#primary cannon Victuuri

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So, Netflix... you have the chance to do something really fucking epic right now...

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Okay, but hear me out.

They go to see Beka's falcon. Yes. His Falcon. (Delicious, YoI animators. Feed me more.) Because of fucking corse they do. Yuri will not let that pass. He has HAS to see it.

Traditional dress and all that. Very smexy Beka. They all look good, as they do. Love it. Moar.

ANYWAY!

So they also go apple picking, because Almaty + Apples = natch. You go to Almaty, you get apples. It's what you do.

Now, Yuri be smol. So Beka lifts him on his shoulders and they gather apples that way. Very cool. Fun times for all.

Victor is all: o.o 0.0 YUUUuuuuuUUUUUUri!

Yuuri: Seriously? Fine.

Only it's tall assed Victor on Yuuri's shoulder's picking apples. Because of fucking Course it is.

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CHA 3

“When you said I could come along, I didn’t know I would be carrying your gear and moving lights,” Victor groused.

“How else was I supposed to get you in,” Christophe grinned. “It’s not like anyone can just wander on and off the set.”

“Outdoor setting is a location, not a set,” Victor mumbled, trying to be right about something. His morning had been pretty basic. Rise. Skin care, hair care. Two hours - one for each. Beauty is upkeep! Dressing, forty five minutes. One must accessorize properly! His look doesn't just create itself! Then breakfast of a decadent croissant from the most delightful bakery by the apartment, washed down with a vanilla latte`. Christoph washed his pastry down with rooibos, sturing in a touch of honey to sweeten it up. They then got into the Miata and drove. Today’s shoot was for children’s clothes, taking advantage of the whimsical nature of Paris’ many highlights. Wrot iron, the Eiffel Tower, Lurve, streets made of old stone, and niche locations. All within a few blocks of each other whenever possible. 

It was an interesting side of the fashion world. Most were concerned with avant garde, couture, or stage costumes for high end productions. Victor wanted to see his designs out there, making people feel beautiful, special, even on the worst days. He wanted someone to reach into their wardrobe, pull out that one special piece and know the feel of it on their body would get them through the roughest day because they knew they were not only comfortable, but fashionable. There was just something about how the touch of cashmere or the pull of silk could change the way one thinks. But first he had to pay his dues.

Christophe had some of the best assistants twitching lighting, fixing props, lining up markers. Paris itself seemed to adjust to him. Crowds dissipated, birds flew at artful angels, and the sun kissed just the right part of every model. Victor was amazed by the way he managed to walk casually through any scene, clicking his camera until the city noises were overwritten by the sound of another moment being captured in time. They looked over the shots between changes of clothes and models, keeping the children busy so as to avoid boredom and antsy guardians.

The street-wear line was fun, playful, full of youthful vigor. When they changed over to the more elegant, formal designs, the models did too. Dark haired girls with luminous eyes, boys with elegant cuts mocking adult slide backs, slick at the sides and tapered to look upscale. Accessories changed to watches that were less Swatch and more metallic. Some seemed to be casually dressed as tinny ideals, while others were fantastical. Few stood out, being nervous or a little too full of themselves.

Christophe watched the world through his lens, waiting to strike. Victor saw a few potential stars starting to shine, caught in the flair of his lens, but only one seemed to carry that shimmering quality that would take them from childhood through the cruelty of puberty and into adulthood with all their beauty intact. A fairy-like boy, very young and very serious. When asked to turn, he turned. When asked to be whimsical, he stood tall, arms stretched to the sky before doing a jeté with ease. He leaned against a lamp post, the billowing sleeves of his cooler colored shirt, polka dotted with puffs of thread a sheer overlay for the thin undershirt pressed into his thin frame, white shorts cut in an arch at the thigh, white tights tucked into ballet flats. His golden hair picked up the echoes of sunset as he looked towards the Tower. Victor could almost see the fairy wings that were not there. Christophe must have seen it too. He took more pictures of the boy in his many outfits than the others. He just pulled them off better, seeming to look at home in anything they threw at him. The casual play line clothes earlier were tried on him. As he darted about the darkening streets, arms thrown behind him in a playful run, eyes to the sky, his smile just a little melancholic, Victor felt what Christophe saw. Ethereal took a lot of work, but when you came across it naturally, you worked with it until it could do no more.

The boy wore what was asked, changed as many times as needed. He went through hair style after hair style, make-up touches, and did not complain when he received little to no break for four hours of grueling activity. But those smiles. Those melancholic smiles. No filter in the world could make that smile true.

As they were wrapping up for the day, Christoph looked over the stills, picking and choosing with rapid efficiency. As he stretched his aching back, he turned to see how the clean up was going. The boy was crouched down, hand low, a street cat slowly approaching. Quickly he snapped some candids. These would be great for his school portfolio. He didn’t even need a release, as anything he took while working was free game, and since the boy was still wearing the hair and make up style from the last shoot, he figured that counted.

Soon, the boy was picked up. Christophe turned back to the dailies, while Victor stared for a moment. “I could get used to living here,” he sighed as the man in the ass hugging jeans took the boy's hand, leading him to a silver Lexus. Popping his head up, Christophe smiled.

“Ah, Paris! De tels trésors abondent dans la ville de l'amour.”

“I don’t know about l’amour, but definitely… how to say, strast'?” Victor tapped his temple a few times. “Passion!”

“There’s passion and there’s lasciveté. What you have, mon ami, is a need to release.”

Victor raised a brow, his lips twitching into a smile. “You can’t blame me for looking.”

“Can’t I?” Christophe purred.

“Heartless tease.”

_______

CHA 4

They sat together looking over stills, images caressed by just the right amount of light and ones born of miserable reflections captured in lens flares and ill timed background elements. “You could adjust them,” Victor offered quietly.

Christophe looked scandalized. “I will do no such thing. When making some elements it is fine, the amount of adjustment these images will need? Non. When creating art it is never a good idea to bring dishonesty to your piece. The human can tell, even if they don’t know what the lie is.”

Leaning against the wall in the antechamber between his bedroom and the bath, he sighed. “It’s not that hard, right? You have the skill, da?”

“I have the skill, but correcting these is … It’s like seeing a blurry, pixelated Monet and asking a toddler to make it better. You can’t replicate that look of melancholy, the way the sun caught his hair, the way the clothes seemed to float around him. I’m telling you, Vita, that kid is magic. There’s something about him.” Christophe threw himself backwards in his chair, sending both it and him sliding back a few feet. “Something special, and I almost captured it.”

“Comrad, you have so many other images of him. Look, in this one he’s even smiling.”

“It’s plastic, Vita. Can’t you see it? Here.” Christophe pulled himself back towards the computer. “Look at how there is no light in his eyes. Too many teeth, shoulders are tense.”

“You see all that?” Victor looked again, trying to find the signs the photographer noted. To him the child looked happy, well dressed and fed, other children surrounding him just as pleasant and cheerful. He saw children playing a game with chalked out squares and a rock. It seemed like the kind of thing all advertisers ached for. An air of youthful relevance combined with age old money. It practically commanded people to buy what was shown without being too obvious about it. At least not until the company plastered their brand on the page with a massive scrawl across the pleasant scene.

“I do. I see a lot of things through the lens. A lot of very secret things.”

“Voyeur.”

Christophe smiled. “Have you considered using those exceptional skills at flattery on that man with the tight ass?”

Victor blinked, his blue eyes vacant as he tried to recall who Christophe was talking about. When he remembered his cheeks turned pink, his eyes sparkling. “If he shows up again, I just might.”

“Flirt.”

Victor gasped. “You? Call me a flirt?” He grinned. “Flatterer.”

A deep chuckle mingled with the light, airy sounds of laughter as they felt tension leave them with the faint breath of gentle comradery. Finally, Christophe turned from the computer, having saved the files, ready to take them in the next day for approval and printing. “So,” he smiled, deep burr fairly purring the word, “What plans do you have for the evening?”

“Dinner, I suppose. I should work on that desk, and I need to get some more boxes unpacked…” Victor sighed. “I need to put together my start of semester portfolio.”

“Victor! You should already have that completed,” Christophe chided.

“I did, but then I moved, and I didn’t want things ruined, so I …” A vague gesture to the many tubes and flat pack boxes with reinforced edges stacked in various piles gave depth to the weight of the problem. “Now I have to find everything again.”

“Oh, min vän. You start sorting this,” Christophe stood, wiggling his fingers at the daunting task, “and I’ll order something. We can make a night of it.”

Victor’s shoulders dropped as his knees bent back. “Must we?”

“Min kärlek, vi måste. There is no time like last week. Today will have to do.” Slipping through the door to the bathroom, disappearing through another, the tall blond was off, leaving Victor to stare down the many packages wanting his attention.

By the time Christophe returned with lobster bisque, fresh salad, and the crispiest chunks of crackling bread Victor had the privilege to break diet for, he was more than ready for the wine that accompanied it. He’d found several of his more necessary sketches wrinkled by box shift during the move. A few of his fabrics were naked, ripped, or had holes that made it very clear what postal thought of the extra money he’d paid to have them expressed and marked ‘KHRUPKIY’. All those rubbles down the proverbial drain.

“Oh, Victor. These photos. Did you mean for them to be so…” Christophe tried not to wrinkle his nose, he really did. Victor looked over sharply.

“Oh! Oh no! Net! Net, no, no, net, no!” Victor slipped between English and Russian in his frustration. The whole album was sticky, as if someone had spilt a sugar drink, carelessly pushing the package along without a care. His hands found his hairline, tugging great tufts of silver pale locks.  His whole fashion line from his previous collections was represented in those photos. Photos he would need for his classes, for reference, for the memories. “Christophe! Chris, comrade! Can they be saved?”

The Swedish man winced as he tried to unstick a few pages. Looking at the box of supplies they’d found earlier, Christophe rummaged until he found the pressure blade he’d spied earlier. Carefully he cut the picture free of its sheath, only for it to make a puckering, Velcro sound that caused every fiber of his being to shiver in distaste. Catching the pale cheeked face of his friend, his blue eyes so wide with the edge of desperation and hope, Christophe braced himself. Turning the photo to the light, the damage was clear. Colors peeled off, micro tears deformed some of the image. It was coated in what smelled like cola, which was clearly eating into the integrity of the paper. Victor’s throat dropped to his thighs, hands slack at his side. “What am I going to do?”

These photos were useless now. He’d not been able to get the originals, only prints. The photographer he’d worked with had refused to give up his claim, wanting exorbitant amounts of money Victor simply didn’t have. Someone’s carelessness cost him over a fourth of his portfolio.

“Do you still have the clothes?” Christophe asked, looking at the many unpacked boxes.

“I … yes, most of them. Some were sold to pay for my travel.”

“Bien. Here is what we’re going to do…”

cha 1&2

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CHA 5

Christophe knew a lot of people. He knew fashion designers trying to make it, models desperate for a gig, crew looking for anyone to sign off on production work just for the college credit, and he knew how to get them together at a moment's notice. What he couldn’t do was recreate the missing designs. Victor had been absolutely distraught to realize that some of his pieces were positively wrecked by the move, while other less spectacular pieces made it through just fine. In the end, he was left with a set of angora sweaters, slimline slack jeans - or sheans, as he liked to call them - that combined the elegance of high end office wear with the durability of street fabrics, and a single pair of sheer socks he’d made from scraps of a disastrous attempt to make panty hose more fun and less annoying.

It was a frantic week of pulling fabrics, bolt by bolt, from boxes, tubes, and any piece of clothing that had been destroyed, trying to make something new, exciting, something that would not only delight the senses, but bring some whimsy into an otherwise very monotone world. Why everyone thought beige was the be-all, end-all of the last two seasons, he wasn’t sure, but come hell or high water, he’d see this change. “Don’t get me wrong,” he babbled to the man behind the counter, “it’s a fine color. It has its place. But so much? All the time. Non. It’s - how you say?” Victor waved a hand in front of his face, letting his jaw go slack, eyes blank. “Steklyannyy pritsel?”

“Terne?” came a voice rich as clotted cream. “Means dull, boring.”

Victor turned, eyes bright. “Yes! This is the word!” It was the man in the jeans. The delicate blond boy was standing with his hands behind his back by a selection of buttons, looking exceptionally bored. He must have noticed Victor’s flicker of recognition. His eyes were beautiful. Long lashed, blue, wide and earnest. Not just any blue. Cobalt. They caught the light in just such a way… “Hello,” Victor said with his friendliest smile.

“Hello. Sorry, I didn't mean to step in. You just seemed to be a little lost with the language.”

“Oh, yes. It mixes with the others sometimes. Ty govorish' po-russki?”

The man winced. “Not that well, if I’m being honest. Knew someone who spoke it pretty well. Taught me a few phrases, some things here and there.”

“But that’s marvelous! Learning something new is never out of style,” Victor purred. The boy by the buttons huffed, turning his head away. “Your … son?”

“Ah. Yes. He’s supposed to be choosing the buttons to fix his shirt with,” Mr. Cobalt Eyes said with a slight frown. The boy turned slowly towards the display again, grabbing four sets of ladybug shaped novelty buttons, handing them to … Victor really needed to find out who this handsome man was.

“Victor, by the way. Nikiforov.” He made a move to lean on the pile of fabrics being measured and weighed, casual interest in his gaze.

“Trent. Trent Dale.” He put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Yuri.” The boy stared at Victor, eyes as viridian as the sea. Vivid colors ran in the family, it seemed.

“Nice to meet you, Yuri.” The boy said nothing, clutching the buttons tightly. “He must have his mother’s hair,” Victor added, trying to prolong the conversation. Trent was tall, and handsome in a corporate way. Victor could almost see him dressed in suits, polished shoes gleaming as he stepped from his bedroom, freshly showered, smelling like the promise of sex and money. Yuri frowned, shuffling uncomfortably. Victor realized he had missed something Trent was saying.

“ - it’s okay, though. We get by. Don’t we Yuri?” He shook the boy’s shoulder, jostling a mumbled nonsense out of him.

“Oh, well, I suppose that’s all we can do,” Victor covered smoothly. “Try to get by. So, what happened to the buttons?”

“Oh, that. Small accident. Popped one. It got lost in the shuffle, I suppose. Rather than walk around with one missing, we decided to replace them all. Although, I don’t know about ladybugs. Little out of place, don’t you think?” Trent addressed the last half to Victor, half to Yuri. The boy stiffened, looking at the buttons as if trying to figure out if he wanted to fight about it or not. Victor took pity.

“I think it adds a bit of whimsy to the design. As long as the colors don't clash horribly, it just makes it fun.” Crouching to be more at the boy’s eye level, he shone a smile that bent his lips in at the bow. “What color is the shirt?”

Yuri glanced at Trent who nodded. “It’s black,” Yuri answers in a bite that seemed to cut off the rest of his sentence.

“Is it a dress shirt?” Yuri nodded. “A black dress shirt. Full sleeves? Bit of a wider collar?” The blond’s eyes widened. He shook his head. Another glance at Trent, then he turned back to Victor, swaying towards him just that little bit. “It’s got a mandarin collar, and it’s trimmed in red, Like the cuffs, and it’s long.”

“Is the black very shiny?”

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “No.”

Victor couldn’t tell if that little pout was because he wanted it to be shiny, or if the boy was offended by the very idea. His eyes burned as he looked at the fabrics, then lowered his head to look at the buttons he was clutching. “Well, in that case, ladybug buttons would be perfect. A little pop of color to accentuate what’s already there, and a little childhood wonder. Snakes and snails, yes? Why not some insects too? Particularly when they…” Victor’s mind went blank, searching for the word. “Slivat'sya? Sootvetstvovat'?” he muttered.

“Da. Oni podoydut i ne slishkom bol'shiye…” The words trailed off as Yuri stepped back, biting his lower lip. Victor beamed. “You speak po-russki very well,” he chimed, throwing a glance to Trent as the boy clammed up. “Well…” Standing, Victor looked over his shoulder at the clerk neatly packaging his trims and notions. “If you ever need button advice again…”

“Be hard to ask if I don’t have any way to contact you,” Trent smiled. Those teeth were so white, Victor could have gone blind.

“Oh! Yes.” Snatching one of the store's business cards, he pulled a fabric flower from the display vase, revealing it to be a pen in clever disguise. Jotting down a number with a small winky face holding fingers up in a peace sign, Victor handed it over. “I’ll be busy for a week or two, but I'm free after that.”

Trent looked at the card curiously. “Interesting.” Then those blue, blue eyes glanced at the many bags. “Making something big?”

“Massive,” Victor purred. Then he chuckled. “I’m making my spring collection. Again.”

“You’re a fashion designer?”

“I will be. I’m at PCA.”

Trent gave an impressed little nod, considering Victor. “A hard school to get into.”

“I did my best. I am going to take on the world, one fashion disaster at a time.” He spared Yuri a conspiratorial wink.

“I look forward to seeing it.” Trent’s easy smile almost had Victor walking out of the shop without his copious amount of goods.

____

CHA 6

Victor spent the next three days bent over the kitchen table, back aching, hands smudged, eyes strained as he littered the floor with rejected designs and sketches. He had his originals, but they were old, and while there was something he could draw from them, there was no joy in the way they lingered on old problems, previous mistakes. Instead he pulled the idea of it from the place it originally came. The jumpsuit - that recalled a particular night at a club that ran well into the next morning, having to face down an unforgiving instructor and her brutal, soul crushing constructive criticisms - needed a refit. A modern twist that fit more than the desperate need to not look like he’d been wearing the drink stained clothes from the night before under it. It was giving him problems. Jumpsuits were pretty much fashionable or made you look like a dock worker. It was hair pulling maddening.

“Min vän,” Christophe cooed, sliding a cup of warm tea under Victor’s nose. “This is not good for you. You need to rest. Let your mind recover, gain inspiration.”

“I’ve tried, Chris! I tried,” Victor cried, using the cup to warm his hands. “I just…” His lips drew tight as he threw his feet on the seat of his chair, folding in on himself. Leaning against the wall, Victor closed his eyes. “It’s not working.”

“Okay.” Christophe drew a chair over, sitting close. “Tell me what you were thinking when you created it?”

“I didn’t want to throw up on my presentation, and I wanted to pass.”

Christophe scoffed. “Sure. We all want that. What was really going on?”

Victor searched his mind for a witty segway only to come up flat. Sighing, he set the cup down. “I just wanted to hide. I’d done something stupid,” Christophe’s mock shocked expression withstanding, it felt good to be able to speak about that very strange twenty four hours. “I’d been stressing about finals.”

“As you do.”

“As I do. I needed to get out, clear my head. I let myself get talked into going to the club.”

Christophe shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a little fun.”

“At nine p.m. On a Tuesday. During finals week. The night before my organic harvesting and natural fiber production's economic impact on the future of fashion presentation.”

Christophe winced. “You spent months agonizing over that! The late night calls, the desperate pleas for help researching.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Victor muttered.

“The way you sobbed into your sketches when you couldn’t find drafter blue pencils.”

“The color disappears once ink is overlaid! They’re worth their weight in rubles!”

“Your sudden desire to become an oil rigger to avoid the whole section on soil erosion, and sustainability.”

“It’s a touchy topic.”

“Your inability to admit you were addicted to lattés for a whole month.”

“I didn’t know four a day would make me gain six pounds, okay?!”

“Sure it wasn’t the stress eating?”

Victor shoved him with his foot. “As I was saying!” Christophe smiled into his cup, eyes sparkling. Victor huffed before leaning back against the wall with a little wiggle. “There was this guy, and he was just… so fine. Strong, and firm, and - “ Victor sucked in his bottom lip, biting down on it as he made a little grunting sound.

“Sure sounds like it,” Christophe grinned.

“I thought so… until I woke up to the sound of him talking to someone while I was in his bed.” Christophe winced. “Same old song and dance, da? One night stand, already committed, and torn between tearing through, setting everything aflame, and slinking away, tail between legs.”

“I take it you went with option two?”

“I went with option two.” His head hit the wall when he threw it back. Rubbing the spot, he crossed his legs, sitting up more in the chair. “My clothes were covered in spilled drink and… other things.” Christophe nodded sympathetically. “I needed something to cover it up. I found a jumpsuit in this awful tan color just hanging on the line outside, and took it. I spent the whole rush to campus trying to find things to style it, and just went with using it as part of the presentation. Added a whole bit about how sustainability was good, but it couldn’t be allowed to cover individuality, and sort of…” He made a motion indicating he’d unzipped it from neck to crotch.

“How did that work out for you?”

“I got a pass, so not too bad.”

“I’ll bet you did,” Christophe winked. “Well, as thrilling as that story is, what are you going to do about this?” He motioned to the design. “It’s not too complicated. Pants are a bit much. Maybe shorts?”

Victor sat up. “Shorts. Christophe! You’re a genius!”

“Naturally. Why?”

“Shorts! If I turn the pants into shorts with a roll cuff, side strap buckles to hold them up, they become adjustable, allowing for more range of use. Increase the drop of the collar, add a little extra here so it flaped to the side in open neck mandarin, a-la-militare, add whimsy with the buttons and piping at the edges… a wide belt with a buckle that has shine, little sparkle with the accessories… Look at this!”

Christophe peaked over Victor’s arm to see the sketch produced. “Loose top kitten heeled boots, scrunched socks with pops of color… you know min vän, you may make a fashion designer yet.”

cha 1&2, cha 3&4

[capsensislagamoprh]

AU you say?

[capsensislagamoprh]

Look, I can't be the only one who want's to draw Yuri in high fashion because you know that boy can MODEL ANYTHING.

(Yes I want to draw the others in fashion too, but Yuri got the LOOK.)

[capsensislagamoprh]

Look, when you meet me, and you will, you will receive my Victor as a default. If you get anywhere near my Yuuri, you will get my Yuri in full force. But, oh dear passenger, so help your soul if you ever face off with my Otabek. This is the Star Ship Find Out. I am your captain, Spicy Rabbit. Let's see what adventures await us today.

[capsensislagamoprh]

Being the calm, cool, and collected ten-year-old that Yuuri was, he pretty much knew he had life figured out. He didn’t realize it then, but he was experiencing awe for the first time. The experience of admiration and elevation in response to physical beauty, displays of exceptional ability, or deep emotional expression being put out for the world to see sirening a song into his very being. The awe-inspiring stimulus could only be experienced as vast and difficult to comprehend for his young mind. It challenged his worldview. His limited sense of island and onsen and town, surpassing the scope of his current frame of reference. Suddenly the world was large and round and waiting.

The realization started in the distance with the sound of an oboe, it's low mournful sound calling the start to an event. It drew in the dark eyes. Ten years on this earth. Five years learning, really learning how to glide and turn, twizzle and slide. Jumps were new, and while he wasn't so bad at it, he admitted he was still learning. And thrugh it all, he'd merely done it for fun. It was a joy, just a thing that could easily become a passing phase. Then he saw Victor Nikiforov make the ice his home. The ease, the grace, the way he seemed to tell stories - older than cold itself - called to him. He turned towards his family and smiled, pointing at the television. "I'm going to skate like him!"

"You'll have to practice hard to get to that level," Mari said, staring at the screen. "Gonna be a lot of work."

"I can do it! I'm going to skate on the same ice one day."

Mari grunted, smiling when Yuuri couldn't see. "Right. Well, if you want to do that, we'll have to figure out some things."

"But I can do it right?"

"I dunno. Can you?"

Light illuminated the the determination in Yuuri's awed smile. "I can do anything! I'm gonna do it! Watch me!"

~~~

He lay on the cheep cotton sheets, his silken hair spread like a fan behind him, damp from the shower, smelling of cold and hotel soap. He'd feasted. He'd dined. He'd savored every crumb. Flowers adorned the thin dresser, lay tossed about the bed, tangled in heaps on the table. These were a mere tokens of the crowed gratitude. Tomorrow was the free skate. Tomorrow he would gorge.

As the drops of water glistening against his winter flesh crackled and steamed, evaporating into mist, Victor smiled to himself. Something was fabulous about this new feeling. Something distant and full of wonder. Perhaps his connection to the Dream was growing, becoming more stable now that he wasn't starving.

He heard what the announcers said. He listened to the cries of shock and delight. He felt the pull of there gasps, sucking life out of the room, afraid to let air back in lest it be their last breath. He'd landed a set of daring combos, wanting - no. Needing to make himself known. The shadows in the ice could echo a summers warmth all they wanted. The shred of snow from its surface could succumb to the heat of artificial lights when ever it wanted. They would not move him from his goal. He'd come here for a reason. He was going to find Yuri. Then he would return to the Dream, where precious things were safe from mundane reality.

His eyes closed, cerulean orbs ready to reflect the day in memory. Breath came in long steady pulls. His skin tingled. He lay limp, a smile tugging his lips.

From the mirror hung uselessly on the wall, far from any purposeful placement, a flicker of something darker remained. It watched, waited, and when the Ice King was well and truly in somnic dreams, it flicked with a quiet presence into dark being, watching. Waiting. When no reaction came, the thin comforter pulled itself over the sleeping teen before shimmering thrugh the shadows into a near by chamber.

~~~

"Tell me," Christophe said to the reflection of a very powerful being, "how is the plan proceeding?"

"If any harm comes to Yuri..."

"That's the mortal world, I'm afraid." Before the threat of manifestation became corporal, the spring fey held up a gentle hand. "You have to trust." The lack of response didn't change the weight in the air. It threatened to suffocate Christophe with a sulfuric caress. Gulping, he reached quickly for the dross he kept in the shape of breath mints, popping open the red and white tin. The stench of peppermint threatened to overwhelm. Despite knowing it would hurt, he crunched three quickly.

"He's here! I know he is! We'll complete him, and then he wont be so reckless. That's what you wanted isn't it? For Victor to stop putting lives at risk because he couldn't figure out what was missing?" For a precious moment he thought the shadow wouldn't listen, was to upset. Then the pressure lifted, leaving the smell of spice and warm autumn breezes. Gasping, Christophe swallowed hard. Clamoring to stand, he looked around. The shadows were merely shadows, the mirrors showing nothing more than they should. When he turned to sink into his bed, he cried out in alarm. He'd sat on a dried leaf, it's crinkling decay crunched under his weight.

He was lucky, he knew, to only receive a warning. The Hero didn't do half measures, no unseelie did. They really needed to find Yuri. And Victor's other half. He didn't know they could survive what would happen if they didn't.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26

[capsensislagamoprh]

Yuuri slept. It was a simple sleep, filled with the thoughts of cold and shink of skates. It danced in his head and let him breathe in gulps of wonderful things. He could sense a tune playing. In his dreams he chased the notes, dancing along the winter scene, laughing, reaching, playing a game of catch me with something that glimmers just out of reach.

He stopped as the world opened up from the ice of the rink to the ice of a lake, lumpy at the edges with sticks and bits of rock, a river flowing towards it feeding the mirror of its surface. The lake was huge, and in the distance someone twirled like a music box ballerina. It was graceful and elegant. He wanted to do that. Eyes wide, he beamed, clapping his hands. Yōsei! A beautiful yōsei was angling towards the ice, hand never touching as it teased the snow from its blades into a swirling arch about its body, twizzling into an arch that lead into a double… a backwards double. This was backwards. Yuuri was confused.

He tilted his head, trying to understand, only for the world to tilt with him. He slipped thrugh the ice, standing on the other side. Through it he could see the yōsei dancing forward now, but it was no longer beautiful. It terrified him. The face was carved ice, translucent without letting him see what lay beyond. Was there anything beyond? There must be, he could see it smile. The teeth were razors, pointed and fanged. It's every breath froze the air, the silver that was its hair made of frost. Even its clothes were mere frost feathers. Only the blades were real, and those were made of the purest cutting edge.

Looking around, Yuuri tried to figure out where he was, why he was thrugh the ice. It had to be a dream. This was the only thing that made sense. Slipping on the silver, Yuuri fixed his stance, careful not to use his toe pick to much, afraid to crack the mirror. As he slid into the shadows, his found the darkness full of nothing.

"Ahi!" he cried, waving his hands as he felt himself stumble. It would be good to have some light. Suddenly illumination began, steady and soft, radiating from his skin. Yuuri spent a good deal of time staring at his hands, trying to figure out what just happened before he remembered he was in a dream. Dreams were not limiting. Raising his head, he tried to see what had tripped him.

A claw was sticking out of the darkness that was the sky. A sky he was skating on. Turning to look from where he'd come, he saw that every strike of his blade had left a little trail of clouds. Trying to touch them, he pushed forward, only for small bursts of light to shine thrugh. Dawn breaking the night. Yuuri paused, something catching his eye. He looked up. The yōsei had stopped. It mirrored his movements now, head turned in his direction, arms twisting when his did, gliding as he pushed himself along.

Blinking, he looked away, looked at his feet. The light shinning from him showed him the thing beneath the ice. A great white dragon, curled, and waiting. It seemed stuck in time, but aware. Awake. Yuuri knelt, placing his hands on the sky. A gold ribbon, words etched in red shot from where he pressed. It arched about him, swirling towards the silver of the mirrored ice above. At the same time, a ribbon, properly mirrored, seemed to try to reach down to him.

Turning his attention back to the dragon, Yuuri saw its eyes move, taking him in. He knew this being. How could he not? Slapping his hands against the sky, he tried to free it. Predictably, it did not work. He tried again anyway, only to hear the hollow echo of the yōsei as it did the same over him. Yuuri paused. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Looking up at that freighting face, teeth shinning with permafrost, Yuuri swallowed hard.

"Okami?" Bright blue. It's eyes that opened to stair down at him were bright blue. Unlike the cold that chilled it's flesh, the yōsei's eyes were longing, sad, self contained as if anything more would risk greater death. Pain beyond understanding. It made his heart hurt.

“Sen-Yomi-Oni-Yomi,” the yōsei said, scales of ice slicking over its skin. It sounded… wrong. It was accented, and haunted. Like it was trying for the words, but wasn't sure.

"No one knows the future, Okami-sama. I will be careful with mine."

The yōsei seemed to reach, a red ribbon trailing from it's wrist. He could almost see the writing. Kanji. It was Kanji, and -

"YUURI!" Mari banged on his door. "GET UP! You'll be late!"

Yuuri jumped out of bed, still reaching for something he thought he should have. By the time he made it thrugh breakfast, he'd forgot about the dream. Somewhere in Russia, a long haired teen woke up unsure of why he was crying.

(The links are starting to pile up. Go to the oldest part to find previous links to the story's beginning!)

part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30, part 31, part 32, part 33, part 34

[capsensislagamoprh]

Victor felt his blades cut into the ice, snow ripped from the smoothed surface dusting his legs, clinging to the cool surface of his ever chilling flesh. Yakov had yelled at him several times about the groves he was leaving, telling him - loudly - that he would make Victor drive the Zamboni himself to fix it, only to resend that the second he gave it any real though. Instead he put him thrugh drill after drill, the goblin.

Darkness... not just *darkness*, but Entropy. Entropy, cloaked in darkness, shadows, the antithesis of dreams. Entropy who spent time cradling life in its chest, nurturing growth with decay and pain. Who had caused the world to loose its way. Who had brought the wonder in the world to a grinding halt with a twist of memory and dusting of instinct. Who had only fallen because Life itself manifested the greatest of human dreams... Hope. Life had taken the best of things: bravery, goodness, honesty... sacrifice. YEBAT'! How could he have forgot in so short a time what it meant to be in the thrall of such a dangerous thing? His blood was colder than the depths of space, but that didn't stop the very memory of the things he'd done from dropping his temperature. "Victor!" Yakov screamed as he made another lazy double. Victor knew what he would say before he began. "Where's your height? What's with that lazy spiral? Get your leg back! You'll trip on your own blades with a landing like that! Do it again! And focus this time!" A hard snort escaped him as he thumped his thigh twice. Come on leg. Work with me. Forget the old wounds. This body is younger. It doesn't have the damage. That didn't seem to matter. His mind knew it was there. He raced his circle, prepping to edge into the double, twizzle out and arch into a graceful line, with his arm reaching behind him - calling for something not there, something longing. His jump was perfect. His landing sublime. When he reached back... He felt something. Heard someone. There was a giggle. A sort of laugh that seemed to call his name in joy. He could feel color ink into his skin. He almost felt it. Almost felt the way someone fueled him with a greater dream. It felt like the ribbon he'd touched at the gate. Velvet and satin, written in gold. Before he could catch it, pull it closer, feel the warmth of it he hit the boards, falling back. "Victor!" Yakov rushed towards the space where the Ice King was sprawled out, silver hair splayed behind him, eyes staring at the over head lighting. "Victor! Are you okay?" A cold breath pulled into his lungs by the shear force involuntary action, Victor sat up. The others in the rink had stopped, inching closer, concern on their faces. Victor did not hit the boards. Victor did not land on his ass. Victor... was not having a very good day. Rising up, stretching until his mussels felt back in place, Victor stood, kicked his toe picks into the ice a few times, then shrugged at his revealed coach. Then he stood there as he, and the rest of the team, got a ten minute lecture on focus, attention, and not dying on his ice, god damn it! Yes. Victor was not having a very good day.

(The links are starting to pile up. Go to the oldest part to find previous links to the story's beginning!)

part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30, part 31, part 32, part 33

[capsensislagamoprh]

The ice cold wetness of a dream melting into the abyss seemed to echo thrugh the threads of the weave, dripping musty agony into the sleep of the young boy. No amount of silk sheets or soft bedding could take away the physical reaction of his calling. His body burned. He could see the bright, golden light of the warmest, most welcoming spring creep along the edges of his nightmares, turning the pleasant gloom into a bright morning. The closer he got to catching it, the more it glittered, radiating daylight. When finally his hand went to touch it, the sounds it made an angry caress, he felt something try to take him over. Try to squish that light like a fire fly, spreading its glowing guts in a florescent streak, soaking it in, turning his flesh from ashen black to bronze.

The boy knew this hand. Knew this clawed, jagged thing that pretended to be him. It was him. It was what used to be him. Samhain.

He was Samhain. He had been created to let the mortal world interact with that of the Dream. He was how they survived the harshness of winter, faced the terror of death, lived into the next breath of life. With out him... with out Samhain there was no way for things to have meaning. Only reason. With out him the world was orderly and neat and sterile in its brutality. When he was born from humility, kindness, wonder, possibilities, the world of the gods was made visible to humankind. The gods played tricks on their mortal worshipers; mischievous to the last. Their tricks were fraught with danger, charged with fear, and full of supernatural episodes. Which is why the mortals created this body, this form and it's unwavering abilities. This was the importance of him, of Samhain.

And that light? That glowing summons at the edge of his dreams the previous body tried to capture? Tried to becomes? That was his other half. That was Beltane, the eternal flame of life itself. He was the fire of rebirth that blessed the fields, animals, and community, and maintained the wary, careful balance between the human and faery realms. A veil of unimaginable fragility, burning all who touched it. Survive and you could access the Dream. You could access the great power of Samhain. Many thought the Hero protected mortals, and there for the dream. This was a lie. Beltane was his shield, and with out him, without his bright, glimmering beauty, Samhain would be left bare, unable to protect the very essence of Dream. Need. The boy, tangled in the silk sheets, felt himself manifest the vorpal blade. Felt his armor form on his sweat soaked skin. He could feel his steed calling to him. It cried for battle. His very being whispered into the dread, looking for the essence of Beltane, trying to find that distant light. It was as natural as breathing. It would be so easy to look into the horizon of Dream and see which direction he needed to go to find him.

Go, whispered the shadow, tempting him with death soft whispers. Find, tempting his body with the thoughts of action. Yours to claim, it smiled into his ear. Take, like a pleasant refrain.

The boy suddenly jerked upward, his wakeful mind still lost to dreams. "NO!" Moments latter the au pair rushed into the room, feeling his heated head, cooing and making fuss. Otabek had fought back the Darkness in his dream. It rewarded him with a vicious case of chicken pox. ---- The boy shook, his fervor high. Golden locks soaked with sweat stuck to his head in limp trendels as his dadushka applied cold compresses, urging him to drink tea, sip a little broth. He'd had the flu for over a week, each day worse than the last. Nikoli took the Yuri to the hospital, got the medicine, diligently insured every instruction was followed. It wouldn't let up

Nikoli thought if the sun would just shine, if the snow and grey skies would let up, his vnuk would get better, stronger. Rising, he left Yuri's side to get fresh, cool water for him to drink.

In his fitful sleep Yuri could see a dark, forbidden place waiting for him to explore. It promised wonder and excitement, it offered acceptance and unconditional love. It threatened to meet his fire with calm, his anger with comfort. It offered to be what it was, and to respect what he was in return.

Yuri was tempted.

He felt himself fly at the edge of the shadowed place, trying to get it to come play. It seemed for a long moment that it might. It certainly seemed to want to, but it didn't. Yuri tried to taunt, to tease, to entice. He could feel a longing coming from that cool, welcoming place. It seemed to reach for him, and he was happy. Then it stopped, struggled, the shadows becoming darker than night, pulling in light, swallowing it whole. It frightened him.

The gentleness in the dark place pushed Yuri forcefully away, flicking its will against the wind, letting his small form fly with ease. When he was back in the safety of the warmth of summer, he tried to see what was going on in that gloomy place. For a moment he saw someone standing there, stopping something vile from spewing forth. It began to glimmer in the darkest shades, taking on the form of stories his dadushka told, of the brave people from the T.V. He heard something whispered from the repulsive place. It was threatening to open old scars, to rip open his soul, to bare his mind and feast.

Yuri knew fear.

And then that darkly glimmering being called a single, discordant note. The dream shattered and Yuri was free, his fever breaking. Above him, Nikoli looked relieved, reading a thermometer by the first rays of dawn.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30, part 31

[capsensislagamoprh]

Christophe listened carefully as Emil listed the rank and file of fey who came and went from the mortal realm. Who had changed forms, who had gained rank, or lost power. They were half way into the delicate discussion of bedlam when a puffing Phichit came running into view. Hands dropping to his knees, he gulped in long breaths until he could stand. Clutching a stitch in his side, he held out a hand, flapping the sticky note stuck firmly to a finger. Plucking it off, Emil looked the note over. With each line he read, his brows disappeared more into his eyebrows.

"Oh..." "Emil?" Christophe said, trying to bring focus back to the video call.

"I, uh... yeah. Yes. It's just..." Emil turned towards the screen, ignoring how Phichit folded himself backwards, straining his midsection up until a loud popping could be heard. Emil swallowed. "We might have a problem."

Christophe felt his nervous system begin to fire in rapid response. Cold seemed to trickle down his neck, trying to caress his spine in a trickling terror he barely recalled. "Tell me."

"You recall the... No, you wouldn't. You were in the dream at that time." Emil ran a hand thrugh his hair, eyes drifting upwards. A puff of breath escaped him as he shook the memories away. "There was a spat of unusual activity back in January. People died. Mortal people." Christophe swallowed. "How many dreamers?"

"Over a hundred." Emil sat forward, the chair seeming to pop as he rested his forearms on his thighs, head low. "The damage was done by a volcano. They should have been able to predict it, but..."

"But?"

"It wasn't the usual things. A rift just... opened. No warning. It was just torn. The lava turned itself in the three cardinal directions. Thousands had to move from the aria, leaving it unprotected."

"Wait, three cardinal directions? There are four. Which direction did it not ... Which direction, Emil?"

Emil's bright eyes had a haunted look. "It didn't run towards... South east."

Christophe swallowed. Hard. "All three streams?" Emil nodded. Christophe winced. "South east... What was it reaching for?"

"I don't know that it is. I think... I think it's just trying to gather power." "Are you sure? From nowhere? I mean, this could just be a mortal thing."

Emil shook his head with a resigned little sound. "No." Holding up the note, he showed the numbers to Christophe. "Type them in." One by one Christophe typed them into his phone, not daring to risk his computer. "Before you put in the last one, be ready to jump away."

Christophe's eye shot up, locking on the screen. Rising, he took a cheep metal chair from beside the refrigerator, setting it up in the middle of the room. A metal mixing bowl was put on that. Ready to spring, he put the last number in, dropped the phone, and jumped back.

The phone began to ring, as if connecting a call. A crackle began to sound thrugh the ring, as if the line had connected incorrectly. Soon the sound became a screechy, dial-up modem, ripping eardrums and tearing flesh. As soon as it started, it ended. The spring fey began to advance, to peak in the bowl. "No!" Emil called. Christophe spring back another few feet. Suddenly the phone began to melt, acrid poison steaming up from it as it broke into its most basic parts. Minerals, sands, and oils congealed in the bowl, foaming upwards. On pure instinct, Christophe reached for the roses on his desk. Petals fell away, dancing about his fingers. A flick of his wrist sent them into ever growing mess. Suspended in air, they began to glow, there colors pulsing with the cool melt of spring warmth. The light pulsed, flickered, faded. The petals ashed, spinning into a tornado of organic magic.

"Les dangers lointains nés du feu me disent ce que vous désirez."

Through the computer Emil watched, eyes wide. He'd not heard Christophe use a bunk in a noticeable amount of time. The rose ash spun, trying to draw an answer out of the melted mass. For to long they waited, the place slowly filling with poisonous vapors. "Christophe... Christophe, you may need to run."

The spring fey frowned. His blue eyes flickered into an impossible hew. Teeth sharper than blades flashed a blinding white. His ears showed his sidhe linage, tapering into a wicked point. His hand flexed as he held it stiffly in front of him, pulling glamour from his dross pouch. It sparked to life, taking on the shape of a crocus. His voice called forth the winds of change, everything in the room becoming new and old with nary a breath. The crocus bloomed, then decayed, its rotting corps dusting to gold. The wind picked it up as Christophe intoned, "Sannaste form ropar jag ut dig. Skapare, Förstörare, svara på Drömmen. Jag är förresten Vårens rättigheter. Jag är förresten grejen att tro. Svar till mig med det som skapades, svar till mig, en kropp värd att känna igen!"

The gold speckled wind threw its force into the rose scented tornado spinning against the frothing bowl, each spark fusing with a fleck of ash. As they flowed, the ash began to form into a wildly organic shape. Then they exploded outwards, stopping just shy of touching anything, stuck in the air like a frozen painting. Christophe lowered the hands he'd raised to protect himself. "Emil... are you seeing this?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, I am."

"Entropy," they both said, cold seeping into their bones.

"Something is endangering the balance."

"We know that," Emil snapped. "Something is making it worse!" Pressing his palms into his eyes, he slid down his chair, proper posture forgotten. "We are so screwed."

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30

[capsensislagamoprh]

The darkness that enveloped him was profound. It slunk a cape of shadows from shoulders to floor. Trendels drew form from from pools of age graced hidden places, spidering into a tapestry of decay, flickering thrugh the places where the unseen were in abundance. His eyes closed, searching, feeling, until he found what he was looking for.

That fool child had taken his crown. That idiot feyling had cried to the darkness, had drawn the sword, had stabbed him in the eye and ripped the life out of his chest. That stupid, selfless being! He'd planted it! With care! With affection! It. Had. Grown!

He'd spent eons consuming that power. He'd caged it just so, tended to it just enough for it to produce ever lasting heat. For it to give the spark of magic, true, ¡TRUE! magic. The fire of the universe was in that spark! A delicate bird of a thing, ever changing, ever beatific, ever full of grace and grander things! And the Hero ripped it from his chest.

He'd stolen his spark and all that came with it. The idiot didn't even wield his power, didn't covet the crown, didn't do the darkest of deed. The moron was *noble*. The darkness spat into the void. Noble. He'd once been noble. Been regal. Been feared. He ruled the endless maws of death, the frozen lands of sleep; endless expanses of entropy were at his every whim - no need to command. They wanted to please him.

And he had captured Life in his Maws! Swallowed it whole, felt it reside in his chest breathing gasping breaths. It suffered. All life suffered. Never had the darkness known such a feast!

And who sent the hero? HUMANS! Humans had cried to the sun, and the sun cried to the moon, and the moon called the tides, the tides sent the waves, the waves touched the shores, the land felt the pull to expand with out taking away, and the humans wanted to explore the new land. Of course they did. And when they did, they ran into oblivion - traps, predator, prey, even the plants themselves threatened there pitiful bodies. They found death at every turn. They cried into the darkness, mourning there foolishness and refusing to give it away. They wanted someone to tell them what to do. The darkness was ready to step in, to feed on that fear and decay, to be their savior, welcomed and wanted. A terrifying god to these foolish mortal fledglings.

And then. And Then! A mother protected her child. A father laid his life down for his kin. Neighbors called caution and saved others from poisons. As terrible as these had been, they then began - the darkness had to stop from gagging, so vile were the thoughts - they began to care for the weak. Not just children to keep the species going. The old. The infirm. Those born 'wrong' some how survived with the touch of impassioned admiration and a fierce force of will to keep going that was not their own. They began to accept differences, and dance at the same fire. They. Formed. Tribes. Community. They made themselves targets for his deepest rage, and rage he did.

He sent his most vile warriors. He dug them from the dankest caves, from the deepest depths, from the very night sky. And every time someone stood in the way. They wanted to survive. They wanted to be cared for. They wanted to know they were safe. As they did when children. They began to sing and speak and call. They drew and made symbols. They created a powerful being who could defeat any danger, who could save them from harm, and if they did not it was not from lack of trying, it was because they were meant to learn from it. But if they knew the power of dreams, the Darkness did not know, not until one stood tall, speaking his tale of bravery and sorrow, of adventure and greed. Telling how a tribe member faced a parlous event, and though it cost them their life, it was a fair price to pay for the many this one act of bravery saved.

The tribe cried, and sang praise. They enamored and cheer. Children stood tall, looking to the shadows where the woods lay deep and foreboding. They did not face it with fear. They now had someone to look up to. They had someone they could emulate. Someone who saved them all by standing tall against the odds, knowing the risks and taking them.

They each saw a different image. They cried out how they knew this hero, and they must be this way, but of course they were! And they must have this and that, and never should they stray! When the darkness came for them, they would scream from their souls, feel the blood rush with quivering instinct, until they too faced down fear with action. They Dreamed a True Dream. And from it they. Created. Heroes. Abysmal, horrid things!

As always happened, when things were dreamed to big, the Dream made them manifest. It was the sum of all the dreams, sifted and averaged, and given the most powerful beginning. The darkness thought this would be no challenge to him. After all, despite all this, the Hero had done nothing. It merely stood on the cusp of life and death, watching. It wasn't until Life was trapped, consumed, caged in his chest that the Hero went missing. The darkness had laughed. Heroes were dreams of mortal things. What chance did it stand with out Life to guide it?

And then he'd appeared, vorpal sword summoned from places it shouldn't have been, armor called from nothing, a cloak of night caressing his crest of shimmering, iridescent glow. His body was small, as were all dream-things to the Darkness. He sent his minions, not bothering to consider this pathetic display as anything but weak.

Dark fey, curses, nightmares laid an attack. Horrors unknown to mortal man bubbled up from there hidden, unspoken thinking. That stuff they would never admit, there fear of death, of living less became arrows to fell the Hero as he stood still, waiting.

All struck true. And he did not fall.

He.

Did.

Not.

Fall!

The Darkness called upon his queens and kings, called upon his knights and knaves. He sent his shadows and assassins, his plagues, fires, and decay. None of it moved the Hero. He stood there with the audacity to *watch* the army coming his way. It converged, freezing him in place, rot trying to take hold of his protective shell. It blinded him, removed sound, it ripped at his soul with what things create eternal scaring.

He.

Did. Not.

Move.

They army fell back at Darkness's smirking command. The Hero stood there, cloaked in night, gold glittering in his veins, blood spilling in liquid delight. And then he disappeared.

When the Darkness recalled what happened next he threw everything in his path into its most basic shape, unmaking until nothing in his reach remained, and yet there it fell, shattered, dented, and still blastedly whole. For the Hero had infused the vorpal blade with every dark deed, every cruel thought, every undying exchange of mortality, every eternal last breath the Darkness had thrust into his court without so much as an expression on his lips, eyes burning with a fire the Darkness had swallowed long ago.

He struck true.

And the Darkness fell.

All his beings were released, his mantle, his crown, his power flicker-flashing into the Hero as if it were his birth right. It was infuriating. He didn't even command them to bow! He'd just ... cared. How vile! But he'd been so invested in Life's new form, in the glory of Beltane, that he'd not been watching when the Darkness slipped his remains away. He knew all he had to do was gather power and wait. Sooner or later some hapless fey would give him the opportunity to take that fool of a Hero down, and when he got it, he would strike just as deadly, just as true. He would regain his crown.

When he felt the tingle of the gates opening, the threads pulled and tossed aside, the Darkness watched. Listened. So Victor was going into the mortal realm. And the Hero was lost to it. But so was Beltane. Well, with out the Hero to silently alter his machinations, the Darkness could use its limited pull to destroy those about them until they fell completely under his sway. And then! And then he would use their own companions to kill them.

When the Darkness smiled, the mortal world felt it as a volcano erupted.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28

[capsensislagamoprh]

Aside from a small hiccup of the wind deciding no one's hair would go unruffled, gail forces trying bodily to check the weights used to hold down the chairs, and the triplets having to be kept from the cake via one spectacular flying tackle by their father, most of the wedding went well.

Victor was indeed confused when presented with the change in his groomsman, but seeing Christophe standing there, trying to shove on a priest's collar made from strips of score paper made him laugh so much he quickly regained his humor. Yuuri walked down with the same bafflement as Victor. His brown eyes darted from Christophe at the center back of the platform, taping his makeshift clerical marker in place, to Yuri who was trying to seem like nothing was at all out of place by looking staunchly forward, cheeks bright pink. Yuuri quickly forgot all about outside things when Victor took his arm, walking him up the short dias, hands careful, touching gently as if he were made of silk. That didn’t stop him from cheekily slipping his long fingers up Yuuri’s cuffs to tantalize his wrists. After that, all their attention was for each other, and those gathered for them.

When it was done, to a chromatic display of bubbles and flower petals, Yuuri and Victor got in the classic car with its balloons and ribbons trailing off the end, driving off, allowing the core group of planners and helpers to break down the wedding aria, pop up a few quick pavilions, and set up the reception. Yuri stood at the road edge, watching for them to return. It was two hours before they rolled around the bend causing the blond to race towards the crowd, waving his hands in warning.

Otabek turned his eyes towards the drive, timed it, and pushed play. A slow well of welcoming fanfare began to rise, encouraging the couple to come to the event they had no chance of escaping. At this point Phichit would probably unleash a horde of hamsters to tie them up and drag them to the reception in true good-guy-pushed-to-far style. Otabek heard JJ's voice cry out 'Hamster Style' in his head and suppressed a chuckle.

As everyone was greeted and fed, watered and mingled, Otabek stayed with the equipment, adjusting volume to a bare whisper and watching the mood of the crowd, changing, skipping, and rearranging tracks as needed to keep the party upbeat as requested. During the speeches he got a solid forty minutes to eat, take care of things that couldn't wait, and queue up the song for the couples dance. Watching Victor lead Yuuri about the floor was one of those moments you never quite forgot. The dips and spins were graceful, the lift simple, and the smiles full of joy, love, and wonder. All in all it was the stuff of home movies. Silently, he was glad his phone was in the onsen. He wasn't much for SMS, but Yuri insisted, meaning the video snips and photos from the wedding that would flood the internet, 'breaking it' as Yuri would say, would cause a barrage of dings and vibrations that would wreak havoc with his attention.

The cake cutting was only complicated by the triplets trying to hoard slices at a far table for what could only be considered nefarious reasons. Whatever they were, it was bound to end in sleep deprived parents dealing with massive sugar crashes and a case of bribery. Tables were cleared, the floor opened, and the music gently swelled. No busted eardrums here. It didn't take long for drinking to loosen steps, attitudes, and several belts. Otabek saw it all from the turn tables, though there were a few things he would rather have missed. Mila tried to get him to play something not on his list, threatening to kiss him and stuff thousand Yen notes down his shirt if he did, was something he could have done without. Fortunately Georgi got to her before Yuri did. He did not know how much wine she'd drank, but felt secure that if Mari switched her to water, it was a significant amount.

Yuri paced the setup for a few, seemingly to make sure no one tried to crowd the rig again. ‘He worked hard on that,’ he heard the blond grouse. Eventually he caught the triplets trying to sneak the cake topper, cheese cubes, and what looked like an entire tray of some meat dish towards the shore for who knew what reason, snatching up balloons as they ran. Yuri chased them for a while, giving up when they threatened to climb into the honeymoon car with sticky hands. They had to deal with Yuko at that point, and while Otabek could see them being dragged off by their parents, he couldn't quite make out anything but flailing limbs. Yuri got the topper back to Christophe who stuck it back in place before the couple noticed.

And then people began to float away, heading back to B&Bs, slipping off to do their own thing, well wishes and cheerful blessings being rained down in glowing waves of happiness. Otabek began to fade out the music from the dance floor, dropping the beat based songs, letting them fade into romantic sets that calmed the racing blood. Some were not ready to go. This happened every time, club or not. Seeing Phichit send off the happy couple by driving them himself, neither Victor nor Yuuri being sober enough to manage the front set, Otabek caught Christophe's eye. Without a word, he slid forward a zip drive. Three hours of 'at the club' mixes waited for the after party. The man's cheeky smile and sauntering walk meant in less than thirty he'd have that stripper pole out, set, and ready for a late night of conveniently selected memory gaps. The onsen was going to get a reputation.

An hour later, Otabek was done. Everyone had either gone or were inside the main room of the onsen, drinking, playing with the pole, or doing other things. It meant he could rest. Stepping down, he began to systematically take apart the rig, boxing it up in protective casing. Most of the party things would be taken down tomorrow, he knew, but the DJ kit was far too precious to leave to chance. He was half way into cord winding when a pale hand disconnected a plug from the extension. Yuri sniffed, his 'pretend I am tough' pout in place. "Thanks," Otabek said quietly.

"S'nufin." The mutter was quiet, unusually so.

"What's wrong?"

Yuri shrugged as he unplugged another cord, winding its length. "N'ufin. I'm fine. It's stupid."

Zipping the tie, Otabek put the cord in its box, then turned his whole body towards the blond.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." Otabek waited. Yuri began to scowl. Otabek waited. Yuri began to growl. Otabek waited. Yuri dropped the cord, swinging himself about to face his best friend. "Why are you staring, ass?"

"Wrong angle. Why are you upset?"

Yuri blinked, then shook his head. "Nothing. It's stupid. Doesn't matter."

"It's enough for you to make that face."

"I'm not making a face!" But he could feel it, the frown. It was pulling at his temples, tensing his neck. When he saw that steady gaze, head tilt thing Beka did, Yuri growled. "Fine! I'm making that face!" Huffing, hands thrown wide, he stomped as hard as he could and was rewarded with a satisfying thump. "You were busy all day. I didn't get to hang out with you. I'm upset, okay?"

"I was asked to run the music. You know this."

"Yeah, well... I had to spend the night watching Mila try to make out with three different guys, not including her trying to feel you up,” he growled, “none of which she brought with her. Georgi bemoaned his love life on my shoulder for half an hour, going on about seizing chances or whatever, before I got saved from him. Everyone had a great time, but you were working. Doesn't seem fair."

"I didn't have to deal with the triplets."

"You also didn't have to deal with the slobber monsters trying to kiss your cheeks and calling you son all night long. I swear I was about to turn this into a funeral."

"I saw Madame Baranovskaya extract you from them after a minute."

"Still, it was gross."

"Ah. And what else happened to get you riled up?"

"I am not riled up! I am a justifiable inferno of incandescent rage!"

"Incandescent? That's a new level."

"I know, right! I'm incandescent!"

Otabek smiled. Incandescent. He wouldn't use it the same way Yuri did, but it wasn't wrong. "I don't think I can make you less candescent. What can I do to sooth your totally justifiable rage?"

Yuri snorted, delighted to have his rage acknowledged as valid. All his moods were valid, and the sooner everyone realized it, the less likely he'd be in jail for murder before he won the Olympics. "Dance with me. Everyone else got to. You didn't. And I know you won't if I don't make you. Pitchit said it was a wedding rule. Everyone has to dance. So, now it's your turn."

"Yuri..."

"Yeah, yeah. You don't dance," Yuri sighed, turning away. Otabek watched him as he reached for another cord. Then he smiled just a little more than his mouth was used to. Pushing his lips into a stoic expression, looked over the landscape to assure himself everyone was inside the onsen before pressing a button on his lap top. Adjusting the volume down, he grabbed Yuri's wrist, leading him to the abandoned dance floor.

"What the hell, Beka!" Yuri's protest was cut short as his best friend pulled him into the standard start position for any ballroom dance.

"You asked." 

Yuri blinked, and then he grinned. "Okay, Beka... show me what you got."

"You sure?" Yuri rolled his eyes so hard he felt the strain. Otabek shrugged as the music began, yanking Yuri into a spin and slid him along the floor in a twirl that left the blond dizzy. Trying to recover, Yuri's eyes twinkled as he grinned at the challenge. "Keep up," was all the warning his ballet-doing ass got.

Yanked in close, Yuri felt his feet being activated as his hips were swayed, guided by the warm hand pressed to the small of his back. His torso a mere inch away from the heat of the man before him, synchronized movements with a steady to and from, he felt like he was graduating from the high school slow dance to something more. They moved in agonizingly precise steps as Otabek took his technical perfection from the ice to the dance floor, leaving Yuri floundering. He'd not learned this kind of dance, and didn't know how to follow. It didn't matter. Otabek managed to adjust every misstep to make up for Yuri's lack of skill. No matter how the blond struggled, Otabek adjusted, curved it into something smooth. He added a twist or a turn to correct, spinning, sliding Yuri along the floor, his leg slipping under Yuri's to silently perfect and change while leaving the whole thing far more graceful than Yuri had ever seen him before. All the while he never broke eye contact.

Just as he was getting used to the variations Otabek changed it up again, smoothly slipping his grip to the left, his turns counter point as he dropped Yuri into a dip so low the blond could feel his back bend more than when he did the Bellmann. The world was upside down, warm breath pulsing through his torso as he twisted into a spin out, pulled roughly back in by the never breaking clasp of hands. Each of his steps were drawn out, pulled into a long stride as the unheard tempo changed, his shoulders kept firmly parallel with the floor. Even as Yuri was twisted about to slide along Otabek's well muscled back, slipped into a half drop and left to linger as the dark eyes caught his again, he felt the power of the movements, the steadiness of the hands holding him. Otabek's leg sliding under Yuri's, forcing them straight as he used his own strength to turn the blond in a perfectly synced full circle, their lifted arms twisted, snaking together while the other strong limb circled his waist with ease.

Suddenly Yuri felt it, the unspoken communication between two people speaking with their bodies. Otabek provided a strong frame and Yuri followed, matching his body weight and balance, twisting about his dark counterpart with all his well trained grace, every new element becoming a second calling as Otabek adjusted, unjudging and unrepentant in his resolve. Pulled into a quick step, bodies turning in different directions, Yuri found himself slowly stepping into slides, unable to stop his foot from automatically pointing as he was guided to move from one side into two quick steps back and forward. The unique rhythm was easy to catch, which should have warned him. The undemanding, evocative movements began to travel up his spine, shaking his muscles as it rose, fell, stretched and swept across the dance floor. It felt romantic, assuredly passionate, and yet Otabek made it fun.

Then something broke. He began to be pulled along, letting his feet drag as one arm wrapped about Otabek's neck. The older man pulled Yuri's languid form along the floor as he pressed into the heat, eyes smoldering. A sudden twist and yank caused Yuri to whip left and right before his leg bent upward as Otabek spun him again, circling him as he pirouetted, stopping him by stepping into it, leaving Yuri's leg wrapped about his waist, back pressed firmly to chest. The slide of a powerful leg sent them slowly toward the floor, steadied by the bend of an opposing knee. And yet Yuri couldn't break eye contact. No one was there to see this secret dance between the two young people, to see the intuition that guided them, strengthening a deeper connection. Yuri could feel it in his pulse, the way it seemed to shudder and gasp causing his breath to hitch, cheeks to flush - not the steps and strain of his feet. He didn't know the song Otabek had played, the sound classically modern, distinctive and new, but when it ended, he strained until he could imagine the stanzas, the refrain continuing. In his head the symphonic and metallic, sharply contemporary and refined. A brilliant edge of electric frisson coursed through Yuri as he felt himself give way to a greater pull. Lifted back onto his feet, he turned, grabbed Otabek's waist and pulled him backwards, using the steps he'd picked up on to lead a turn of his own. Just as he thought he had control, Otabek spun with a twist that pulled Yuri into a press against his heated form, then dropped him along his arm before flipping him up into the air. Turning his own body into a spin as he caught him, Otabek added torque to the motion until it slowed to a heart stopping dip, their noses almost touching, breaths mingling in panted heat.

Then Yuri was standing in the center of the floor, and Otabek was by the rig, winding up cords. The clicking of the kit’s case told him Beka was getting ready to haul it inside. A sound like a startled walrus left Yuri as he charged Otabek, latching onto his back with all his might. Otabek looked over his shoulder at the blond, a hand resting on one exposed ankle as Yuri's legs threatened to break ribs, arms close to choking him out with how tight Yuri was holding on.

"Oh My Gawd, Beka! How long have you been able to do that?!"

"Yuri..." Otabek dropped to a half crouch and bounced up, resetting the blond so he could breathe properly.

"How long!" Yuri persisted, shaking himself back and forth, heedless of the dangers of toppling.

"I had to do something other than ballet. I did ballroom instead."

"What other skills have you been hiding?! Tell me!"

"I should tell you everything I keep up my sleeve? How will I remain competitive?"

Yuri pouted, pulling himself forward to glare. "You should tell me everything."

"You want all my secrets?"

"Yes! Tell me how to do that! How do I do that on ice? If you did that on ice you'd smash stupid JJ's face!"

"Those are double moves, Yuri. They are not single dances."

Yuri seemed to consider, giving Otabek enough time to bend, catching the handle of the kit case. Standing again, Yuri refusing to be dislodged by mere gravity, he grudgingly conceded as he adjusted his grip. "Okay, but can any of it be translated to ice?"

"I do that all the time."

"You have to show me! I need to kick JJs ass! You need to kick JJs ass! How do you have all that and JJ keeps existing!"

Otabek allowed himself a small smile before the light of the onsen showed him people clearly. His face became a mask of calm, voice lowered to keep attention away from the pair. He did not want to be 'driven' to take Yuri to another dance contest. With the strip pole. Turning sharply to the side of the building, Otabek made for the side entrance. "One day he won't be on the ice to compete with you any more. You may miss him then."

"Never!" came Yuri's scandalized reply.

While he walked, pace slowed by the weight of the case and balancing the slowly slumping body of Yuri as he began to fall asleep, Otabek felt steady breaths along the cord of his neck. The warmth of being close, the excitement and stress of the day, and exuberant dance took its toll on the blond’s small frame. When Otabek finally made it to their room, setting the kit down, he nudged Yuri. "Bed?"

"Mumm нет! Not yet."

As Yuri adjusted his grip, Otabek reached for a book and his reading glasses, then made his way outside. By the time he was in a spot close enough to hear the music, yet far enough to let Yuri fall further into sleep, he felt the night settle into his skin. Sitting in the sand, he looked over his shoulder. Yuri's viridian eyes were barely opened. A small smile bent his lips. "I had fun," he whispered into Otabek's neck. "But don't tell them. They'll gloat about it," he sighed.

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Anything for you, Yuri."

"Good." Yuri's arms went slack with sleep leaving Otabek to catch him with a quick twist of his back and arms. Dragging the pale body along his side, he let Yuri curl up like a cat, half in his lap to rest. Carding his fingers through golden locks, he opened his book.

A chapter and a half later his head snapped up. Turning he saw Christophe standing behind him with a set of stilettos in hand, the red leather highly polished and strappy. "So tell me," the Swiss said with a purr, "How did you know about the officiant?"

"I heard Mrs. Katsuki mention it. You used my rig to print your certificate."

"I did. You made good points, but just in case, you understand." Christophe shrugged, his smile assessing. Otabek gave no reaction, leaving him to carry on. "Sarah was right, about it being easily done online. I only needed to complete a short course and pay a fee. It took fifteen minutes."

"Ah."

"And the after party mix? How did you find time?"

"It was not as hard as blending the Chicken Dance into Tentomucshi no Sanba. I have no idea how that combo slipped past Leo."

Christophe smiled. "It was unique, but it did make the floor dance." Otabek shrugged. "Now, about this," the older man said motioning to the sleeping blond in the Kazakh's lap. Otabek's dark stair didn't flinch. "Do I need to have the talk?"

"Which one?"

"Harm and funerals."

"Consider it given."

"Good," Christophe smiled, rising up with a twist of his hips. "It's a killer mix. I won't be giving the drive back."

Otabek shrugged, turning back to his book. Once Christophe was firmly back inside, Yuri peered up from the brunette’s thighs. "What was that about?"

"Liability clauses included in standard terms and conditions exclusive to several lifetimes, guaranteed." Yuri squinted, a confused pout wrinkling his nose. "Nothing's wrong, Yuri. Want to go inside where it's warm?"

"Yeah. The sand is creeping into my shirt. It itches."

"Alright." Yuri refused to walk by himself. Not when he could cling to Otabek like a backpack. Yuri was slowly becoming aware of the base in the music, mischief calling to him. Peeking over Otabek's shoulder, he saw the stilettos, heard the cheers, his eyes becoming wide as he turned to find his phone. Blackmail! A few quick snaps were all he got before he was taken down the hall, into their shared room. Realizing he had just enough energy to change out of his suit and curl into his favorite living heater, Yuri began falling asleep again, the steady stroking of his hair lulling him deeper into calm. The blond staunchly refused to admit the others might have a point with the whole 'kitten' thing. He might be small, but he was mighty! Otabek got that. He understood. Yuri was a Tiger, damn it! Tigers were cats! Big predatory *stretch* cats with cool stripes and very pointy teeth! He was *yawn* an Ice Tiger! Because he was so good on ice, and also so cool!  A cool ... sleepy ... tiger with his own personal heat source…

Pale arms wrapped tighter about Otabek's waist, face pressed into his midsection, a faint purr rumbling from the blond's unknowing lips. Otabek sat reading a few more chapters, his lips tilted in a secret smile as Yuri slept.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14

[capsensislagamoprh]

"For the love of - it was a joke Victor! A Joke!"

"Yuri, this is not a thing to joke about. I need confirmation. I need to know. The suit. It is not. Not. Powder blue?"

"No! Just the tie is." Yuri held up his hands in surrender, backing away from the steadily approaching Victor. 

"It is not. It's not that hideous tie I saw last week?"

Yuri shot a glance to Christophe, hoping to enlist help. "I... it is? It's powder blue? I ... Look, I don't know what to tell you! He likes it, I think?"

Victor's hands twitched. He didn't know whether to strangle Yuri for teasing him about such an important matter on his wedding day, or dig himself bodily through the wall to rip that hideous tie from his fiance's hands, then use it to light a pyre to their love.

Christoph sighed. "Go see if you can get him to switch to the cream one?"

Offered an out, Yuri dashed from the room. Gulping down stress before knocking on the door down the hall. Phichit popped his head out, eyes staring down the passageway before grabbing Yuri by his shirt and pulling him in. "What's the verdict?"

"Go with the cream."

Yuuri was panting, two ties in his hands. He'd ordered the blue one to be the same color as Victor's eyes, but color match technology had landed him with something that looked like it had been dyed by a preschooler and dropped off the back end of a nondescript van.

"I don't know what to do about this," Yuuri quivered. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"I... I don't fucking know," Yuri whispered, his hand making a mess of his hair. "I don't know anything about this stuff. I mean, it's not my style, you know?"

Phichit rubbed small circles into Yuuri's back. "It's alright. We'll figure something out. I mean, the cream is very lovely. I like the pattern, and the thin gold highlights are very nice."

"It is," Yuuri sniffed. "It's just not what I wanted. I don't get to surprise him often, and..."

Yuri was going to scream. This was the third fashion related emergency, fifth last minute detail, and seventh 'sudden something'. None of which had been anything of the sort. It was the constant boiling of emotions, back and forth, and threatening 'somehow this is all your fault' glare he got from both sides. Look, he wasn't tactful. Yuri knew that. But if they didn't get their shit together, he wouldn't have to be. He'd be ducking murder charges. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "What if I show him the tie? Then you can know if he likes it."

Yuuri's brown eyes widened, tears welling up. "You'd do that?"

"I uh... fuck." Damn emotions and all who had them! Snapping both ties from Yuuri's hands, he took a moment to share a deeply profound expression with Phichit. Fuck wedding day jitters, this was verging on a melt down. His own. Backing away quickly, Yuri spun around, ties in hand to once again storm down the hall.

"Are you okay?"

"Beka!" Yuri threw his face into Otabek's chest. "I'm going mad! I can feel it! Steam is coming from the top of my head."

"I was wondering why your hair was curling."

Yuri smacked his chest, sending the ties bouncing. "Shut it. I have to show these ties to Victor."

"Wasn't the blue supposed to be a surprise?"

"Yeah, but apparently it didn't turn out right, and now Katsudon is having a frickin’ break down, and I have to keep Victor from having a conniption over ugly ties. Every time I try to help, it gets worse, and I am going fucking insane, Beka! The homicide will be justified!"

"Ah." Reaching out, Otabek pulled the ties from the blond's grip. "Tell Victor you've solved the problem. I'll be right back."

"But I haven't..."

"I believe in you." Otabek walked off.

Yuri blinked, turned to Victor's door and knocked. Christophe threw the door open, shutting it quickly when he saw Yuri. He knocked again. "Open it up!"

The door opened a sliver. "What news do you have?"

Yuri's eye twitched in response to another spike in his blood pressure. "Cream in, powder out." Christophe opened the door a little more.

"And the suit?"

"I already told you, it's not powder blue."

"Hum..." Christophe rose a well manicured brow. "Right, well, that's good. You should go get ready now."

Yuri took a deep breath. Great. He'd been kicked out of dealing with Victor’s drama, which normally would be a blessing, but now he was stuck with Katsudon's whole mess and he wasn't sure which one was worse. Spastic Victor or sobbing piggie.

Fortunately, he didn't have long to consider the situation. Hiroko came shuffling past, looking lovely in her gown, pearls dangling from her neck in a double loop, hair neatly coiffed with a rather striking hair clip. Yuri made a mental note to ask her where she got it. As he watched her knock on Yuuri's door and be let in, Otabek slipped past, heading into their room. Yuri followed.

"What happened?"

"Nothing." Yuri didn't buy that, staring at Otabek, nose far too close to his own for any sort of focus. "Mrs. Katsuki is going to help Yuuri," he said, rummaging through a bag. Pulling out a small wooden box, he turned. "What was the issue with the ties?"

Yuri huffed, arms crossing as he slouched against the wall. "Piggie ordered the blue one to match Victor's eyes," gagging noises were caught up in a snort. "It's not the right color, and he started spiraling. Victor found out and started panicking. He hit that stage where he's a danger to himself and society, so Christophe sent me to figure out what was going on. I tried to tell him! I tried! He wasn't listening. Not really. He thought I said the whole suit was ruined, and he freaked out more, got this look in his eye..."

Otabek nodded, watching Yuri as he spoke. "Alright." Turning to the box, he popped the small lock, searching through the contents. Yuri huffed, grumbled, then propped his chin on Otabek's shoulder by virtue of standing on his toes.

"What's this then?"

"Stick pins."

"Stick... what?"

"Stick pins. I think they are called tie tacks these days, though they are not the same thing."

"These days? You are so old."

Otabek hummed in response. When he found what he was looking for, he headed to Victor's door. Curious, Yuri followed.

"Yes?" Christophe answered flatly.

Otabek held up the cream tie. "Carnation knot." Christophe's brow raised, his eyes focused, discerning. Otabek held up a gold stick pin sporting a sizable round, brilliant cut topaz. "Center nestled," he added. Then he opened his hand to show a delicate double heart tack pin no bigger than a pinky nail, a pink topaz chip purposely placed on one heart, a turquoise chip in the other. "Hidden fold up, collar tucked, pinned."

Christophe's smile spread to his whole body as his familiar cheer returned. "Yes! Perfect!"

Without another word, Otabek turned towards Yuuri's door, leaving Yuri wondering what world war code book those two learned that shit from.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

[capsensislagamoprh]

The last of the accessories, favors, and details had arrived. Now, Phichit noted as he checked down his list, they only needed the perishables. “Do you think we ordered enough flowers?" he asked Christophe.

"I hope so. I don't see how we can get any more. We've only got two days."

"Ah! Two days! In two days my beloved Yuuri and I will be in wedded bliss!" Victor cooed, tossing tissue paper into a pile as he unpacked a box of vases.

"Yes. Delightful. I am so happy for you. Did you do your part of the list?" Christophe stated dryly.

"The what now?"

Christophe and Phichit shot a glance at each other, quietly resolved to yet another minor emergency. "Your part of the List, Victor. The List. The List with the things you are supposed to do and have completed before the stags."

Victor looked blank, then deep in thought. "When did you give me this list?"

Phichit held his smile in place, eye twitching. Christophe batted his lashes. "Victor. Dear, darling Victor. You. Have. One. Chore."

"What chore?" Yuuri asked, returning with a fresh bag for the papers strewn across the floor.

"Your dear, beloved fiance is supposed to have the car for your trip around the island detailed."

"Oh! Yes! I have an appointment to take it in," Victor beamed. "I would not disappoint my Yuuri!"

Yuuri blushed, looking to the side as he neatly folded papers. "Good. Did the cake get confirmed? Flowers?"

"Yes," Phichit beamed. "We went with a mix. Lots of cuttings -"

"Luscious! Quite spectacular, I assure you," Christophe chimed in, stopping the questions he could see bubbling in Victor.

" - yes, and we got potted ones as well. Few hangers. So you can have living reminders of the day."

"And they will decorate the onsen, yes?" Christophe smiled.

Victor beamed. "Ah! Marvelous! Yes! A living reminder. This is wonderful."

Just then the sound of a truck pulling up caught Yuuri's attention. Rising, he went outside to find Mari receiving a delivery of a massive pile of boxes, parcels, and otherwise large amounts of envelopes. "What the -" was all he could say.

"Yuuri? What's this?" Victor said, popping up behind him.

"I don't know."

"Gifts. Well wishes. Those plotted plants you guys ordered," Mari said around a cigarette. "I'm not moving them," came the huff as she signed the paperwork.

"Gifts! Oh! Our fans sent us many things."

"Yes," Yuuri contemplated. "It's... a bit much."

"No! Nothing is too much for such a time as this. Chris! Come see!"

Christophe popped his head out, eyeing the massive pile as the truck finished emptying. "Oh. I do not know where we are going to put those."

"Maybe we can find some space?" Yuuri said hopefully.

"I don't know where," Mari huffed. "Place is full. You already have everyone coming. We don't have room."

Yuuri's crestfallen gaze turned blank as he took in the full girth of the pile. He was saved from the static noise that was building pressure in his brain when Phichit found them. "What is going... on? Wow! What's all this?"

"Presents!" Victor beamed. "Only... we don't know what to do with them all."

"Clearly you open them," Yuri snarked, drink and snack carriers in hand. "I mean, that's what you do with gifts. Why do you have so many anyway?"

"People love me," Victor said with a plastic smile, taking a double shot americano from Otabek. Slipping his arm around Yuuri's waist, his eyes begin to take on a sparkle, he added "And my Yuuri is so very beloved."

"It is a lot, Vita," Yuuri sighed, happily receiving his frothy iced mocha. "I don't know where to place them all. We won't have time to go through them before the wedding."

Phichit considered them as he sucked down his iced vanilla, eyes widening in delight. "So good!" he purred. "Anyway, there has to be some place we can put these. Think, Yuuri. Do you have a storage or garage we don't know about?"

"Yuuri! Are you keeping secrets from me? Do you have a hidden place to hide all your many merchandises and childhood secrets?" Victor played, shaking his love slightly.

"I... No. No, I do not."

"He used to keep things at the rink," Mari added haphazardly, considering adding a shot or three to her coffee, eyes narrowed with mischief. "Sometimes at the studio."

"Mari!" choked Yuuir, the iced drink stinging his nose as he snorted in exasperation. Victor's eyes were massive, watery pools of joy.

Christophe smiled, sipping the green tea infusion he'd just been handed. Time to intervene. "You can explore that later. Right now, as much as it would be fun, we have to stay on track."

Yuri paused eyeing the scene, paper carriers with baked goodies dangling from his fingers. "You want all this taken to the studio? Got an address?" he growled, flipping his phone over to a navigation app. As Yuuri helped him put the address in, Otabek took the carrier from Yuri, silently handing off treats.

"We'll put all these," Yuri puffed, motioning vaguely to the many parcels, "into the studio, and then you can go through them at your leisure, or something. Whatever."

Victor pouted, then slowly beamed. "Ah, Yurio! You do care! Such a good son!"

"I am Not your Son!"

"And if we find some hidden treasures - " Victor continued, planting a huge smooch on Yuuri's cheek, "even better!"

Yuri rolled his eyes so hard he Phichit wondered if he saw his medulla oblongata.

"You're gonna need some help." Mari downed half her triple espresso in a single gulp.  "Not it."

"I have to help set up the covers and pavilions," Christophe chimed.

"I have to organize everything for quick set up and break down. I'm swamped," Phichit added.

"I suppose I can - " Yuuri began.

"Do you want Victor adding ice swans?" Phichit huffed in horror, his mind swamped with visceral images of several conversations involving the topic.

"It's fine," Yuri assured them dismissively. "We can do it." His thumb jerked between himself and Otabek as he strained to pick up a mail bag. "Anything to keep away from those two stress-drooling all over each other."

Otabek simply began to pile up boxes, lifting with his knees as he prepared for a day of hauling parcels, gifts, and bags weighed down by envelopes up and down long hills all day.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8