Chapter Text
Yuuri is awoken while the moon is still out by the needs of his bladder and by the cool emptiness of the bed beside him. Blinking awake, he finds his drawers, slipping them on before shuffling to the en suite to relieve himself and to rinse the stale taste of alcohol from his mouth. Necessities seen to, he reemerges in the bedroom to find his vanished lover.
He doesn’t have to look far. Victor is perched just at the end of the bed, looking out the narrow upper window at the glowing lights of the city. A haze of moonlight catches the silver of his unkempt hair, and his shoulders are rounded by some kind of fluffy bathrobe. Victor offers a sleepy smile when he notices Yuuri standing in the doorway.
“Yuura. I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says, holding up a glass of water, “I just needed a drink.”
“You didn’t,” Yuuri assures him, taking a seat when Victor pats the place beside him on the bed. He fingers the soft flannel cuff of the robe hiding Victor’s form.
“I found it in the washroom,” Victor explains, “Likely left behind by another of Mr. Giacometti’s guests. The room was a little cold without you, but I couldn’t sleep, so I took advantage.”
“It’s very becoming on you.”
Victor huffs a laugh, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. “I’ve worn stranger things on this adventure of ours.”
Yuuri wrinkles his nose, reaching up to thumb over Victor’s cheeks where there is still a smudge of rouge from earlier.
“This time tomorrow I will know if I am royalty,” Victor murmurs.
“I hope you aren’t too worried,” Yuuri says, knowing from experience how fruitless that advice can be, “I know tomorrow will go the way you want.”
Victor sighs. “But what do I want?” he muses, “I won’t lie to you, miliy , I think I am equally worried whether I turn out to be a Nikiforov or not.”
Yuuri frowns.
“I was not raised to be a prince,” Victor reminds him quietly, “Or at least I do not remember it. I was raised in a St. Petersburg orphanage, and trust me when I say I did not learn love for emperors there. Or those who support them.”
Yuuri remains quiet, allowing Victor to voice his insecurities. It’s the least he can do after dragging him across Europe in the name of reward money, despite the diminishing appeal of that stack of rubles.
“What would I be worth to this great uncle?” Victor muses, a worried furrow between his brows, “There is no throne for me to be placed on, even if I wished for such a thing. I have no imperial treasure to offer. ...I won’t marry, or father heirs to carry on my supposed line.”
“You won’t?”
Victor’s mouth curves in a wry grin. “No, Yuuri,” he replies, tucking their bare feet together, “I won’t.”
“Oh.” Yuuri takes Victor’s free hand in his own.
“Maybe, the duke doesn’t have any grand plans,” Yuuri says, their fingers intertwined, “Maybe he just wants to know he has a family, the same as you.”
“I...I think I could stand being related to a man like that,” Victor muses with a soft smile, “Even if he is an enemy of the proletariat.”
They enjoy a few minutes of quiet, content to hold hands while Victor sips at his water. Yuuri can feel the call of sleep, but he can also sense that Victor still has more that he needs to put into words before they march into the unknown tomorrow.
“Yuura?”
There it is.
“Hm?”
“If the duke won’t see me--”
“He will,” Yuuri promises. Yuuri has a jewelry box, Mila’s word, and his own story to guarantee it.
“But if he won’t ,” Victor continues, stubborn, “If it turns out I’m not the prince, do you think maybe...I could just continue on with you, and Phichit?”
It’s a wonder that Victor can’t hear the sound of Yuuri’s heart breaking, like a champagne flute on cobblestones.
“I’m sure you have plans, where you’ll be going next,” he continues, “But if I won’t be too underfoot then perhaps--”
“Of course,” Yuuri promises easily. He knows for certain after all, who he is speaking to, and who the duke will recognize in a heartbeat at the ballet that evening. “Vicchan, we could never abandon you.”
Victor smiles, even though it looks terribly sad for some reason.
“Vicchan?” he repeats. Yuuri is glad Victor can’t see his blush in the moonlight.
“It’s a--a pet name,” he explains, “Like ‘Vitya’, but Japanese.”
“I know,” Victor replies, “I remember studying the honorifics.”
Another memory returned. Another hint at his royal heritage. Yuuri’s lover is not a fool. He can see Victor putting together the puzzle pieces one by one, though Yuuri already knows the final image. Victor, reunited with what family he has left. Victor, with his true name. Victor, without Yuuri.
Yuuri pulls Victor’s fingers to his lips. “Perhaps, after tomorrow, you will be Victor-sama,” he tries to joke, swallowing around a lump in his throat. Victor makes a very soft sound, closing his eyes as he squeezes Yuuri’s hand.
“I think tonight I would rather be Vicchan,” he says quietly. Yuuri pulls Victor close until he can press a kiss to his silver hair.
“We should try and get some sleep,” he suggests at last, “Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
Victor agrees, eyes heavy with exhaustion, and together they slide back under the sheets of the king size bed. They kiss for a few long minutes, soft, intimate exchanges that demand nothing more. They taper off naturally until Yuuri is placing one final press of his lips to Victor’s brow, his lover asleep beside him. Yuuri pets soft fingers through his hair, committing Victor’s features to memory, unguarded and peaceful in his rest.
In the dim twilight Yuuri lets slip the words he’d been determined to bury in his heart forever.
“I love you, Victor Nikolaevich.”