sure of the prince's intentions. However, he did feel like he owed him some explanation. After all, it seemed Viktor had only helped him through the panic attack, and the man must have been very confused. So, even though he hadn't asked for one, Yuuri gave him half of an explanation, wiping his last tears before murmuring the words.

"I was in a dance studio when I was taken away."

Yuuri heard Viktor take in a sharp breath, his strong body tensing. Yuuri stayed still, praying he hadn't said too much and jeopardized himself. However, Viktor did not say a word. Instead, he simply held Yuuri a little closer, his second arm joining the first to hold him protectively.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have taken you here without telling you where we were going... I won't take you back there again. Unless you want me too... or feel ready too."

Yuuri was not sure what the prince was apologizing for; how could he have known anyway? He should be the one apologizing for causing him so much trouble.

"Yuuri, would you like me to bring you back to your room?" He hesitated for a moment before nodding against the wide chest.

"Yes, I would like that, but the wheelchair is-"

"Do not worry about that, I'll take care of it."

To Yuuri's surprise, instead of getting up to retrieve the chair in the studio, the prince simply slid an arm under his knees and lowered the other to his waist. He leaned away a bit to look into Yuuri's eyes, asking him wordlessly if this was okay. Understanding what Viktor was trying to do, Yuuri snuggled closer, nodding. Reassured and amazed at how trusting Yuuri was, the prince lifted him, proudly carrying him back to his chambers with the strength of his arms. Thankfully, he was not worried they would encounter any prying eyes, as they only had to walk through the royal quarters to get back. Yuuri somehow seemed to sense that he was safe, since he turned his head towards Viktor's chest and closed his eyes, hand relaxing the grip it still had on the man's shirt. Once they arrived in front of his suite's door, Yuuri simply reached into his pocket for the key Viktor had had made for him a few days after his arrival, unlocking it without ever making a move to slip out of his arms. A smile tugged at the prince's lips, surprised but encouraged that Yuuri would not even try to get out of his grasp. He carried him inside and took him to his bed, guessing that was where the smaller man would want to be. Indeed, Yuuri was slightly yawning against his chest, the adrenaline rush from the panic attack now taking its toll on his body. Viktor laid him on top of his covers, grabbing a light blanket at the edge of the bed to cover him. The day was still hot, he should not need anything more. A fierce joy bloomed in the prince's chest at seeing the other not even move a limb to help him, and let himself be tucked in. The satisfaction Viktor felt at being able to take care of Yuuri almost shocked him with its intensity. Almost, because the prince knew he was slightly too attached to Yuuri compared to what he should be. He knew he should not feel this way, he really should not, especially for a man he had only met two weeks ago, a man who was there against his will, a man who had been given to him specifically to submit to him. But when Yuuri was looking at him with bleary eyes, muttering a thank you with a soft smile before his lids simply felt too heavy to properly keep open, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered as long as he was able to take care of him, and as long as Yuuri was kept happy and could slowly heal in peace. He would be satisfied with what he had, as long as he could at least have that. So, instead of acting upon his desire to lean down and kiss the other man's forehead and pamper him further, Viktor simply ran his fingers through the dark, silky strands, and left Yuuri to his slumber.