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Chapter Text

For ten years, Tsesarevich Victor Nikolaevich Nikiforov lived an idyllic life. As idyllic as the life of the heir to the Russian imperial throne could be. Too young yet for the arts of state, Victor studied the arts of court. Dancing, etiquette, imperial history. For as many hours a day as his tutors could manage Victor learned of the opulent beauty and genteel manners of his imperial birthright.

The prince was beautiful, like his parents, with his mother’s ice blue eyes and the famous silver hair of the Nikiforov line, which he wore long, nearly to his waist. He was thought by all to be a charming, happy child, beloved by all of court, and of course carefully insulated from the growing unrest among the common people of Russia. Victor knew only his loving family and dedicated servants, his gilded home, and the excitement of the sparkling balls his mother and father would host regularly at their St. Petersburg palace.

It was at one such ball that Victor found himself tonight. Finally deemed old enough for a proper suit, the young prince was feeling very proud in his white silk and red sash, a perfect miniature of his father’s imperial garb. His mother the empress Maria indulged him with a dance, playfully following Victor’s fervently practiced steps across the floor as Victor focused on not tripping over his mother’s ample skirts.

“Your waltzing has certainly improved since our last dance, Vitya,” his mother says warmly, allowing Victor to lead her carefully around a clear spot of the ballroom, “You’ll be highly in demand as a partner, as soon as you grow a little taller.”

“Mama!” Victor objects, indignant as his mother laughs. It’s true, the top of Victor’s head hardly yet reaches the empress’s shoulders, but he’ll be tall someday, like his papa! Victor informs his mother of this fact and she laughs again, bending to kiss Victor’s brow.

“I know, little one,” she agrees, “But don't hurry to grow up too fast. I’ll miss my sweet Vitya when you are tall and strong.”

“I’ll always be your Vitya,” Victor promises, foregoing the steps of the waltz to give his mother a hug, mindful of the delicate jewels adorning her gown. His mother pets her fingers through his long hair.

“Of course you will, moya zvezdochka,” the empress replies, “Now run along, I see your Uncle Yakov has arrived and I'm sure he’s eager to speak with you.”

Indeed, Victor turns to see his great uncle announced and offer his respects to the Tsar before casting his eye about the ballroom for Victor.

“Uncle Yakov!” Victor calls, waving as he did his best not to run across the marble floors. Duke Yakov was known by many as a reserved man, but it was little secret that Victor was his favorite. Having no children of his own the duke doted on the crown prince as much as his stern nature would allow, treating Victor as he would a beloved grandchild.

When he reaches his uncle Victor stops to bow, never forgetting his manners in the sight of the court. Yakov bows in return, slightly lower as is due the Tsesarevich, before Victor practically throws himself into his uncle’s arms.

“Ah, Vitya, you’ll knock an old man down with your enthusiasm,” Yakov greets him, returning his hug more carefully.

“I’m glad to see you, uncle,” Victor replies, “You don't come to enough balls, only papa’s stuffy meetings!”

Yakov laughs. “Parties are for young people and politicians. I'm not sorry to say I avoid them. But I could not avoid tonight, because I have something important to tell you.”

“What is it, Uncle Yakov?” Victor asks, but from his uncle’s solemn face he can guess, “You’re not leaving us again?”

“I am to be your father’s voice in France,” the duke informs him, “I will return to Paris in the spring.”

“But you’ve only just returned,” Victor objects, crestfallen. His uncle may be a grumpy old man, but he is secretly very kind, and he never talks down to Victor as if he were still a baby like much of the court does.

“I’m sorry, Vitya,” Yakov says with heart, patting the young prince on the head, “I would not leave you for the world, but we all have our duty to the crown, and it is an honor to fulfill mine.”

Victor nods, blinking away the burning behind his eyes. It would not do to cry in the sight of his father’s subjects. Crying was for babies who still slept in a nursery. “I will miss you terribly, Uncle Yakov.”

“And I you, moya ribka.”

Yakov kneels, as if to tell Victor a secret. “His Imperial Highness did mention,” he confides, “If a certain prince were to truly dedicate himself to his French lessons for the rest of the winter, he might be allowed to join me in Paris for a summer holiday.”

Victor gasps with delight, his tears forgotten. “Me?”

His great uncle chuckles good naturedly. “Yes, Vitya, I mean you,” he says, then sternly, “But you must study very hard, and never shirk your tutors, yes?”

“Yes yes!” Victor declares, “I will work so hard, uncle, I’ll be fluent by spring. I promise!”

“Very good. Now, I have a gift for you, to remind you of our agreement when I am gone ahead to France,” Yakov reveals, and Victor bounces on his toes in his excitement.

Yakov presents him with a ornate trinket box, small enough to fit in the palm of Victor’s hand, and with it a golden brooch, enameled with a simple map of Europe. A small stone marks St. Petersburg, and another Paris.

Yakov instructs him on how to fit the edge of the brooch into a groove on the little box, winding it up to reveal a secret compartment.

“A music box!” Victor exclaims, watching in wonder as a little carved figure with silver hair rises to dance around an equally miniature Eiffel tower, “It’s me! And such beautiful music.”

“Yes, from a new ballet written by a Russian composer in Paris,” Yakov explains, “If you come to see me we will go to see his show together.”

“It’s wonderful,” Victor says, clutching the little box to his heart, “Thank you uncle, I’ll treasure it.”

“Let it remind you to stay focused,” the duke encourages him, “You will have many duties to prepare for as Tsar before too long, but I want you to learn more about the world outside this palace before then.”

“I’ll study all day long,” Victor promises again.

“Good. The world is yours, Vitya,” Yakov says, pinning the brooch to Victor’s silk sash, “You must only keep your eyes open to see all its wonders.”

But Victor was not to see the world’s wonders with his beloved uncle, no matter how dutifully he applied himself to his studies. For the opulence of the Tsars had put into motion a revolution that would have deadly consequences for the whole Nikiforov line. The young Tsesarevich was not to know of the calamity approaching his carefully sheltered world until he was roughly awoken one bitterly cold February morning.

~

“Vitya. Vitya, wake up.”

A familiar gravelly voice pulls Victor unexpectedly from his rest.

“Uncle Yakov?” Victor is bleary with sleep, but it is indeed the duke shaking him awake. “It's so early. The moon is still out.”

“I know, young one, but we must hurry,” Yakov says in an urgent whisper, “We’re leaving for Paris now.”

“Paris?” Victor exclaims. He’s been dreaming of the city of lights, ever since his uncle spoke of his going.

“Yes, yes, I promised, didn't I?” Yakov replies, “You’ve been working very hard so we’re leaving early. Quickly now, you must dress. We have already packed your things.”

Victor hurriedly dresses in the plain traveling clothes his uncle provides, only stopping to pin his brooch to his undershirt and slip the small music box in his pocket.

“Do not bring extra things,” Yakov says when Victor reaches for his favorite stuffed dog, his voice still at a hurried whisper, “We will have everything we need waiting for us, and time is of the essence.”

Victor hardly pulls on his coat before Yakov is practically tugging him out of the room. As they pass a large stained glass window Victor can make out the flickering blur of torch lights. There are dozens of them, surrounding the palace.

“What's going on?” Victor asks his uncle, Paris forgotten for the moment, “Who are those people?”

“Do not mind them,” Yakov orders, leading Victor from the royal family's quarters, “Everything will be fine if you can be very quiet, and do exactly as I say, do you understand?”

“Yes, uncle,” Victor replies, jumping when he hears a crash in a room far away, and the muffled sound of angry voices.

He may be only ten years old but Victor knows that his uncle is not being entirely truthful with him. Something is terribly wrong.

“Come, Vitya, quickly,” Yakov urges him. There is another crash and Victor is frightened enough to obey without question.

They make their way through the labyrinthine halls of the grand palace, but when they come to the main stairs the shouting grows louder, and Victor smells smoke. His uncle curses, and makes to turn back when a voice calls out to them.

“Your grace, this way!”

It's one of the kitchen boys. Victor has seen him running errands for the cook on many an occasion, his curiousity piqued by their similar age and the boy’s foreign features. The boy’s normally warm skin looks pale, whether from the dim light or fearfulness Victor cannot say.

With no other option Yakov follows the boy, who leads them to a little used alcove in the main hall.

“Through the servant’s quarters,” the dark haired boy directs them, opening an unseen panel in the wall, “There won't be men there yet.”

“Thank you, boy.” Yakov makes to drag Victor along, but the jostling motion causes his music box to drop from the impractical pocket of his coat. The gold trinket goes rolling across the wood floor, causing a racket that draws voices from down the hall.

“My music box!” Victor cries, but the servant boy shoves him after his uncle, forcing him to abandon the prized possession.

“Leave it! You have to run, they're coming!”

Victor’s eyes lock with the boy’s as he pushes him through the secret door. He sees something beautiful there, but also fear to match his own.

“Go, quickly!”

The wall closes, leaving them in a cramped and darkened passageway. Victor’s heart is clenched in terror as he follows Yakov through the dingy servant’s hall, but he cannot forget the pretty eyes of the servant boy, as fearful as their gaze may have been. Warm sienna brown, like the polished wood of the carved hobby horse left behind in Victor’s room.

Victor allows his thoughts to distract him as they trip and stumble through the dark passageway, then out to a muddy back road still full of snow. Victor is tiring as they reach a more crowded lane, and he can hear the puffing breath of his uncle, but there is the whistle of a train and the duke urges Victor onward.

“Run, Vitya,” Yakov nearly shouts, “As best you can. We must make that train!”

He can hardly keep pace with his uncle’s longer stride, but Victor does his best to keep up, wincing at the vice grip of Yakov's hand around his own. They reach a set of tracks, covered in milling people. They crowd in and threaten to pull Victor from his uncle’s grip and Victor clings in fear. The train whistle blows again, and Victor can see the last car pulling slowly away from the station.

“Go Vitya, run!”

They catch up to the side of the departing train, where men on the caboose end help Victor’s uncle on board, easily lifting the taller man to the train car. Yakov reaches down for Victor, but the train is increasing speed, and Victor struggles to keep up. His hands skid and slip over Yakov’s gloved ones in a mockery of a secure grip.

“Victor, don't let go!” Yakov cries, “Hold on to me, Vit’enka!”

“Uncle Yakov!” Victor can't keep a grip on his uncle’s hand. The train is pulling away to fast, and Victor’s small hand is slick with perspiration. He’s too small to reach the men on the car trying to grab hold of him.

Yakov nearly has a hold of him when Victor’s boot catches on a rough cobblestone and he falls with a pained cry, losing his grip. His head strikes the hard ground and everything goes black.

His last memory is the ever more distant voice of his great uncle, still desperately calling his name.

Chapter Text

It’s a bright and snowy spring morning when Victor is kindly but firmly banished from the People’s Orphanage, with a second hand coat to keep him warm and a stray dog as his traveling companion. Already in his twenties Victor had long overstayed his welcome, and as much work and as many repairs as he always tried to do around the house it couldn’t outweigh the resources he took from the mouths of younger residents.  

Comrade Lilia, the house mistress, leads him to the gate to say farewell after as generous a breakfast as the overcrowded children’s home could manage.

“My brother has promised you a job on his fishing boat,” she tells him for the tenth time since this morning, “If you’re smart you’ll take him up on it.  He’ll even allow your mutt, as long as she keeps the rats away.”  

“You hear that Makkachin?” Victor says, giving his loyal poodle a scratch between the ears, “There is work for both of us in the village, should we seek our fortune there.  But who knows?  There are many paths for a man in life, yes?”  

Lilia rolls her eyes at Victor’s thinly veiled intentions.

“Do not go chasing crazy fantasies, moya ribka, ” Lilia urges him, “Marry a nice girl, then you will have a family. Work hard, contribute, and you will find your place.  It is simple.”

“Of course,” Victor agrees readily, but Lilia swats him anyway.  

“After all I have done for him he lies, right to my face, as if I cannot see the foolish plans swirling about his head,” she declares, looking heavenward for guidance.  

“Please don’t think me ungrateful, but I have to find my family, alive or dead,” Victor says, pointing to the tarnished brooch he was found carrying as a child, “And the only clue I have is--”

“Yes, yes, in Paris , so you’ve said.  No doubt full of godless capitalists.”  Lilia grumbles, but she still pulls Victor into a stiff hug.

“Be safe, Vitya,” she urges, “And if you cannot follow your good sense, then at least be sure to follow your heart.”

“Thank you, comrade,” Victor says, returning his surrogate mother’s hug, “I won’t forget the kindness you showed a lost orphan.”  

“I do my part for the common good and nothing more,” Lilia insists, though Victor can see a few tears blinked away as she shoos him down the lane from the orphanage with Makkachin in tow, “Now off with you, silly boy.  Make your own place in this world, and no more living off my soft-heartedness.”

“Goodbye, Lilia!”

With one more wave at the orphanage matron Victor adjusts his cap over his short cropped silver hair and makes his way up the snowy road.  It’s only a few minutes walk before he reaches a fork in the road.  Two worn signs identify his possible destinations.  On the left, the fishing village, and Lilia’s kin with their fishing boat.  On the right, St. Petersburg, and the means to travel all the way to Paris.

Staring at the two choices before him, Victor feels the keen weight of the enameled brooch pinned to his chest.  Undoing the fragile fastening, he examines the brooch for what must be the millionth time, fingering the worn Cyrillic lettering at the border of the enameled map.   The world is yours.

Sometimes Victor thinks he can hear, or maybe he imagines, a gruff voice promising those words to him.  Perhaps a father, or grandfather?  It is the only memory he can recall from before he was ten, found wandering the streets of St. Petersburg in the midst of the people’s revolution.  Victor was far from the only child to vanish or appear in the chaos, and like the rest he was given shelter and food until he was old enough to fend for himself, and find a way to contribute to the common good.  

Comrade Lilia has offered Victor such a path, only a few miles down the road if he takes the left-hand fork before him.  It would be an honorable life, but Victor would always wonder about his true lineage.  Yet, who is he to seek such a selfish destiny?  He is no different than his fellow workers, but still Victor’s heart longs for answers.  

Quite the moral conundrum lies before him.

“What do you think, Makkachin?” Victor asks, pinning the brooch back to his undershirt, “Are we to work on a fishing boat in the village, or try to find out who we are?”

Makkachin sniffs around the two signs before sauntering a few steps further and planting herself firmly on the muddy road to St. Petersburg.  Victor watches his silly dog with his hands on his hips, but Makka doesn’t budge.  

“This is your opinion then?” he asks.  Makkachin gives a firm boof , and Victor can’t help but laugh.

 
“Who am I to argue with such conviction?”  Victor hitches his satchel with his few meager belongings more firmly over his shoulder and takes the first steps of his long journey to find the truth of his origins.  

Chapter Text

“Have you heard?  They say a Nikiforov lives!”

“What, some third cousin or great aunt who wants to claim an imaginary throne from Prague?”

“No, Victor!  The Tsesarevich himself! They say he escaped the siege of the palace as a child.  They say he lives among us in hiding as a commoner!”

“According to the papers his uncle in Paris will pay ten million rubles to whoever delivers the crown prince to him alive. Ten million! Can you imagine such a sum?”

“That poor child, alone for all these years, he must have been so frightened…”

“Bah, if he lives he should be taken out and shot like the rest of his line.  The Nikiforovs brought the worker nothing but suffering!”

“Comrade, for ten million rubles, I’ll crown a new Tsar myself and the working class be damned!”

Katsuki Yuuri makes his way through the crowded marketplace as rumors swirl, accompanied equally by spitting curses and hopeful whispers.  The Tsar is dead, but Victor Nikiforov may yet live.

Yuuri is counting on those rumors to make him a fortune.  

He’s bound for the shipyards, winding through the narrow streets toward the busy docks.  Yuuri catches a few glances as he goes, but he’s hardly the first east Asian man to ever pass through the metropolitan city.  Gossiping aside, in St. Petersburg you mind your business, and your neighbors mind theirs.  Yuuri only pulls up the collar of his well patched black coat and continues on until salt air burns at his nose along with the chill wind.

“Yuuri!”

Phichit Chulanont waves from where he leans against a pier railing.  Yuuri waves back, joining his most trusted friend and business partner against the partition overlooking the sea.  Phichit practically glows against the grey backdrop of the sea, his gold skin and dark eyes setting him apart from the pale and dreary blur of the city.

Perennial foreigners despite their years of residence, Phichit and Yuuri had banded together in St. Petersburg, existing under the radar of the communist bureaucracy to scrape out a living in the contraband market.  In the ten years since the fall of the tsars they’d built a reputation, Phichit for his negotiations and Yuuri for his perfect forgeries.  

“Did Popovich pay what he promised?” Yuuri asks his friend.  He’d worked for a fortnight to perfect a Swedish travel visa for the lovelorn Russian in exchange for enough funds to pay their own way across Europe.

“Yup,” Phichit replies with a grin, opening his coat to reveal a healthy stack of rubles in his inside pocket, “Georgi’s going to Stockholm to chase after his fiancé and we are going to Paris, even if we have to bribe our whole way there.”

Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief.  “Good work, my friend.”

“It’s your good work that’s got us this far,” Phichit says, leaning on the railing beside him, “Your steady hand, that is.”

Yuuri nudges his friend, looking around to make sure there is no one within earshot.  Fortunately they’re alone on the pier.  “Careful talking like that,” he still urges, “Besides, you know I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Of course not, Yuuri.  We’re a team.”  

Yuuri nods with a half smile, looking out to the iron grey waves of the Baltic Sea.  

The seagulls squawk overhead and as always Yuuri is pulled back to a tiny seaside village in Japan, the homeland he barely remembers. The kind and weathered faces of his parents have blurred from his reaching for them in his mind’s eye.  He can recall more of his mother’s neat and looping kanji than her voice, from the weekly letters she of support she would send him while he worked in a foreign palace.  She would send news from Hasetsu, but always close with her pride and love for her young son, being so brave and chasing his dreams in the West.  Of course, after the revolution the letters stopped.  Once the palace fell Yuuri had no address to send them to.

Yuuri still has his mother’s letters, wrapped tight and hidden in the quarters he and Phichit keep in the abandoned palace.  The ink has faded but her words are still legible, along with the return address that Yuuri has never had the nerve to write back to.  Not since his dreams of the Bolshoi were shattered and he fell to counterfeit and petty crime to keep he and Phichit alive under the new government.  No, Yuuri cannot go home to his parents knowing the life they wanted for him, and the life he has had to live.

But maybe, with five million rubles in his pocket, Yuuri won't be ashamed to appear on their doorstep after all these years of silence.  The path to that money will be more daring than Yuuri ever thought possible to ask of himself.  But his journey home will depend on finding the boldness to pull off the con of the century.

“So we’re really doing this,” Yuuri muses.  

“There’s no one who can pull it off but us,” Phichit says, “We can make the visas, you have the prince’s music box.  We worked in the palace before the revolution.  The ten million is as good as ours.  All we need now is a convincing Victor to fool the duke long enough for us to get out of Europe.”

Yuuri shakes his head.  “It hasn’t been a successful search so far.”  

“The actors we auditioned were a letdown, I’ll admit,” Phichit shrugs, “But St. Petersburg is a big city.  We’ll throw our net wider, starting tomorrow.”

Yuuri nods.  “For now, let’s get some dinner.”  

“Yes!” Phichit crows, tossing an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder as they make to return to the city center, “First food, and then we find the missing Tsesarevich!”

“Shhh, Phichit!” Yuuri scolds his friend, “You’re going to get us arrested.”

Phichit just laughs.  “Ah, Yuuri, you worry too much.”

“And you too little,” Yuuri grumbles, but he sighs with a rueful grin and allows Phichit to lead him to their favorite pirozhki stand.

“Who knows,” Phichit says, “The right man could be strolling into the city, even as we speak!”

~

“One ticket to Paris, please,” Victor asks at the narrow teller window.  He’s been waiting in line for what feels like hours, his slim savings counted over and over in nervous hands.  

“Certainly, comrade,” the teller replies, “May I see your exit visa?”

“Ah.  Exit visa?”  Victor repeats.  “What’s that?”  

“Your travel papers, comrade,” the worker says, overly patient, “To leave the country you must have papers.”

When Victor only stares, confused, the teller rolls his eyes.  “No exit visa,” he declares, “No ticket.  Next in line, please!  Next!”

“Hey--”

Victor is quickly jostled out of line, hardly keeping hold of Makkachin in the crush of travelers.  He tries to fight his way back into line, but it’s for naught.  Discouraged, Victor falls onto an empty bench, returning his carefully counted rubles to his satchel.  Makkachin plops her head on Victor’s lap with a sympathetic whine.

“What now?” he asks the poodle, “We don’t even have a name to put on a visa.”

“ Pssst!”

“Hm?”  Victor looks around at the sharp sound.  His attention is caught by the wave of a bedraggled old woman.  “Are you talking to me, grandmother?”

“You need to see Yuuri,” she says, her voice a haggard whisper, “He can help you get your papers.”

“Who?”  Victor asks.

“Katsuki Yuuri, the foreigner,” the old woman repeats, “He lives in the old palace. ...But you didn’t hear it from me!”

Victor nods solemnly.  “Thank you.  Come, Makkachin.”

Walking away from the train station Victor asks around until someone is willing to point him towards the palace the old woman spoke of, nerves twisting in his belly all the way.  Who is this Katuski Yuuri?  Surely not a law abiding citizen, if he can provide an exit visa without the government’s involvement.  Victor can only hope he is not some sort of dangerous criminal.  What would Comrade Lilia say, if she knew Victor was already getting himself into such trouble only a day after leaving the village?  

Victor shakes his head as he spots the ruin of the imperial palace, but he trudges on.  If he plans to make it out of Russia, he has little other choice.

Chapter Text

The boarded up facade of the Winter Palace strikes an ominous first impression.  Victor makes his way along the seemingly endless rows of windows and columns, looking for any kind of entrance that might indicate an actual human being might be living in one of its myriad rooms.  

If Katsuki Yuuri is to be found here, Victor muses, he certainly doesn’t mean for the task to be a simple one.  

A waving scrap of tarp catches the corner of Victor’s gaze, caught on a doorway which doesn’t seem as securely nailed up as the rest.  

Before Victor can examine it more closely, Makkachin is bounding ahead of him, sniffing at the entrance eagerly.  She sticks her head through two boards and lets out an excited bark.       

“Makkachin, wait--”

But the poodle has already squeezed through the sizable gap in the boarded up doorway.  Victor tries to call Makka back, but he’s either being ignored, or his dog has already gotten herself into trouble inside.

With a grunt Victor manages to pull away a few more of the rotting boards, until the opening is large enough for him to follow his wayward companion with only a few splinters for his trouble.    

“Makkachin?”  he calls, coughing as he straightens up in a vast and empty room.  The air is stale carries the tinge of smoke.  Victor catches his balance against a ledge of gilt moulding and his fingers come away thick with dust.

This must have been the great hall of the palace, Victor muses, stepping further into the cavernous space.  His steps, soft as they are in his worn boots, echo off the marble floors.  The sound travels up, bouncing off the intricately paneled walls to the vaulted ceilings.  Like a cathedral, but for the worship of the Tsars instead of an imagined god.  And all of it, lying in ruin.  Brocaded wallpaper peels and flakes from the high walls, and cracks web the floors.  Victor sees empty frames and broken pedestals, likely stripped of their valuable art, to be sold or destroyed.  What was left behind has tarnished and mildewed.  

And rightfully so , Victor thinks to himself, No one should harbor this much wealth while the people struggle.

A faint boof interrupts his thoughts, and Victor spots Makkachin sitting in the middle of the massive ballroom, tail wagging contentedly.  Victor scurries across the marble floor until he catches up with the poodle, falling to one knee to hold Makkachin to his chest.

“Makka, you silly girl,” Victor scolds his unrepentant pooch, “You could have been hurt or lost in here, and where would that leave me?”

Makkachin licks his nose and wriggles out of Victor’s grip, venturing to the far end of the room and a grand staircase that has clearly seen better days.  With little choice Victor follows, wary of exposed nails or rotting steps.  

On the wall at the back of the first landing it appears a painting has been left behind.  Judging by the poor condition of the massive portrait and its scorched frame, it was deemed to damaged to be worth anything, and its subject matter too distasteful to be scavenged as a keepsake.

It’s the royal family.  Tsar Nicholas looks over Victor’s head, firm and imposing, his garb sparkling white and gold even under the decade of dirt and smoke that obscures the artist’s brushstrokes.  The emperor stands with his wife seated beside, dressed as if for an appearance before the court in a silk gown no doubt worth a fortune.  Standing between them is a young boy, dressed to match his father, with silver hair nearly to his waist.  He looks to be no more than eight or nine, hardly standing to his father’s waist.  A rip in the damaged canvas hides most of the boy’s figure, but he looks to possibly be holding a toy or a trinket, one hand held in the Empress’.  His face, however...

Victor squints at the lavish painting, a slight twinge at the back of his skull as he stares down the imperial family he was raised to curse at the name of.  Their figures are stiff and formal, from the Tsar and his wife to the little crown prince, all dressed in imperial silk, and all long dead.  But their eyes.  There is something alive and haunted about the gaze of the family looking back at him.

Victor can almost see the swirl of the Empress’ emerald skirts across the ballroom floor, and the ghost of a woman’s laugh echoes through his thoughts.

Careful, moya zvezdochka.  You don’t want to trip.

Now why would he imagine such a--

“Hey!  What are you doing in here?”

Victor startles as the voice echoes sharply across the ballroom and he turns to see two men appear from an unseen passageway.  He looks quickly for an escape route but finds none, not knowing whether it’s safe to take the stairs higher and blocked by the strangers at the foot of the staircase.  

With no other clear choice Victor faces the two men, letting Makkachin take a protective stance in front of him.  If he is lucky, one of these two is the Katsuki Yuuri he is seeking.  If Victor is unlucky...well.  

The first of the two strangers bounds up the stairs to confront Victor on the wide landing, though he seems more defensive than intimidating.  Judging by his skin and hair Victor would guess him to be South Asian, though his Russian had barely any accent when he had shouted.  He’s young.  Not a boy but certainly no older than Victor.  

“Listen pal, I don’t know who you think you are but--”

The young man’s accusation peters out as he stops, mouth agape to stare at Victor, and strangely enough to the portrait on the wall behind him.  

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, showing his empty hands to indicate he is not armed, “I didn’t intend to intrude. I’m looking for--”

“Yuuri, are you seeing this?”

Victor frowns as his words are ignored and instead the dark haired young man gives way to his companion, who approaches Victor more slowly with wide eyes.  

He’s dressed plainly, like his friend, a fitted undershirt revealed by the rolled cuffs of a thick flannel top with a conservative collar.  Despite his common fashion Victor finds himself foolishly distracted by the man’s sublime good looks.  

Where Victor’s complexion is underlaid with pink and maybe violet this stranger’s features are fleshed out in a warm tan, only left pale by the weak winter sunlight.  His dark hair is short and slicked back, leaving his high cheekbones and large brown eyes exposed to Victor’s gaze.  

Pretty eyes, Victor can’t help but think.  Warm, like well oiled leather.  

Despite the appeal of his visage, Victor doesn’t appreciate the man’s staring, as if Victor were a bug under glass to be examined.  He takes a defensive step back, keeping the stranger to his front and Makkachin close by his side.  

“Where I come from it’s considered rude to inspect a man like cattle,” Victor snaps, his back nearly against the rotting gilt frame of the royal portrait.  The stranger jumps, and colors slightly when he registers Victor’s irritation.

“Um, wow, sorry, it’s just you really look like-”

“What?” Victor demands, keeping one hand in his pocket around his few rubles, glad his brooch is pinned safely to his undershirt.  He is only one man and a dog against two, should these strangers turn out to mean him ill.  Even a beautiful man such as this one could prove to be a thief.

“Ah, nevermind.  How did you get in here?”  

“My dog got away from me, and I followed her,” Victor says, “I’m not trespassing, any more than you are, I imagine.”

“What’s your name?” The younger of the two men asks.  

“Victor.”

Both men start, making Victor take another cautious step backwards.

“Victor,” One of them repeats, “ Your name is Victor?”

“Yes,” Victor replies, “It’s hardly uncommon.”

The pair exchange a glance Victor doesn’t understand the meaning of.

“And your family name?”  The handsome one asks, “Your surname, that is?”

Victor shrugs, despite the skeptical look he receives.  “I don't know.  I was found alone in the city as a child.  I have no memory before that time, and so no family’s name to bear.”

“How about Nikiforov?” Asks his companion.

“Phichit--” the handsome stranger tries to shush his friend.

“What?” Victor asks.  “What is he talking about, with the Nikiforovs?”

“Nothing, don't mind him,” the man replies, “What can we do for you, Victor?”

“I’m looking for Yuuri,” Victor says warily, “Katsuki Yuuri.  The foreigner who I’m told can help with travel papers.  Are you him?”

“That depends on who’s looking for me,” the man who must be Yuuri replies, “And whether or not they call me a ‘foreigner’ before we’ve even met.”

“Her words not mine,” Victor says, though Yuuri seems more curious than affronted, “You certainly speak very good Russian.”

“Yes, well I’ve certainly lived here long enough.”

“I meant no offense,” Victor replies quickly, “They say you’re the man to see about getting an exit visa.”

“I might be,” Yuuri replies, “Where are you trying to go?”

“Paris.”  Victor unconsciously touches the brooch under his shirt.  “I'm hoping to look for my family there.”

“Paris,” Yuuri’s companion--Phichit?-- says meaningfully, “Do you hear that, Yuuri?  He’s trying to get to Paris .”

“That’s what I said.”  Victor is beginning to feel as if he is being left out of this conversation, and he doesn’t care for it.  “Can you help me or not?”

“We might!  It just so happens that we are also going to Paris,” Phichit explains, “We’re leaving in just a few days.  And we have--or, well, we’re going to have a third visa.”  

“Oh?”  Victor doesn’t know if his savings are going to be enough for a counterfeit visa, but surely they could work something out--

“But the visa is reserved,” Yuuri interjects.  Victor deflates.  

“Oh.”  

“For him.”  Yuuri points to the young prince in the deteriorating portrait.  “For the Tsesarevich Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor tilts his head, confused, as they all look back at the painting.  “What?”

“We’re going to reunite Victor Nikiforov with his great uncle the duke, Yakov Feltsman,” Phichit explains, “One of the only living relations left of the Nikiforov’s, and he believes the Tsar’s son is still alive."

“And you, Victor ,” Yuuri says with careful emphasis, “Strongly resemble the man the duke is looking for.”

Phichit nods his head in eager agreement.  “He certainly does.  Tall, like the Tsar--”

“Blue eyes, like Maria,” Yuuri agrees.

“He’s the right age,” Phichit declares, ticking of qualities on his fingers, “The same physical type, certainly the hair, a famous Nikiforov trait--”

Victor’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“You are mocking me,” he decides, “You see I am from the country and you think I am a fool who will be easily tricked.”

Both men shake their heads vehemently. “No, no--”

“You’re telling me that you think I am Victor Nikiforov?” Victor summarizes incredulously, “The Tsesarevich himself, who, I’ll remind you is only even rumoured to be alive?”

“The duke in Paris believes the rumors,” Phichit shrugs, “Why shouldn’t we?”

“All we know for sure, is we’ve seen dozens of men, all over St. Petersburg,” Yuuri explains, “And not one of them looks as much like the missing prince as you.”

“Not even close,” Phichit adds.  

“You’re insane,” Victor replies, “I’m not some missing Tsar’s son, and even if I was--”

“Who’s to say?” Phichit points out, “No one knows what happened to him, you don’t know what happened to you.”

“Do you have so much money just laying around?” Victor asks, “Neither of you know for sure that I’m the Victor Nikiforov you’re looking for.”

“You don’t know for sure that you aren’t , either,” Phichit argues, “If you’re telling the truth about your memories--”

“--which I am,” Victor insists.

“--then you have as good a chance of anybody in Russia of being the real deal.  Why not meet Duke Yakov and find out?  He’ll certainly know if you aren’t the real Victor.”

“Why would I even want to be known, if against all odds I were this lost Tsarevich?” Victor asks.

“ Tse- sarevich,” Phichit emphasizes, “The crown prince.”

“No matter,” Victor insists, waving the words away, “The Tsars were terrible .  If this duke is one of them he could well be terrible too, and then where would that leave me?”  

“You would know the truth.”  Yuuri’s gaze is serious. “An answer is an answer, whether it turns to be good or bad.  Either you want to know who you are, or you can live satisfied with the mystery.”

Victor falls silent at the forger’s plain words.  

“Look at him.”

At Yuuri’s urging Victor confronts the portrait once more.  The young prince’s gaze holds a new challenge now that he’s no longer just a specter of Russia’s opulent past.  He’s possibly alive.  Possibly walking around St. Petersburg.

Possibly Victor.

Victor obviously has no photographs of himself as a child but he can admit there is more than a passing resemblance.  They have the same coloring, even his silver hair, which not especially common even among the diverse shades of blonde to be found in his village.  Victor even had it long, like the young prince, very briefly.  One of his earliest memories of the orphanage is the matron cutting it to the close style he still wears today.  Much more practical in a house packed with children where nits and lice could flourish if not monitored with constant vigilance.

“Can you honestly say you’ve never wondered?” Phichit poses, “A boy with no memories who was found the same time that the last Tsesarevich disappeared?”  

“I…”  Victor stares at the portrait, a grounding hand in Makkachin’s fur.  “Maybe, once or twice.  But they were childish fantasies, like imagining I were a knight, or a ship captain.  Every little boy imagines he might be a prince.”  

“But supposedly there’s one boy somewhere in Russia who is.” Phichit says simply.  

“We would like to help you,” Yuuri says, “But this is what we have to offer.  Come with us to Paris and meet the duke, or don’t.  The choice is yours.  If you’re absolutely certain that you aren’t the prince, then Phichit and I will have to look elsewhere.”

Yuuri turns to retreat back into the palace, and Phichit, giving Makkachin a quick, forlorn pat on the head, goes to join him.  Their footsteps echo down the staircase as Victor continues to examine the portrait that he may well have sat for in a forgotten lifetime, if the two con men are to be believed.  

The nature of that statement alone is enough to give Victor a headache, and yet...  

A horrible, complicated, amazing knot of feeling has been winding itself in Victor’s chest ever since he was as young as the prince in this portrait.  Undoing it could set him free, or it could unravel Victor until there’s nothing left of him.  Katsuki Yuuri and his friend have only begun to tug on the threads.  

Staring at the haunted prince, Victor decides he will see the whole snarl untangled, whatever the risk may be.  

“Wait,” Victor calls, practically running down the stairs to catch up to the two men, “Comrade Katsuki! Phichit, wait!”

Yuuri and Phichit pause, their whispers interrupted by Victor’s outburst.  

“If you’re going to be joining us,” Katsuki Yuuri says with a weak grin as Victor reaches them, “Then just ‘Yuuri’ is fine.”

“Okay.  Just Yuuri,” Victor agrees, feeling the sound of the name in his mouth, “Because...I’m going with you.  I’ll be your Tsesarevich.”

“You’re sure?” Yuuri asks, “Once we leave the country, there’ll be no turning back.”  

Victor nods.

“I don’t know how I feel about this duke you speak of, or my being related to him,” he continues, “But you are right.  An answer is an answer, and whether or not I am not this Victor Nikiforov, if I go with you I’ll still be that much closer to the truth.”

“That’s the spirit!” Phichit’s smile is blinding as he shakes Victor’s hand vigorously.  “Phichit Chulanont.  It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ‘Your Highness’.”  

Victor wrinkles his nose.  “I’ll thank you not to call me that too often,” he entreats, though he returns the handshake.  It seems this Phichit Chulanont will serve as amiable a traveling companion as any, and Katsuki Yuuri as well, though he’s obviously more reserved than his personable friend.  While the forger lacks a certain outgoing manner he’s certainly not hard to look at, and both men will have knowledge Victor does not in regards to international travel.  

Victor shakes Yuuri’s hand as well, meeting his alluring brown eyes as they confirm their agreement.  

“Comrades,” Victor declares, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Chapter Text

“Comrades, I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Yuuri smiles weakly as Victor shakes his hand, doing his best not to let his gaze linger too hungrily over the handsome amnesiac who just agreed to serve as their missing Tsar’s son.  Yuuri has learned far too much cynicism in his years spent in the St. Petersburg underground to really believe Victor could be the actual Tsesarevich, but the Russian is certainly handsome enough to be royalty.  

Between his broad shoulders and blue eyes Yuuri can admit he was staring before he even noticed Victor’s resemblance to the Nikiforov prince.  But now that he has noticed...the two Victors are an uncanny match.  And Yuuri would know.  He remembers the young prince from his time as a servant in the palace.  He was only a child himself, running errands for the cook to pay for his room and board while he pursued his dance training, but who could not recognize the beautiful prince, constantly sparkling in imperial robes and his ethereal silver hair.  Yuuri’s few glimpses of the prince had glittered in his childhood memory.  

He doesn’t know what befell the duke and his nephew after their hurried escape from the palace that dark February night, only that Yakov Feltsman was said to have arrived in Paris some weeks later, alone.  What fate found the prince between the palace and safety in France Yuuri doesn’t know, only that he was likely one of the last people to ever see Victor Nikiforov, alive or dead.

“C’mon, you can stay with us tonight,” Phichit urges their new companion, “We found a fireplace in the East Wing that isn’t blocked.  It’s very cozy, and we still have some dinner leftover you can share!”

“Thank you, that’s very generous,” Victor says, following them into a corridor leading out of the ballroom, “Do you think we might be able to find some scraps for Makkachin as well?  We haven’t had much to eat since we arrived in the city.”

“I’m sure we can come up with something,” Yuuri agrees, allowing the poodle to sniff curiously at his hands.  Despite her protective stance when Phichit and Yuuri had surprised Victor in the ballroom it turns out the large dog is quite friendly.  Only a few moments after they reach their clandestine quarters in the East Wing Phichit is stretched out on a faded Oriental carpet, giving the delighted poodle a very thorough belly rub.    

“What a great dog,” he declares.  That seems all that’s necessary to secure him Victor’s friendship, and the two spend some minutes doting on Makkachin and making small talk while Yuuri gets started setting out his inks and seals at an oak desk in one corner of the abandoned study.  He hears Victor laugh at the poodle’s antics and it’s a startling ghost of the prince from Yuuri’s past.  With a firm shake of his head Yuuri banishes such foolish thoughts.  The real Victor is probably dead like the rest of the Nikiforovs.  Still, this Victor Yuuri and Phichit have found is a better candidate than most, and he practically fell into their laps after weeks of fruitless searching.  Yuuri isn’t superstitious, but he’ll take a sign from the universe when he’s given one.  This is their best chance to fool the duke, and even better with Victor’s amnesia he won’t be blamed if Feltsman discovers their deception after the fact.  That guilty thought had been circling Yuuri’s nightmares, and he was glad to be relieved of the burden.  All they have to do is get Victor to Paris and let Duke Yakov make a judgement for himself.

“I’ll get the kettle going,” Phichit volunteers, bouncing up to stoke the embers in the fireplace, “We’ll get you and Makkachin something to eat and let Yuuri finish our paperwork.  Tomorrow we’re bound for France!”

Now that they've found their prince, it's only a few minutes work to add the proper departure dates to Phichit and Yuuri’s visas.  Yuuri labors through the night to complete a third, for one Victor Baronovskovich, with permission from the travel secretary to visit his ailing uncle in Paris.  The ink is still drying on the false seals and signatures when they depart for the train station early the next morning.  

It’s a crush of morning traffic as usual as they make their way through the city center on foot.  Victor has only a small satchel but Yuuri and Phichit both carry a suitcase, with what formal clothes they could scrounge up and whatever else they could think of that might be useful in preparing Victor to impress the duke and his entourage.  Between the three of them and Makkachin it’s a challenge to get through the crowds and they can see their train preparing to depart as they finally reach the station.

“Right on time,” Phichit says, checking their tickets for the millionth time, “Everyone have their visas?”  

Victor holds up his, the little red book looking perfectly legitimate.  They won’t know for sure, however, until they’ve already handed them over to the authorities.  This is by far the riskiest portion of their journey, and all their success or failure dependent on Yuuri’s forged paperwork.  Discovery could mean arrest and imprisonment with all hopes of ever seeing home again dashed.  

Anxiety spins nauseous circles behind Yuuri’s lungs as they reach the tracks.  It leaves him tense and irritable, and just generally unpleasant to be around.  Phichit knows Yuuri well enough when to shepherd him along and keep quiet until the fugue has passed them over, but Victor does not, and the Russian seems to have his own problems as they near the whistling train.  

“You look a little pale, Victor,” Phichit notices as well.  Victor shrugs, his eyes squinted against the weak daylight and a frown creasing his brow.  

“Just a headache,” he explains, “Too much noise, perhaps.”

“It's always a madhouse around here,” Phichit agrees, “Say, have you ever even been on a train?”

“No,” Victor replies, looking at the locomotive with some trepidation, “I never have made it onto one.”

An odd choice of words , Yuuri thinks as they approach the soldiers inspecting travel visas at the compartment doors.  They shuffle to the front of the queue with their visas in hand, tickets still stowed away in Phichits suitcase to be inspected later.  

It’s a tense few moments before Yuuri, then Phichit, and finally Victor’s travel permits are approved and they’re waved on board the train.  Yuuri does his best not to breath an obvious sigh of relief as they carry their bags down the awkwardly narrow aisle to a private compartment towards the middle of the line of cars.  They’ve made it past the first hurdle, but they’re still far from safety, sitting ducks on a stationary locomotive surrounded by guards.

“This is comfy,” Phichit says, stowing his suitcase under the cushioned bench seat, “I wonder if the dining car is nearby.”

Yuuri is quick to pull the compartment door shut, closing the trio and Makkachin into the close space.  The fuzzy shadows of other travelers and conductors alike are visible through the frosted glass that separates their two facing seats from the corridor.  Sitting in the middle of the train they have to deal with more passengers passing back and forth, but typically the guards checking tickets will start at the front and the rear of the train, giving their ragtag group more time to come up with a plan if something goes awry.

No sooner have they settled their baggage then the engine whistle sounds again and the train sets into motion with a lurch.  Victor goes stiff at the first chugging motions of the train pulling away from the station, his hands tight in Makkachin’s fur.  Yuuri only hopes the man doesn’t get motion sickness.

The silence is thick in the first few minutes of the trip, or so it seems to Yuuri’s anxious mind.  Phichit has given up on trying to engage Victor in distracting conversation and has his nose buried in a pamphlet of French tourist information.  Yuuri’s restlessness is only worsened by Victor’s, the man bouncing his leg against the floor of the compartment in a manner that sets Yuuri’s teeth on edge.  

“Can you stop that?” Yuuri asks, sharper than he means to.

“Stop what?  You’re shifting around worse than I am,” Victor replies, “You’re going to make the crew suspicious.”

“They’re going to look at us suspiciously no matter what,” Yuuri bites out, indicating himself and Phichit, “It’s your job to look ‘properly’ Russian so they’ll pass us by, so stop fidgeting, your highness .”

It's a low blow, and Yuuri immediately feels bad for digging at Victor’s insecurities about his possible lineage, but with every shout of Russian outside their compartment Yuuri is certain they've been found out and trapped, without an alleyway or a crowd to vanish into should the authorities target them.

To his surprise Victor doesn't seem to take offense.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  He leans in further to Yuuri’s personal space than he ever has in the short time they've known each other, fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly.  Yuuri clears throat, cheeks warm.

“Yuuri,” Victor simpers, drawing an extra vowel of Yuuri’s short name, “Do you really think I’m royalty?”

Despite the tension, Yuuri does his best to summon a reassuring smile.  “Of course I do.”  

Victor tilts his head and his grin turns sharp.  “Then why are you telling me what to do?”

“Okay!” Phichit interjects before Yuuri can reply and further the conflict, “I'm going to see about some tea.  Victor, why don't you join me?”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Victor declares, leaning back into the cushioned seat with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yuuri?”

“No,” Yuuri says curtly.  Then, feeling bad for snapping at his friend, “But thank you, Phichit.”

“Ugh, fine, suit yourselves.”  Phichit leaves the compartment with a huff, abandoning Yuuri to Victor’s stubbornness.  Sure enough, the man cannot seem to keep silent.

“It’s just as well if I’m not royalty,” Victor pipes up only a moment later, diving right back into their row, “Monarchies are a millstone around the neck of the working class.”

Yuuri sighs, pushing his hair back from his eyes.  “Oh great, he’s a communist.”

“I’m Russian , of course I'm a communist,” Victor replies, “Or haven't you been paying attention to politics for the last ten years or so?”

“You’re supposed to be the heir to the imperial throne!” Yuuri snaps.  Victor merely shrugs.  

“You can’t choose your family.”

Yuuri gives up on that argument, instead picking up the travel book Phichit had left on his seat.  He ignores Victor and does his best to focus on a useless list of Parisian travel advice.  

Victor huffs, frustrated that Yuuri refuses to engage him.  He stands, pulling his coat firmly around his middle.  

“I think I'll catch up to Phichit after all.”

Yuuri doesn’t look up from his pamphlet.  “Fine.”

The compartment door has hardly closed before Yuuri is tossing Phichit’s pamphlet aside.  With a groan he drops his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples and wishing his roiling thoughts would just be quiet please.

Yuuri’s brooding is interrupted by a wet nose snuffling into his hair.  He laughs despite himself when Makkachin punctuates her sniffing with a slobbery kiss to his nose and deposits her head in Yuuri’s lap.

“I’m sorry you have to put up with our sniping,” Yuuri tells the poodle morosely, “Your Victor doesn’t seem like a bad fellow.  I didn’t mean to be so short with him.”

Makkachin just whines and tilts her head for ear scratches, which Yuuri gladly provides.  He takes a few minutes of silent comfort from Victor’s dog, until his two companions return, bringing a whiff of steam and a fragrant hint of orange oil with them.  Judging by the mugs in their hands they were successful in finding the dining car.

Yuuri is surprised to find a steaming cup thrust under his nose.  Holding the reviving beverage isn’t Phichit, as Yuuri might have expected, but Victor.  

“Something hot to drink always helps to clear my head,” he murmurs, balancing his own drink carefully in his other hand.  

Yuuri is sure he’s doing a poor job of hiding his surprise, and he feels another tendril of guilt for his foul mood earlier.  Victor has just left behind the only world he’s ever known, with no guarantee that he’ll ever see St. Petersburg again, and despite their irritation at each other he’s still tried to offer Yuuri this small kindness.  Yuuri takes the offered cup, glancing up at Victor as he wraps his fingers around the crooked handle.

“Thank you.”

Victor shrugs, but some of the tension drains from the set of his shoulders.  “It’s nothing,” he says quietly, taking a seat across from Yuuri.

Maybe it’s Victor’s peace offering, or the smooth rhythm of the train reaching full speed, or just some unknown chemical in Yuuri’s brain finally deciding to kick into gear, but the knot of anxiety in his belly begins to unravel.  With relief he finds he can enjoy the strong black tea, warmth seeping into his fingers from the cheap ceramic.  

The trio sip their tea in a much more comfortable silence as the noise on the train drops with passengers finally getting settled.  Victor parts the threadbare blackout curtain blocking the window of their compartment and the space is warmed by watery sunlight streaming in from the chilly landscape racing by.  He stares out the window, expression pensive, and not for the first time Yuuri wonders what must be going through their supposed Tsesarevich’s head.  Victor as far as he knows has never been on a train, has never left the village he’d been raised in on the outside fringe of St. Petersburg.    

“Will you miss it?”

Victor breaks his gaze out the window to examine Yuuri, surprise evident in his features.

“Miss what?”

“Russia,” Yuuri asks, “You were born here.  Or you think so at least.  Are you sorry to leave?”

Victor shrugs. “I’ve never known anything else,” he says, “But who knows?  There’s no one waiting for me in St. Petersburg, and I could have a whole family looking for me in Paris.  I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by looking forward.”

“That’s a pretty mature view of things,” Phichit says, and Victor laughs, a little rueful.  

“Do not mistake me,” he assures them, “I’m scared out of my wits.  But I can only make my choices and face what comes.  The rest is out of my control.”  

Yuuri nods.  “I understand,” he says.  Victor offers him a smile, and Yuuri finds he can finally return it.  Victor returns his gaze to the countryside flying by, and Yuuri catches himself staring at his reflection in the frosted window.  Victor catches his eye in the reflection and winks, and Yuuri hurriedly averts his gaze, his cheeks heating.  How embarrassing.

Even worse is when Yuuri realizes Phichit was able to observe the moment as well.  His friend is practically bouncing in his seat, still pretending to be immersed in his booklet.  Yuuri rolls his eyes. He’ll be sure to hear all about this the moment Phichit can find an excuse for the two of them to talk alone.

Victor makes a sound that calls their attention back to the window just in time to see a signpost zoom by.  Yuuri misses the exact wording on the weather worn sign, but Phichit is beaming, and Victor’s eyes alight with a kind of excitement as well.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Latvia.”  

They all stare in wonder at the new landscape.  The melting snow and dark pines are practically identical to the ones they were looking at just moments ago, and yet somehow they’re brand new.  They’ve made it past the border.  They aren’t quite out of danger yet, but mile by mile, they’re leaving Russia behind them.  

With the surety of their journey well underway there’s a unified breath of relief among them, and the trio settles into the doldrums of a long train ride.  Phichit reads, Yuuri works on a note to their contact in Paris to be posted at a convenient stopover, and Victor stares out the window, fiddling with something under his shirt.  It’s boring, which is exactly the kind of travel Yuuri is hoping for.

“I think I’ll let Makkachin stretch her legs,” Victor declares after an hour or so.  He collects Phichit and Yuuri’s empty tea cups and steps out into the hall with Makkachin in tow.

No sooner does the compartment door click shut than Yuuri finds himself face to face with a smug Phichit.  

“Don’t--”

“You liiike him,” Phichit coos, batting his eyelashes.  

Yuuri sighs.  “I barely even know him.”

“Yuuri, my friend, my confidant, my bosom companion--”

“For god’s sake--”

“The tension is rife between the two of you,” Phichit declares, “It’s a long way yet to Paris, why not enjoy the journey?  Victor certainly seems amenable to a gentleman’s attentions."

“You don’t know that,” Yuuri says pointedly.  

“I have two eyes,” Phichit retorts, “And I’ve been forced to watch Victor undressing you with his since like ten minutes after we met and he figured out we weren’t trying to rob him.  Neither of you are putting your best foot forward today, that's for sure, but it doesn't mean he isn't interested.”

“He's not…”  Yuuri gives up on that argument.  He certainly noticed Victor’s looking.  Yuuri isn't so accustomed to the attentions of good looking people that he doesn't notice when he receives them.  But looking is one thing.  Acting on those looks is another thing altogether.

“This is hardly an appropriate time for romantic pursuits,” is the defense Yuuri settles on, causing Phichit to groan in frustration.

“This is the most appropriate time,” he disagrees, “You're obviously stressed.  We're in the middle of the biggest con of our lives, and it could all go horribly wrong at any moment.”

“Thank you for pointing that out.”

“I call them as I see them, Yuuri-kun,” Phichit continues, “Now, what’s the best way to relieve stress?  Find a nice closet and get to know that insanely handsome stranger who is obviously a fellow friend of Oscar Wilde.”

Phichit’s misguided attempt at matchmaking is interrupted by Victor’s sudden return.  He’s out of breath, and the worried crease has returned to his brow as he ushers Makkachin inside and closes them into the compartment.

“Are you alright?” Yuuri asks, concerned.

“I think there may  something wrong with our tickets,” he says, voice low and urgent.  In his hand Victor reveals the crumpled stub of a punched ticket.  

“It was left behind in the dining car,” he informs them, “But if I recall, the tickets you showed me, Phichit, were--”

Phichit curses and goes digging through his suitcase, emerging with an envelope that holds their passes.  The tickets are pristine, clearly dated and labeled, and printed on blue card.  The wrinkled remnant in Victor’s hand is a faded red.

At that moment they hear two compartment doors down the hall open and close, equidistant from their own.  As Yuuri had hoped the officers must have begun punching tickets at the ends of the train, meaning they were just getting to the middle compartments now.  However the delay wouldn’t change the fact that the tickets being punched were definitely red, and the passes in Phichit’s hand were undeniably blue.  

“That damned Mikael, he told me they were aboveboard,” Phichit curses, “We didn’t even have to fake them I was just trying to save the trip to the ticket office!”

“We can’t be sure they’re fakes,” Yuuri points out, “Victor might have found a ticket from a previous route.  They change the colors to weed out counterfeits, after all.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Victor asks.  

“That would be a disaster, but we have to pretend innocence,” Yuuri insists, “They approved our visas so they have no reason to suspect we’re anything but tourists who were scammed.  A false ticket is bad, but a falsified visa is a prison sentence.”

“Alright, we’ve got no other choice, we’ll run with it,” Phichit decides, “Everyone just act natural.  Hopefully everything’s fine, but if not we know nothing and we’re totally surprised.”

They throw themselves back into their seats just as there is a polite knock at the compartment door.  

“Tickets please.”  The uniformed conductor hardly looks up from his clipboard, a silver punch at his belt.  Yuuri can only pray their tickets see its use.

“Of course, officer,” Phichit replies sunnily, “I have them right here.”

Yuuri is sure his heart has paused beating for the long seconds it takes for Phichit to fish their passes out of their envelope, handing them to the conductor as if he hasn’t a care in the world.  The officer hardly looks at the tickets, already reaching for the punch at his belt.  

Yuuri is ready to breath a sigh of relief when the man does a double take and frowns, flipping over all three tickets.  His expression goes stony, and Yuuri's stomach does an unpleasant flip.

“Is there a problem?” He asks.

“Where do you purchase these?” The conductor demands, his tone professional but only just.  

There is a painful beat of silence.

“From my comrade Petrov,” Victor pipes up unexpectedly.  Phichit and Yuuri both look to their companion in surprise, but Victor continues confidently with his bold faced lie.  

“We work together on a fishing boat in my village.  He had wished to travel but his visa was not approved.  I heard my uncle in Paris had fallen seriously ill and Petrov sold them to me so that I could visit him before he passed,” he explains, “I hope this was not improper?”

“As long as your visas are in order I would not care.  However,” the conductor says, waving the blue passes below their noses, “These tickets are not legitimate.”

Fortunately, both of Yuuri’s companions are much better actors than he is.  Victor’s face falls into an expression of open shock, and Phichit practically leaps to his feet.  

“What?!”  Phichit demands, pulling himself up to his full height of nearly five foot nine for maximum effect, “Officer, are you telling me my friend was sold counterfeit tickets?  This is an outrage!  An insult!  We paid hard earned rubles for those tickets and we were given fakes ?”

“I am going to have to ask you to come with me,” The conductor decides, “And bring all your belongings, please.”

“Of course,” Phichit agrees, tugging his suitcase from under their seat with an aplomb Yuuri certainly does not share, “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, if I have to write to the travel secretary himself!  Never in my life have I been so deceived!”

Yuuri and Victor follow their friend’s lead, their fate unknown as they allow the conductor to lead them from their train car.  

Chapter Text

“Well, it was kind enough of them to let us ride to the next stop,” Phichit points out after they are unceremoniously booted from the train in a nowhere town at the north edge of Poland.  

“Yes, Phichit, it was very nice of them to not literally throw us off a moving train.”

“It was nice of them not to arrest us,” Victor says, picking up one of their suitcases from the dusty train platform, “It seems I did choose my traveling companions wisely, between Phichit’s acting and your handwriting, Yuuri.  Our visas were so good that they believed we were duped.”

“We were duped,” Phichit insists with an uncharacteristic scowl, “After all the dealings I’ve had with Mikael, he thought he could scam me.  He’d better hope I never make it back to St. Petersburg or he’ll be in for the talking to of his life .”

“You put yourself at risk, back there, with that bit about buying the tickets,” Yuuri says to Victor over Phichit’s grumbling, “Thank you.”

Victor shrugs.  “I thought, like you said, if the lie came from a ‘proper’ Russian, they might look the other way.  It was probably foolish to speak up, I don’t doubt you or Phichit could have handled it.”

“Well you could have done worse,” Yuuri says, “Or just thrown us to the wolves and saved your own skin.  You wouldn’t have been the first, and the officer would have taken your word over ours.”

“We shook hands,” Victor replies, aghast, “I would not have betrayed either of you so easily.  I’m just sorry the lie wasn’t more effective.”

“Well, we’re in Poland and not on our way to Siberia in shackles,” Yuuri says, picking up his own bag, “Safe to say it was effective enough.”

Victor grins.  “A collective effort,” he cedes.  

“Alright, with the smiling and the complimenting each other,” Phichit interrupts, back to his cheerful self after a few licks from Makkachin, “We need to figure out a plan B, and I need a sandwich.  Let’s see what passes for a pirozhki stand around here.”    

“Lead the way, comrade.”

Still worn out from the stress of the train, Yuuri lets Phichit do what he does best, make friends and find information.  The locals don’t seem thrilled to hear Russian from his friend, but they understand each other well enough and after a few rubles passed Phichit finds out what he needs to know.  

“There’s another village, about ten kilometers that way,” Phichit informs them over a pint of beer at a local public house, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb, “It’s on a major roadway, lots of trucks passing through with shipments bound for Germany.  Our comrade behind the bar thinks if we get lucky we could get a ride all the way to Stralsund.”

“Stralsund?” Victor repeats around a mouthful of stuffed cabbage.

“It’s a port city,” Yuuri explains, “It’s likelier we could book passage on a ship to France than hitchhike all the way there.  Shorter and safer.”

“I see you’re both determined to get me on every possible kind of transport,” Victor says, “Why don’t we just take an aeroplane to Paris?”

“Would if we could pal,” Phichit replies, ignoring Victor’s gentle sarcasm, “We’d be there by dinner.”

“At this rate we might make it to that village by dinner,” Yuuri says, looking out a thick glassed window to check the height of the sun, “Which would give us our best chance of catching a driver to give us a ride, so we should get going soon.”

“Right you are,” Phichit agrees, offering the crusts of his sandwich to a delighted Makkachin, “Onward to victory!”

~

Whether it’s leaving Russia behind them or just spring finally arriving, but walking down the thinly wooded lane leaves Yuuri feeling hot under the mild sun.  After an hour or so of their march he can even shed his coat, packing the heavy wool away in his suitcase.  Victor and Phichit follow suit, and with a cool breeze at their backs they continue on.  With nothing but time and the road ahead, they do their best to make conversation and keep up a good pace.

In no time Phichit is gushing about Paris, and all it’s cosmopolitan delights, with Victor listening attentively.  

“And the food ,” Phichit says, pretending to swoon, as they pass over a little stream with footbridge, “So much butter in everything!  Christophe says--”

“Christophe?” Victor repeats curiously.  

“I forgot, you don’t know Chris yet,” Phichit says, excited, “He’s gonna love you, you’re just crying out for a makeover.”

“Eh, hang on--” Yuuri tries to interject, but his friend is not be distracted.

“Chris the Swiss!” Phichit exclaims, “Only the coolest cat in all of Paris.  He came for the Olympics and stayed for the nightlife.  He knows where all the best clubs are.  And his style!  We could only dream of having Christophe’s fashion taste.”

“Phichit--”

“Maybe he’ll take us shopping!  No more production clothing for us!”

“ Who is this Christophe?” Victor asks loudly, “And why are we seeing him?  I thought we were going to see Duke Yakov.”  

Great , Yuuri thinks.  The cat is out of the bag.

“Christophe Giacometti is our friend,” Phichit explains, “And Mila Babicheva is his friend.”

“There’s a Mila as well?” Victor follows, “Why are we dealing with all these extra people?”

“Mila is Duke Feltsman’s first cousin, once removed,” Yuuri concludes, hesitantly, “Anyone who thinks they’ve found the missing prince has to convince Mila first.  So we’ll be meeting her, so you can prove you aren’t, well, a fraud.”

There’s a decisive thunk and Yuuri and Phichit stop to find that Victor has dropped his suitcase in the middle of the road, and is standing stock still.  His arms are crossed over his chest and there’s a dangerous glint in his eye.

“ Yuuuuri ,” he says, drawing out the vowel impossibly long, “This was not part of the arrangement that we discussed.  You never said there would be a test .”

“You agreed to be the Tsesarevich--”

“No, no no,” Victor snaps, wagging his finger, “I agreed to see if I was the Tsesarevich.  Be polite, let you dress me up, if you insisted, to meet this duke as if I am better than my fellow workers--”

“Victor--”

“But pretend?” he continues, ignoring Yuuri, “ Lie ?  To a woman I’ve never met?”

“You don’t know that it’s a lie,” Yuuri points out, “What if you really are him?”

“It will still be a lie if I show up pretending to have memories and information that I don’t have!” Victor shoots back, “I don’t know anything about the Nikiforovs except that they were awful and we are better off without them!  How would I prove to this Mila that I am one of them?”

“We’ll help you!” Phichit assures him, “I worked in the palace before the revolution.  Yuuri and I both did.  We know things about the imperials that hardly anyone else could in this day and age.”

“And what we didn’t know, we learned,” Yuuri reveals, “While we were looking for you.  We found all kinds of hidden documents and artifacts in the palace, even after the Bolsheviks stripped it.  We can teach you what you need to know.”

Victor groans in frustration, taking off his cap to run his fingers through his silver hair.  “I don’t want to be dishonest,” he grumbles, “And you saw yourselves, I am hardly an actor.  I thought--”

“What? We could just drop in on the duke for a call?” Yuuri asks, “Yakov Feltsman is extremely private, not to mention one of the last living relatives of a royal family that was very famously and recently executed.”

“He doesn’t see many visitors,” Phichit concludes, “We’re lucky we have the connection through Christophe at all.  This is our best chance.   Your best chance, to know for sure if you’re the prince or not.”  

“You can tell Duke Yakov the truth, as soon as you meet him,” Yuuri promises, “And let him figure it out.  But this is what it takes to get that far.”

Victor turns to stare back to the east.  Back to Russia, and St. Petersburg, and the village orphanage that he’s already made clear he isn’t welcome back to.  Yuuri feels guilty seeing the indecision written on Victor’s features, but this is a commitment that has to be made, and nothing Yuuri or Phichit say can make the decision for him.

“Would you really go back, at this point?” Yuuri asks.  

“I…”  

When Victor seems frozen with uncertainty Makkachin intervenes, trotting to Victor’s side to nose at his hand with a whine.  Victor shakes his head, kneeling down to pet the poodle.

“What do you think?” he asks her seriously.  

Makkachin offers what Yuuri hopes is an affirmative boof .

“Your advice is going to get me into trouble one day, silly girl,” Yuuri hears Victor mutter before giving Makkachin one final pat on the head and facing Yuuri and Phichit once more.

“Teach me what you know,” he asks, “Make me this Tsesarevich you remember.  I do not like it, but I can only do my best.”

“Yes!” Phichit cheers, slapping Victor on the back, “You can do it.  We have the utmost confidence in you.”  

“You do?” Victor asks, looking directly at Yuuri.  

“We do,” Yuuri agrees, with a firm nod.  

“We’ll get started right away,” Phichit says, picking up his suitcase again, “Now, you were born on Christmas day in nineteen-oh-seven…”

~

In the end it takes nearly three days before they’re finally nearing their destination and the possibility of a sea voyage to France.  With a few bribes and one memorable afternoon helping to unload a delivery of live chickens Yuuri, Phichit, and Victor take a truck, a bus, and a farmer’s wagon full of hay bales nearly all the way to Stralsund.  It’s cramped seating, hurried meals and breaks for Makkachin, and learning the highs and lows of traveling in close quarters.  All the while Phichit and Yuuri instruct Victor on hastily drawn diagrams of palaces and place settings on the backs of newspapers and napkins.  He absorbs their lessons like a sponge, listing dates and names as if he already knew them, and only required a reminder to bring the knowledge to the surface.

As he may well have , Yuuri reminds himself more than once.  As miniscule as the odds may be, there is the slimmest chance that Victor is actually on his way to meet his own great uncle.

Yuuri ignores the strange kind of unhappiness that begins to hover around that thought as the three travelers and their canine companion make their way slowly but surely across Germany.

They’re still nestled in among the hay bales as they near sunset on the third day of their overland journey.  Their driver is trying to push through the night to make it to Stralsund before morning, which is fine by Yuuri and his companions.  Aside from the occasional bounce from a rough patch of road it’s been an easy ride.  Victor is taking a well earned break from memorizing the lineage of the Nikiforovs, snuggling with Makkachin while Phichit tries to teach him some simple French for getting around in Paris.  Yuuri listens contentedly, enjoying the golden evening light catching on Victor’s figure as he parrots back “Ça va?” and “S'il vous plaît” to an impressed Phichit.  

“Your pronunciation is really good,” he admits, “Do you have French relatives or something?”

“I have no idea,” Victor reminds him, “Can I take a look at your booklet? I want to try something.”

“You probably won't be able to read the lettering.  It's not Cyrillic,” Phichit warns, but Victor still takes the pamphlet, scanning the Latin script with a curious focus.  

“Je ne comprends pas,” he reads aloud in halting but correct French, “ Pouvez vous parler plus…plus lentement, s’il vous plait?”

Yuuri can only stare in shock.

“Did they teach you that at the orphanage?” Phichit asks incredulously.

“Certainly not.”  Victor looks as confused as either of them.  He flips through the little book, reading selections out loud with only the occasional correction from Phichit or Yuuri.  

“Okay, I’m gonna call this a significant clue to your past,” Phichit says as last, “You can read and speak a grammar school level of French.  Not something your average peasant’s son learns in Imperial Russia.”

“I must have been born into the bourgeoisie ,” Victor realizes, looking as if he's bitten into a lemon.   

“So your lost memories are no joke,” Phichit says, ignoring Victor’s dramatics, “I wonder what other languages you’ve forgotten you learned.”

“ How about English?” Yuuri asks, calling up his rusty British vocabulary, “ Can you speak it?”

Victor tilts his head, a furrow between his brows.  “I understand what you said,” he decides, “Asking if I speak English.  But I wouldn't know how to reply.”

“Khâo jai mái?” Phichit asks in what Yuuri has come to recognize as his friend’s native Thai, but Victor shakes his head right away.  

“Sorry, nothing there,” he says.  Phichit just shrugs and laughs.

“It was a long shot,” he admits, “How about Japanese?  Yuuri?”

“ Hajimemashite, Victor-san ,” Yuuri says after a moment's hesitation, inclining his head in a short bow, a habit nearly forgotten, “ Nihongo wa dekimasu ka ?”

Victor startles.  “I didn't get everything,” he says, eyes wide, “but the first part was ‘how do you do’, yes?”

“Ugh, Japanese but not Thai?” Phichit laments, “Victor, how could you.”  

“I hardly chose one over the other,” Victor objects, “Why on earth would I have learned Japanese as a child?”

“Well, the two empires have certainly had their dealings,” Yuuri says, thoughtful, “And there was the war, just before our time.  Maybe your father was in the military, or you parents were involved in trade or diplomacy.”  

Or royalty , goes unsaid between the trio.

“Ugh, all this is going to make my eyes cross,” Victor declares, collapsing onto a hay bale, “Let’s go back to memorizing the cursed nobility.”

~

Another hour or so of genealogy leaves them all mentally exhausted as the sun sets and Phichit can no longer see the chart he was quizzing Victor off of.  With nothing better to do they get as comfortable as possible against the bales of hay and try to get some sleep before they get to the city the rest of their journey.

Victor nods off first, stuffing his unneeded coat under his head to cushion the prickly straw.  Phichit too is soon snoring, enjoying the coziness of being Makkachin’s chosen human cushion for the night.  

Despite his discomfort, Yuuri is nearly asleep himself when Victor suddenly shifts and turns.  When he settles again, arms curled around his rolled up coat, he’s pressed against Yuuri from hip to ankle.  

Yuuri can feel his cheeks heating as Victor mutters something unintelligible and curls into Yuuri’s side, no doubt unconsciously seeking Yuuri’s body heat.  He’s fortunate at least that Phichit has already dozed off on his own makeshift pillow, and Yuuri doesn’t have to bear his pointed teasing.  

Victor’s cap is practically hanging off one ear, his silver hair spilling onto the plain tan of his coat.  With a guilty sort of fondness Yuuri removes the hat and settles it in Victor’s lap for safekeeping, lest it fall off while they’re asleep and be lost.   Despite knowing they are practically the same age, asleep in the starlight Victor looks terribly young and beautiful, all the worried lines smoothed from his brow.  He murmurs something in his sleep, and edges a bit closer.  

Yuuri doesn’t quite know what to do with his developing feelings for the man asleep next to him, or even a name for what those feelings might be.  Victor is ludicrous, theatrical, and prone to passionate outbursts.  He’s also sweet, and he’s made Yuuri laugh more times in the last handful of days than he can count.  It's an infuriating, and terribly exciting balance, one that has Yuuri stroking Victor’s loose bangs out of his face with a tender gesture.  The Russian stirs, but does not wake, a half smile on his lips from whatever dream has him in its embrace.  

With a contented sigh Yuuri settles against the firm hay bale at his back and enjoys Victor’s warmth as the truck trundles along the moonlit country road.

He’ll deal with the goings on of his emotions once they’re safe on a ship to France.

Chapter Text

Stralsund is a bustling seaside town, for all it’s located on a sound and not the actual Baltic itself.  Victor breathes the salt air contentedly and follows the lead of his two companions as they figure out their next move.  Between the three of them they only have a handful of German vocabulary, but they manage to exchange some rubles for German marks and see about their options of getting on board one of the many ships visible in the harbor.  

“It looks like there’s a passenger liner headed for Le Havre in a few hours,” Phichit says, reading off a board of shipping departures, “It’s a stop before they take off on an Atlantic crossing, so I’ll bet they’ll still have room on board until they get to France.”  

“And we’ve got plenty of funds left to buy our tickets the traditional way,” Yuuri agrees, “That seems like our best bet.”

“I’m on it.  In the meantime you should see about finding Victor something to wear,” Phichit suggests, handing Yuuri a share of German currency, “The papiermark is incredibly low on the exchange.  It’ll be much cheaper to get a suit here than in France.”

“What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?” Victor asks.  His boots are a little worse for wear after their last patching, but his shirt is certainly serviceable for a few more months at least.  

“My friend, don’t take this the wrong way,” Phichit says kindly, “But you look like you were raised in a Russian orphanage.”

“I was raised in a Russian--”

“Exactly my point.  We need you to look just nice enough that we won’t get arrested for vagrancy before we manage to ring Miss Babicheva’s doorbell,” Phichit explains, “Which means a proper jacket and waistcoat for you.  Which is Yuuri’s job to find, because I’m in charge of buying our tickets.  Good luck!”

Phichit flits off to secure them safe passage to France with Makkachin at his heels, leaving Yuuri and Victor on their own in the busy street.

“Come on,” Yuuri says,with a hand on Victor’s elbow, “If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s sniffing out a black market.”

Sure enough, after a few minutes winding through some alleyways near the shipyards and a few pointed questions they arrive at a narrow bazaar.  The street is lined with temporary stalls and booths selling everything from jewelry and shoes to packaged sweets and non-perishables from the rest of Europe, all tariff free and priced to sell in the hyperinflated market of the Weimar Republic.  They spot a booth dealing in secondhand clothes and in short order Yuuri is thumbing through a rack of what he assures Victor are very casual three piece suits.

“Phichit and I have our own dress clothes,” Yuuri explains, “At least for daytime wear.  But we’ve just got the one set each and you’re the wrong size for any of us to share besides.”

They haven’t got the time for Victor to try things on, but Yuuri makes his best guess at a fit by checking the pants against Victor’s long legs.  

“You’re too tall,” he informs Victor, rejecting another grey suit, “It might be in style to show your socks these days, but these would practically be knickerbockers on you.”

“I can assure you, my inconvenient height was not intentional,” Victor replies, aiming to make Yuuri laugh. He’s successful, Yuuri offering a chuckle before his attention is caught by a pair of brown trousers a few racks over.  

“These might do,” Yuuri decides, holding them against Victor’s waist, “Let me see if they have a jacket that goes with these.”

After a hodgepodge of halting German and Russian mixed in with some hand signals Yuuri secures a matching brown jacket and waistcoat along with a crisp white shirt that will hopefully suffice to fit Victor’s long limbs and make him presentable for society in France.

“Hopefully that fits,” Yuuri says, handing the shopkeep a handful of papiermarks and Victor the folded set of clothes, “Do you see any ties?”

Their luck has run out, as there don’t seem to be any ties to accompany the suits the vendor has to offer, but a rack of silk scarves proves to do the trick.  Yuuri sorts through the brightly colored silks until he finds one he approves of, a deep grey with a blue hexagon pattern.

“I’ll show you how to tie it on the ship,” Yuuri promises, adding the scarf to the pile of clothes in Victor’s arms, “If need be we can get you a proper necktie in Paris, but I think this will do fine, at least to see Mila.”

After a little more currency exchanged Victor follows Yuuri back to the main marina, where their companion is waiting impatiently.

“We’re good to go,” Phichit announces, waving three completely legal tickets for Victor and Yuuri to see, “We even got our own cabin!”

Their “own cabin” is basically a very spacious broom closet, with a tiny porthole window and two fold down bunks.  Still, Victor muses as he tries on the clothes Yuuri picked out for him, it was a private room with a lock where they could safely stow their suitcases without fear of being robbed.  

The suit fits well enough, Victor assumes, as he is able to button everything that requires buttoning and the pants don’t reveal too much of his second hand boots.  It’s all cut closer to the body than he’s accustomed to, after the extra volume of the well patched sweater that saw him through the Russian winter.  Victor isn’t entirely sure what to do with the silk scarf Yuuri had purchased.  He’d rarely had to wear a necktie himself, and the ones he’d seen had certainly not been the colorful silk they’d found at the hidden market.  Victor carries the mysterious article of clothing up with him to the main deck, where Yuuri and Phichit appear to have found a few barrels to serve as a makeshift base of their operations.   

Stepping up from the dim cabin to the light of day Victor is pleasantly overwhelmed by the full view of the Strela sound.  There’s salt in the air, and gulls crying as they make their way north.  Victor hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the seaside nature of St. Petersburg until they started traveling inland.   

“The sea!” Victor crows, a brilliant grin on his face, “I know we’re still technically not there yet but we’re so close! I like this mode of travel better than the train already.”

“Wow, Victor, you look great!” Phichit exclaims, seeing Victor’s new suit for the first time, “Western fashion is a good look on you.”

“It’s alright, I suppose,” Victor agrees, “Although I feel like a politician.  I would never dress this way at home unless I were getting married or buried.”

Victor holds out the silk scarf to Yuuri.  “You said you knew how this was meant to be worn?”

Yuuri’s gaze snaps up from where it had been obviously focused on the fit of Victor’s new shirt over his chest.  

“If you wouldn't mind, Yuuri?” Victor asks, trying to suppress his pleased grin.

“Right,” Yuuri agrees, giving up his makeshift seat and stepping near, “Of course.”

Victor thinks he may faint when without warning Yuuri undoes the first button at his collar, his fingers unavoidably brushing against the skin of Victor’s throat.

“Ah, Yuuri, what are you--”

“With this style you're supposed to wear it open, like this,” Yuuri explains, a touch of pink to his cheeks as he undoes one more button and smooths the open collar before looping the scarf around Victor’s neck.

“I see.”

“That looks good, though we’ll have to get you some tails in Paris if we end up anywhere really fancy, like a ball,” Phichit says, “Say, do you know how to dance, Victor?  Ballroom, I mean?”

“I was the best Kazatsky dancer of all the boys at the children’s home,” Victor says, striking a flex footed pose for Phichit and Yuuri's amusement, “But the European ballroom steps I can't say I’ve tried.”

“Hold still,” Yuuri reminds him, tugging Victor back to standing, “You’ve got the knot all crooked.”

“My apologies.”  Victor can’t say he’s genuinely apologetic as Yuuri has to undo the tie and begin again, keeping him conveniently in Victor’s proximity.  

“You have to know how to dance, though,” Phichit insists, “At least a little waltzing.  Any Tsarevich worth his salt would be able to waltz.”

“Well it can’t be helped,” Victor says, watching Yuuri wind the scarf into a neat knot, “Unless one of you could teach me?”

“I only know how to lead,” Phichit admits, shrugging, “And you couldn't dance the woman’s part, at least not at a real upper class event. Yuuri could show you though!”

“Oh, no,” Yuuri says, pulling Victor’s tie appropriately snug, “I’m sure I’d just step on your feet.”

“He’s lying to you,” Phichit reveals, sing song, “Yuuri was training to be a dancer before the revolution.  It’s why he came to Russia.  He would have joined the Bolshoi when he was old enough.”

“Really?” Victor feels a lick of delight, imagining Yuuri in the fitted shirt and tights of a danseur.

“I haven’t trained in years, Phichit, and you know it,” Yuuri demurs, tucking the ends of the scarf in close to Victor’s throat, “But I suppose I could show you the basics well enough if you like, Victor.”

More than enthused, Victor gives his best royal bow and offers himself to Yuuri’s tutelage.

Yuuri spends a few minutes correcting Victor’s posture, setting him into a proper “frame,” as he calls it.  Victor feels rather silly, holding his shoulders back and his arms stiff in the empty air, until Yuuri is satisfied and steps smoothly into Victor’s hold.  Yuuri grasps Victor’s hand in his, settling the other on Victor’s shoulder.  Victor’s right hand presses naturally to the dip of Yuuri’s spine, just under his shoulder blades, and suddenly the frame which had felt forced and awkward transforms into something elegant and intimate.  

Victor can feel his cheeks heating as Yuuri goes on explaining the counts and the basic three part step, embarrassingly pleased to be so close to his handsome instructor.

“Ready?”  Yuuri asks, surprising Victor out of his dazed staring, “Remember, your left foot forward first.”

“Oh,” Victor stammers, “I didn't--”

But Phichit is already counting them out a beat and to Victor’s immense surprise when Yuuri steps back he moves forward seamlessly, completing the box step without thinking.

“Huh, that’s...really good,” Yuuri says, as taken aback as Victor is, “Let’s try it again, and keep going?  Just repeat it a few times.”  

On Yuuri’s cue they begin again, and Victor follows the forward and back steps of the waltz square.  Aside from the pleasantness of being near to Yuuri, it is somewhat...monotonous.

“Is this the whole thing?” Victor asks, “It doesn’t seem very entertaining.”

Yuuri laughs.  “It gets more interesting, I promise,” he says, “Let me show you a progression.”

Again, Victor only requires a short demonstration before his feet are smoothly following the rhythm Phichit taps out for them on the wooden deck.  He frowns, a headache twinging at the back of his skull.

“I...learned this,” he recalls, still leading Yuuri effortlessly through the circling steps, “My partner was much taller than I was.  I remember the reach to her shoulder blade was awkward.  I must have been…”

“A child,” Yuuri supplies, brown eyes thoughtful.  Victor nods.

“I suppose I must have,” he agrees, “But I can’t--there’s no more--”

Victor shakes his head, frustrated.  Yuuri squeezes his hand, bringing him back to the present.  

“Don’t think about it now, Vitya,” Yuuri says, “Just dance with me.”

Yuuri walks him through a few more advanced steps, and then they try a real turn about the floor, as if they were at a genuine society function, and not on the worn wooden deck of an aging passenger liner.  Eventually they leave Phichit’s time keeping behind, with Yuuri following Victor’s lead and Victor following the music that seems to flow from Yuuri’s every dip and pivot.   

“Vitya, hm?” Victor dares to ask once it’s plain neither of them are in danger of falling on their faces.

As if on cue, Yuuri stumbles over the next box step.  

“Ah--I’m sorry if that was too familiar,” he stammers, a pretty blush painting his cheeks.  Victor leads them into a smooth underhand turn.  

“There’s no need to apologize,” he assures his partner, “It’s nice to hear.  No one has called me Vitya since Comrade Baronovskaya at the orphanage.”

“Your sweetheart?” Yuuri guesses, and it’s Victor’s turn to stumble.  

“Hardly,” he replies, laughing, “More like my great aunt, or a very stern grandmother.  Not that Lilia was not a stately woman for her age.”

Yuuri laughs.  “I see,” he says, “My mistake.”

“And besides,” Victor continues, a false blitheness hiding his nerves, “Even if my comrade had not been near her seventies, I find I am more inclined to men than women when I seek a partner.”

If possible Yuuri’s blush goes even deeper red, but Victor is delighted to see a curious spark in his eyes.  “And is that something you share with all your dance partners?”

“Only the handsome ones,” Victor replies, before shaking his head with a laugh, ”No, Yuuri, I am not such a fool as you think.  But then again, this is the twentieth century, with all its changes.  Homosexuals even serve openly in Comrade Lenin’s government, I am told.”  

“Hm,” Yuuri hums, eyes sparkling, “And here we are bound for Paris, which certainly has its reputation.”    

Victor laughs again.  “Yes, I’ve been told of that reputation in no uncertain terms.”  

“A good place, maybe, for men like us,” Yuuri says, voice soft.   

“Maybe,” Victor replies.  He squeezes Yuuri’s hand where they’re joined, a floaty kind of warmth seeping into his bones.  

“Okay, I’m gonna say we can check waltzing off our to do list.”

Victor jumps when Phichit speaks up.  He’d nearly forgotten their companion was still there, watching the scene unfold with Makkachin’s head in his lap.  Victor flushes to think Phichit was privy to the personal information that he just shared, but his new friend doesn’t seem to be perturbed by the revelation.  Rather, Phichit is focused on Yuuri with a pointed expression that Victor could only call smug .

“Phichit’s right,” Yuuri says, stepping back slightly, “You’re a wonderful dancer, Victor.  I’m sure you’ll impress in Paris.”

But Victor is not ready for their lesson, and this intimacy with Yuuri, to end.

“Show me the rest of the steps you know,” he demands, pulling Yuuri back into a close frame, “Let’s see what else is waiting to be unstuck from my stubborn brain.”

“Yeah,” Phichit says, “We can’t let your expertise go to waste, Yuuri.”

“Okay,” Yuuri agrees, smile bright, “I know a newer style called the ‘foxtrot’.  Let’s start there.”

They spend the whole rest of the day dancing, in the name of preparing Victor for Parisian society.  Eventually he and Yuuri both shed their jackets to avoid sweating in them, dancing in just their vest and shirtsleeves as they work their way through the foxtrot and the mazurka.  Victor doesn’t know either of these the way he knew the waltz, but Yuuri is an excellent teacher, and he picks up the steps far quicker than he expected.       

Hardly an objectionable way to spend an afternoon, in Victor’s opinion.   Phichit has long wandered off with Makkachin in search of the ocean liner’s galley, and still Victor is spinning about on the main deck with Yuuri in his arms as the sun begins to set.  

They’ve finally found a step that Victor can’t seem to wrap his head around, the one-two-three-and of the polka leaving his rhythm out of joint and Yuuri’s feet in serious danger of being stepped on.  

“I’m sorry, I just can’t get it right,” Victor says, laughing as he trips again, “It feels like we’re bouncing around like a pair of rabbits.”

“It’s alright, I doubt Mila will ask you to polka to prove you’re a Nikiforov,” Yuuri says, wrinkling his nose, “Besides, you’ve earned a break. We’ve been at it all day practically. I’m sure you’re sick of me bossing you around.”

“No, no.” Victor sweeps Yuuri back into a waltz step.  “Don’t think it for a moment, Yuura, I’ve been having a wonderful time.”

“Oh. That’s good then.” Another lovely blush paints Yuuri’s cheeks and Victor finds himself staring as their waltz peters out into gentle swaying in hold.

Yuuri is glowing, golden in the light of the setting sun, and Victor is swamped with the most overwhelming and miraculous feeling .  It’s a swoop in his belly, a thudding behind his ribs, and before Victor’s wiser instincts can intervene his hunger for the man in his arms is crawling up his throat and--

“Yuuri?”

“Hm?”

With Yuuri’s beautiful brown eyes focused on him curiously Victor is certain he is about to swallow his own tongue, but he soldiers on as best he can under the circumstances.

“You might find this terribly impertinent of me,” Victor stammers, “But I--that is, what I mean to say--”

To the devil with it all, Victor thinks recklessly, before he leans down the spare inches between them and kisses Katsuki Yuuri square on the mouth.  He cannot resist a taste, a brief touch to know if Yuuri’s lips are as soft and welcoming as they seem.  

And they are.  Oh, how they are.

Yuuri’s eyes are wide with shock when Victor pulls away, but he does not look angry, or try to strike him, so it’s as positive a reaction as Victor had dared to hope for.

“I think you make a very attractive dance partner,” Victor manages to say, lips tingling, “I find you very attractive in general, in fact.”

Victor thinks to dip down for another kiss, but Yuuri leans away, looking around the open deck nervously.

“Ah, Victor...we shouldn’t--”

“There is no one here to see us,” Victor urges, and sure enough, they are alone on the deck, “Unless--”

Humiliation and disappointment bubble up and Victor swallows thickly.  “Unless I was mistaken,” he says, stepping back, “You don’t want me.  Yuuri, I didn’t mean to--”

“No.”  Victor’s breath catches as Yuuri catches him by his shirtfront, his thumbs sliding over the silk scarf he’d helped Victor to tie.  

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Yuuri promises, eyes fixed on Victor’s mouth.

“Please kiss me again, Vitya.”

Victor’s pulse quickens and he wastes no time pressing their lips together again.  Yuuri tilts his head, inviting Victor deeper, and he obliges him gladly.

With their lips parted against each other Victor pulls Yuuri closer than any polite dance position would call for. Yuuri’s hands slide to the back of Victor’s neck and Victor’s hands drag down the length of Yuuri’s spine to press eagerly at the small of his back.  Yuuri’s fingers comb through the short hair at the base of Victor’s scalp and he shivers with the pleasure of it.

They part only to gasp against one another’s lips.

“Of course I want you.  How could I not?” Yuuri practically groans, cheeks flushed, “Or haven’t you looked in a mirror lately?”

“I have never looked in a mirror,” Victor says, making a heroic effort to keep his face stone serious, “Vanity is a crutch of the bourgeoisie.”

There is a beat of silence, and then Victor cracks a grin and Yuuri cracks up.  He’s laughing too hard even to be kissed, his arms wrapped tight around Victor’s neck.  As thrilled as Victor is to be in Yuuri’s warm grip, there are more exciting ways they could enjoy this kind of position.

“Yuuri, stop laughing,” Victor pouts, “Tell me more about how handsome I am.”

“Come back to the cabin with me and I’ll tell you anything you like,” Yuuri replies, still smiling and breathless.  Victor kisses Yuuri again, then twines their fingers together.  

“It’s a deal.”

Chapter Text

How did I get here? Yuuri thinks as he presses a thrilled Victor to the thin door of their private cabin below decks, their lips locked in a heated embrace.   How did I possibly get this lucky?

Victor’s silk scarf falls in a puddle to the floor as soon as Yuuri slips it from its knot, leaving Victor’s throat bare and vulnerable to Yuuri’s hungry exploration.

“ Ah , Yuura,” Victor groans at the scrape of Yuuri’s teeth across his pulse point.  Yuuri bites again, enjoying the warm curl of the diminutive falling from Victor’s lips as Yuuri sucks a mark just above his collarbone.  Victor slips Yuuri’s suspenders off his shoulders, letting the elastic hang of his waist so that Victor can work his shirt out of his trousers as their lips meet again in sloppy and exploratory kisses.  

With Victor’s encouraging touch Yuuri brings their hips flush, hissing his pleasure when he finds the shape of Victor’s erection pressing against him.  Yuuri grinds into him until Victor can feel the evidence of his reciprocal arousal, though he pauses when Victor gasps, wide-eyed.

“Are you--” Yuuri flushes as he fumbles with the question.  “I mean have you ever--.”

Victor looks briefly puzzled, but then he laughs.  “Ah,” he says, “You are worried I have no experience.”

“Not worried,” Yuuri says lamely, “I just...want you to be comfortable.”  

Victor doesn’t look offended, and indeed he kisses Yuuri with a smile, his hands cradling Yuuri’s hips.

“You’re sweet to think of such a thing,” Victor assures him, “But do not concern yourself, Yuuri.  Despite my humble upbringing I still managed to enjoy my share of youthful fumblings.  As you have, I assume?”  

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, face still warm, “Some not so youthful.”

“And hopefully some not so fumbling, yes?” Victor says with a wink, slipping his hands under Yuuri’s untucked shirt.  Yuuri leans in to the touch, enjoying Victor’s palms tracing up his spine as he places a few kisses of his own on Yuuri’s neck.

“I-- ah --I’ve never had any complaints,” Yuuri manages to reply before Victor finds his mouth again.  Victor hums into their kiss.  

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he murmurs when they part, eyes still on Yuuri’s mouth.  Yuuri takes advantage of Victor’s distraction to herd him toward the fold down bunk that one of them had left open.  Victor allows Yuuri’s directing, falling to a seat with a surprised whoosh of breath as he works clumsily at the button’s of Yuuri’s shirt.  The offending garment is only half open when Yuuri slides to his knees at the edge of the narrow bunk, right between Victor’s parted legs.  Victor’s eyes darken as Yuuri strokes both hands up and down his clothed thighs.  

“I would really like to suck your cock,” Yuuri confesses, thumb brushing Victor’s inseam, tantalizingly close to the erection poorly hidden by his trousers.

Victor swallows, eyes on Yuuri’s mouth again.   “I am certainly amenable to that idea.”

Victor pulls him in for a heated kiss, their tongues sliding filthy together as Yuuri’s fingers blindly seek out the first in the row of buttons keeping Victor’s trousers in the way of his desired goal.    

Even distracted by Victor’s ardent kisses Yuuri eventually manages undo his fly and the less complicated fastening of his plain cotton drawers underneath, pushing his new shirt out of the way haphazardly.  Victor gasps against his lips when Yuuri slips his hand beneath the layers of fabric and wraps his fingers around Victor’s cock.  Yuuri’s mouth waters as he feels the shape of Victor in his hand, thumbing over the head and giving his length an exploratory pump.

“Yuuri,” Victor breaths, their brows pressed together as Yuuri works Victor to full hardness, “Yuuri please.”

Yuuri gives Victor a sweet peck on the lips before he dips down and takes Victor into his mouth.  He savors Victor’s soft curse as Yuuri tongues the head of his cock and sucks experimentally, hollowing his cheeks around Victor’s satisfying girth.  Yuuri gets a steady grip on Victor’s waist, tugging his lower half closer to the edge of the bunk so that Yuuri can take more of Victor into his mouth.  Victor leans back on one elbow, his other hand settling at the crown of Yuuri’s head as Yuuri develops something of a rhythm, dragging the tight circle of his lips up and down the length of Victor’s cock.  

Yuuri soaks in Victor’s cries of pleasure, savoring the heat and thickness of him in his mouth, the tantalizing brush of Victor’s cock against the back of his throat, and the slight sting whenever Yuuri finds a sensitive place with his tongue and Victor’s grips tightens reflexively against his scalp.

“Yuura, Yuura --” Victor’s thighs tremble under Yuuri’s grip as he sucks him, taking Victor as deeply as he can and swallowing before pulling back to lick and kiss at the head.  Yuuri’s own desire throbs in his trousers as he pleasures Victor, finally allowed to touch his fill after long days of self-restraint.

Yuuri presses the heel of his hand to his own erection, moaning around Victor’s cock which sets off a new string of praise from his lover’s lips.   

“ Ah , Yuura, it’s so good,” Victor stammers, fingers slick against Yuuri’s scalp with the pomade that keeps his hair in place, “It’s wonderful, Yuuri--I’m close already, I think-- please --”

With Victor’s guiding hand at the back of his head Yuuri takes Victor as deep as he can, swallowing intently.  Victor’s grip tightens in warning before his breath stutters and he comes in Yuuri’s mouth, a low groan escaping him as Yuuri works him through his climax.  Yuuri does his best not to choke, swallowing to save them the mess as Victor spirals back down to earth, his chest heaving and his thighs trembling under Yuuri’s hands.

For once Victor appears to be at a loss for words as Yuuri releases his softening cock, pressing a few kisses to his exposed stomach while he catches his breath.

“Wow,” Victor pants after a minute, “You are much better at that than Vanya the fishmonger’s son.”

Despite the heat of the moment Yuuri can’t help but laugh into Victor’s firm stomach as he tucks his cock back into his pants.  

“Do not mistake me,” Victor continues, ignoring Yuuri’s snickering, “Vanya was an earnest lover, but he had nothing of your talent.  You should feel quite accomplished.”

“Hm, I’m not sure,” Yuuri drawls, leaning up to pull Victor in for a sweaty kiss, “Since you can’t see to stop talking about another man when I literally just had you in my mouth.”

“No, no,” Victor replies, “Vanya was merely a boy.  Tonight, Yuura, you have proven yourself the real man.”

Yuuri laughs.  He feels light, like a bottle of champagne.  Effervescent.  “You’re ridiculous.”

“No.  I’m just enjoying myself.” Victor begins to kiss down Yuuri’s throat, nipping with his teeth and pulling a gasp from Yuuri’s lips.  Yuuri is reminded suddenly of the hardness between his legs, of his desire for the beautiful man sucking a trail of kisses down his torso.  Victor tugs him up onto the thinly padded bunk rolls him onto his back, grinning at Yuuri’s squeak of surprise.   

“Are you enjoying yourself, Yuuri?” he asks, mouth somewhere in the neighborhood of Yuuri’s navel as he deftly unfastens Yuuri’s trousers, slipping them down Yuuri’s thighs until his erection is exposed.  When Victor seals his mouth over Yuuri’s freed cock he has to cover his mouth with a hand lest he shout his affirmative for the whole ship to hear.

Yuuri reaches his climax some minutes later, his trousers still tangled around his thighs and his fingers tangled in Victor’s silver locks.

“You certainly learned a thing or two from Vanya,” Yuuri admits, gasping from pleasure as Victor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’ll have to write him a letter of thanks.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate it,” Victor hums, nuzzling his way up Yuuri’s middle until they are face to face again, “I am, however, going to be adamant that you record my technique faithfully.  It may require several repeat performances to make sure you commit the details to memory.”   

Yuuri smiles into Victor’s kiss, wrinkling his nose at the taste of himself on his new lover’s lips.

“I was thinking the same thing, Vitya.”

Victor’s eyes are sparkling as he presses a playful kiss to Yuuri’s nose.  “I’m looking forward to it, Yuura.”  

Despite the passion of the moment they were not too messy in their liaison, though Victor rises from their embrace to remove his new shirt, laying it out to prevent wrinkles from setting in.  Rather than pulling on other clothes, however, he returns to the bunk bare from the waist up, laying himself out comfortably with his head on Yuuri’s chest.  Their legs tuck together naturally, despite the soft scratching of their wool trousers as they find a comfortable pose.  Eventually Victor settles, sighing his contentment as he wraps a loose arm around Yuuri’s waist.

It’s an intimate position, not one Yuuri had shared with all of his partners previous after so little time together, but he finds doesn’t mind the closeness.  With one arm still tucked behind his head Yuuri rests his other hand on the back of Victor’s neck, stroking his thumb behind his ear, and enjoys Victor’s warm weight in sleepy, post orgasm bliss.

“I’m glad, Yuuri,” Victor says eventually, tracing an absent circle over Yuuri’s collarbone with his thumb, “That we can get to know each other this way.  Even if only for a short time.”

Yuuri kisses the top of Victor’s head, humming his agreement with the sentiment as his mind whirls over the possible futures that await their little company in Paris, whether a flat out rejection, a successful con, or the revelation of Victor as the true Tsesarevich. Despite he and Phichit’s lofty plans, Yuuri can no longer see their end goal clearly, knowing that with triumph and reward there will come a loss that grows more bitter as the days pass.  

Yuuri sighs, and allows Victor’s soft touches to soothe his uncertainties for the moment.  There are too many variables, and only moving forward will reveal what is to come.  

Chapter Text

Victor wakes up from a doze in Yuuri’s arms to the sound of a low voice just outside their cabin.  He sits up, careful not to wake Yuuri as he buttons his trousers and finds his undershirt where he’d strewn it earlier that evening.  The floor rolls under his feet as Victor approaches the door.  The seas have been rough ever since that morning, and judging by the heavy patter of rainfall against the side of the ship there’s a storm breaking overhead.  

Three days of smooth sailing had apparently been too much to ask, Victor muses as he pauses just before the door in time to hear a very soft boof.

“...that’s right, Makkachin, you're such a good dog,” Phichit replies, voice muffled, “You’d never lock me out of our cabin two nights in a row to fool around with a handsome mystery man…”

“You really think I’m handsome?” Victor asks as he pulls the cabin door open and the young man falls into the room with a squawk, “Phichit, I'm touched.”

“I take it back,” Phichit declares, rubbing the back of his head where he bumped it. “You look like a gargoyle and you’re twice as mean.”

Victor feigns being wounded until Makkachin snuffles at him in concern.  He laughs, kneeling to give his beloved poodle a good snuggle.  

“This is what I get,” Phichit laments, “I bend over backwards to find Yuuri a nice gentleman companion, I sleep on deck for two nights so you two can canoodle, and this is the thanks I get.”

Victor frowns, but Phichit is already smiling again when Makkachin ambles over to lick his face.  

“I’m hardly a gentleman,” Victor says, “But I am sorry, Phichit.  I hope Yuuri and I haven’t made you feel unwanted.”  

“Hey, none of that,” Phichit insists, patting Victor on the knee, “I worked hard to get you two tangoing.  Besides, I’ve got nothing to worry about.  We’re comrades, right?”  

Victor grins and clasps Phichit’s hand.  “Of course.”

“So trust me, I’d be happy to leave you to it, and have Makkachin all to myself,” Phichit replies, letting Victor help him to his feet and closing the cabin door, “But the storm isn’t letting up and they’ve asked passengers not to be wandering around upstairs.”

On cue there’s a roll of thunder and a sharp crack of lightning, and the light in their cabin flickers briefly.  

“I certainly noticed it coming on,” Victor agrees, perching on the edge of his bunk, “I thought Yuuri might be the type to get seasick in bad weather, but he hasn’t budged in hours.”

“Ha, once he’s out Yuuri can snore through anything,” Phichit says, tugging off his own damp waistcoat and overshirt, “Besides, he’s from a fishing town, even before St. Petersburg.  This is probably like being rocked to sleep for him.”

“I’ve never known him to sleep so well,” Victor observes, brushing Yuuri’s bed mussed bangs from his face.  

“Yes, well, stress will do that to you.  These last few days he’s been able to relieve a lot of tension , you know?” Phichit replies, laughing at the blush that heats Victor’s cheeks.  It has certainly been an educational time on board this aging passenger liner.  Victor is uncertain he’ll ever be able to look at Yuuri’s mouth again without going redder than a tomato.

“Nice pin, by the way,” Phichit says, indicating Victor’s chest, “Did you pick that up in Stralsund?”

Victor’s hand follows Phichit’s eye and he realizes his brooch was on display, still pinned to the undershirt that he’d stripped off in a hurry to tumble into bed with Yuuri a few hours ago.

“Ah, no, I’ve always had it,” Victor says, resisting the urge to cover the mysterious heirloom, “They found me with it before they sent me to the orphanage, anyway.”

“Hm, it looks really well crafted,” Phichit muses, “In fact…”

Phichit rifles through one of their bags until he finds what he’s looking for, tossing something which looks terribly expensive into Victor’s unsuspecting hands.  

“Yuuri found that jewelry box in the palace years ago,” Phichit reveals, as Victor curiously examines the ornately enameled trinket, “He says he’s positive it belonged to the prince.  It looks a lot like your brooch, doesn’t it?”  

Victor hums, looking over the perfect miniature flowers and swans that adorn the box, which was small enough to fit easily in the palm of his hand.  The design is nothing like his pin, with its map and stars, but the technique is certainly the same.  

“There were a million workshops making those before the Tsars fell,” Phichit reveals, clamoring into the top bunk,  “And they all looked pretty similar, but still.  Wouldn’t it be crazy if they were made by the same artist?”

Or for the same patron? Victor wonders.   

“Are you certain it’s a jewelry box?” Victor asks, feeling along the seam where his instincts told him the little box was meant to open.  Phichit just shrugs overhead as he settles into bed.

“Who knows?  We’ve never been able to get it open, and Yuuri didn’t want to risk breaking it in case it was valuable to the duke.”

There’s another heavy roll of thunder overhead and the yellowed electric bulb that illuminates their cabin flickers again.  When the light dims and doesn’t return, Victor returns the box to Yuuri’s suitcase.  Better to examine it more closely in the light of day than risk dropping it in the dark.

“Ugh, these old passenger liners,” Phichit grouses, tossing in the bunk above Victor’s head, “A stiff breeze could knock out their electricity.  This piece of junk should have been retired before the Titanic went down.”

“Maybe not the name to mention when we’re currently on a ship, hm?” Victor jokes as he slips back under the thin blanket next to Yuuri.  Phichit laughs above him.  

“Point taken,” he agrees, “Goodnight, Victor.  Hopefully we don’t sink and we can make it to Paris tomorrow.”

Victor rolls his eyes just as a rough wave strikes the ship outside their tiny porthole window.  The room rolls as the ship rises and falls in the choppy seas, taking Victor’s stomach with it.

Phichit’s jokes were going to get them all sent straight to the bottom of the Baltic. 

At least Victor is able to take some warmth and comfort from Yuuri, who shifts closer as soon as Victor settles on the thin pillow at the head of their shared bunk.  With Yuuri’s head tucked under his chin Victor can do his best to ignore the storm outside, and allow his new lover’s slow breaths to lull him into a slumber of his own.

~

Victor walks along a narrow corridor, locked doors on either side of him.  The sound of the storm crashes just beyond the thin walls.  Or is it the sound of children’s voices, laughing and wailing in equal measure in an overcrowded orphanage?

A door at the end of the hall stands open, and Victor peers into the dark room.

There’s a little boy, crying alone, with his beautiful silver hair recently cropped short.  When Victor steps closer the boy looks up and his blue eyes are haunted.  

“Why are you crying?” He asks.

“ I am not crying,” he informs Victor, tear tracks staining his pale cheeks, “I’m celebrating.  It is a great day for our fellow workers.”

Before the boy speaks again Victor hears the distinct crack of gunfire.

“The Tsar is dead,” the boy declares, “and the empress too.”

The Tsar is dead.  The Tsar is dead .   The Tsar is dead.

The words are only in Victor’s head, but also from a thousand voices.  The chant surrounds him, joyful and vicious.  He’s in the middle of a crowd.  Smiling faces surround him on all sides.  There’s shouting and singing, strangers embracing in the streets.  

The Tsar is dead, and the Empress too.

Victor cheers and celebrates with the rest of his comrades, until his vision blurs.  There are bitter tears streaming down his cheeks.

The crowd parts, and Victor stands before an open grave, a wound in the earth too big for one person.  Somehow he knows what he will see if he peers into the grave.  Haunted eyes like his.  Blood spattered on emerald green silk.  Victor tries to back away from the edge only to collide with another living body.  Familiar hands fall to his hips and it’s with a sigh of relief that Victor turns.  

“Yuuri.”  His lover will help him.  Yuuri will explain everything-

Waiting behind Yuuri are Victor’s comrades, only their celebration is ended.  They stand stock still, gazes fixed on Victor.

“You look so beautiful, Vitya,” Yuuri says, pressing a kiss to Victor’s lips.  Victor looks down at his own clothes to see sparkling Imperial white, with the red sash of house Nikiforov.

“You really were the prince, all along,” Yuuri says with tears in his eyes, “You've found your family.”

The prince.  The prince .   The prince.   The crowd hears Yuuri’s words, and one by one their expressions begin to change as they take in Victor’s royal garb.  Blankness to disgust.  Curiosity to anger.  Ambivalence to hatred.  

Yuuri doesn’t see the shift in sentiment, his sad eyes only on Victor.  “Let me tell them the good news.”

“ No, no!” Victor cries out, “Please, Yuuri, don't--”

“Everyone,” Yuuri calls to the crowd, the mob , “Your Heir Tsesarevich, Victor Nikiforov!”

“Yuuri, no--”

But Yuuri is gone, and Victor is alone, surrounded by faces twisted in rage.  

“Royalty,” they spit at him, knives and stones in their hands, “Nobility.  You starved us.”

“I’m sorry,” Victor stammers, empty hands raised, “I-I wouldn’t.  I didn’t know!”

“The cursed Nikiforovs,” the mob shouts, “Curse the Nikiforovs!”

A stone strikes him and Victor stumbles backward, tumbling over the edge of the grave--

And he falls onto uneven cobblestones, scraping his palms as he struggles to his feet in a heavy winter coat.  There’s the sharp whistle of a train, and then Victor is running, trying to catch up to a departing locomotive and the reaching hand of a man whose face he cannot see.  Victor trips again and this time he’s smothered in black.

“Vitya!   Vit’enka !  Hold on to me--”

“Victor?  Victor wake up--”

“The cursed Nikiforovs…”  Victor is tangled in the darkness.  It constricts his limbs and threatens to choke the life out of him.

“Vitya, you’re dreaming.  You need to wake up--”

“The Nikiforov curse!” Victor shoots up in bed and nearly brains himself on the overhead bunk.  Panic clutches at him, his breath heaving in his chest and his heart racing.  His legs are tangled in the their blankets, his fists white knuckled in the thin material.  A hand presses to his back and he startles severely, only to realize that it’s Yuuri, looking sleepy but concerned.  Victor comes back to reality slowly, his pulse still pounding in his ears.  He’s awake.  He’s in bed with Yuuri, and Phichit still sleeping peacefully above their heads.  They’re on a ship bound for France.  

It was only a dream.

“Vitya?”

Victor’s eyes feel hot and puffy, and he realizes he must have been crying in his sleep even as more tears spill over his cheeks.

“ Yuuri .”  His lover opens his arms and Victor shamelessly seeks his comfort there, burying his face against Yuuri’s throat as he gulps heaving breaths of air.  Yuuri doesn't ask him to speak, for which Victor is unspeakably grateful, unpleasant images still flashing and fading behind his eyes.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly after some minutes, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I--I don't remember much,” Victor lies, thinking of the angry crowd and Yuuri’s eyes, sad and resigned, “Just nerves about Paris, I'm sure.”

“It was probably the storm, yeah?” Yuuri soothes him, threading his fingers softly through Victor’s hair, “It’s been enough to make anyone toss and turn.”

Victor nods, uncertain.  “It must have been.  It sounds like the worst has passed, though.”  

Yuuri nods, and continues to stroke Victor’s hair as the rain tapers off above their heads, and eventually ceases altogether.  Victor’s heart settles, but his pulse still feels unnaturally loud in the now deathly quiet room.

It hadn’t bothered him before, but now in the enclosed box of their tiny cabin Victor can only think of a grave, carved squarely out of the earth and waiting to bury them alive.  

“Can we...go up on deck?” Victor asks, eyes closed to the claustrophobic space, “I think I need some air.”

Victor feels the press of lips to the crown of his head.  “Sure.  Let’s get dressed though, okay?”

They slip on warm clothes in the weak predawn light, the thick knit of Victor’s heavily patched sweater bringing him comfort in a way his new suit never could.  Yuuri tangles their fingers together as he leads him through the narrow corridors up to the main deck.  The air is thick and humid, salt and mist hanging dense as the sun struggles to break over the horizon.  Still, Victor breathes deeply as they approach the bow, the wooden boards beneath them still slick with rain.  Yuuri releases his hand only to wrap his arm around Victor’s waist.  Victor finds the last tremors of the nightmare release him overlooking the sea with Yuuri's arms keeping him safe and close.

They watch the sun rise together, and with it a new landscape appearing on the horizon.  

“France,” Yuuri confirms, his hand warm on Victor’s back as the coastline comes into view.  

“We’re almost there.”

Chapter Text

They still have the whole day ahead of them after they disembark and secure seats on a public coach to get them the few hours from Le Havre inland to Paris.  Phichit and Victor take Makkachin for a long walk in the early morning sunshine while Yuuri finds a public telephone.  A few words with an operator and Yuuri is able to confirm their imminent arrival with a butler at Christophe’s residence in Montparnasse.  Their Swiss friend had certainly moved up in the world since Phichit and Yuuri last saw him in person, to have servants answering the phone, but then again Yuuri supposes inheriting a banking fortune and winning an Olympic silver medal opens all sorts of doors.

“Yuuri! We’re ready to go,” Phichit calls from across the street when Yuuri emerges from the telephone booth.  The motorized coach is already running as they stow their suitcases under their seats and clamber on board.  

“Be good, Makkachin,” Victor encourages their canine companion as they try to get comfortable on the wooden benches of the crowded automobile, “We want to be courteous to our fellow passengers, yes?”

Makkachin rests her head on her paws with a whine where she lays at their feet, unhappy to be cooped up again after a nice jaunt outdoors.  Fortunately it's an open air coach and once they're on the road Makkachin can enjoy the breeze through her long ears, her tongue lolling happily as she leans over the side of the car.

Victor keeps one hand in his poodle’s fur, just in case she overbalanced, while Phichit organizes their various scavenged Nikiforov documents in order to quiz Victor.

“More studying? I already feel as though I have the whole house of Nikiforov arguing in my head,” Victor whines, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“That’s why you have us, to help you review,” Phichit promises, unfolding the first roll of thick parchment, “Now, recite the lineage of your forefathers! From the sixteenth century onward, if you please.”

“Ugh...Mikael, Alexei, Petrov the first, Petrov the second...Petrov the third?”

“You forgot Catherine the Great.  But keep going!”

~

Paris is...chaotic.  St. Petersburg certainly had its moments, but with the renovations to the city under communism there was some sense and structure of how to get around.  Paris had undergone its own changes since it sprung up some time in antiquity, and they all lived cheerfully and confusingly side by side in the bustling metropolis.  Despite the laid back reputation of the French it’s still a busy morning and the streets are crowded as they find a regular cab and negotiate wide boulevards, winding circular roads, and medieval cobblestone alleyways until they are finally delivered to their friend’s doorstep.

Christophe doesn’t live in a flat, as Yuuri had assumed, but actually has his own townhouse in a particularly artistic neighborhood.  The narrow, multi-story house feature an eclectic mix of architectural details, all classical white columns and delicate modern stained glass.  Neatly kept window boxes boast a fresh crop of violets and green carnations, newly bloomed in the mild spring weather.

“ One person lives here?” Victor asks as they step through a low wrought iron gate to the private entrance of the townhouse, likely horrified at the stranglehold of the bourgeoisie on the real estate of Paris.

“Not usually,” Phichit assures him, pressing the doorbell to announce their arrival, “Christophe is a very generous host.”

A butler answers the door shortly, but Christophe is waiting only a few steps into the foyer, looking as tall, broad, and handsome as ever.  In his summerweight suit and brightly patterned tie he makes the perfect Paris dandy, though he’s done something ridiculous to lighten his hair since Yuuri and Phichit last encountered him, likely the latest fashion in grooming.   

“My friends, welcome to Chez Giacometti! ” he announces in heavily accented Russian, giving Yuuri, Phichit, and even Victor a kiss on both cheeks in greeting, “It is so good to see you.  And what a handsome man you’ve brought along!  I take it this is your Tsesarevich?”

“Yes,” Yuuri agrees, “Christophe, this is Victor.”

“Yes, Victor , of course,” Christophe says with a wink, offering Victor a playful bow, “Christophe Giacometti, at your service, ‘your highness’.”

“Please, comrade,” Victor insists, offering Christophe a hand to shake, “My royal blood is still very much up for debate.”

“But not for long, if my connections can serve us,” Christophe promises, before clapping his hands, “Now, let’s get you settled in.  My home is yours.  I only have one proper guest room on the main floor, but I’ve managed to convert the upstairs garrett into a charming little chateau, if two of you don’t mind bunking up.”  

“Dibs on the guest room!” Phichit sing songs, grabbing his own bag and following Christophe’s butler to a nearby staircase.  Yuuri doesn’t begrudge him the single room, after the three days he endured on the ship while Victor and Yuuri were...getting to know one another.  Christophe watches their friend go with amusement before turning to survey Victor and Yuuri intentedly.  

“Ah, there is only one bed upstairs, in case that’s a problem,” Christophe says, before quirking an eyebrow, “...unless it’s not a problem, for the two of you?”

If that is Christophe’s attempt at a subtle inquiry then it certainly leaves something to be desired.  Then again, if Phichit and Yuuri were about to bring some imperialist Orthodox zealot under his roof Christophe had a right to know at the start of things, rather than an ugly encounter later.  

Fortunately that isn’t going to be an issue in this case, Yuuri muses as Victor clutches an astonished hand to his heart.

“Yuuri,” Victor gasps, “I think Mr. Giacometti means to imply that you and I have been enjoying homosexual relations.”

To his credit Yuuri doesn’t even look up from their bags, despite the heat in his cheeks.  

“We’ll I’ve certainly been enjoying them,” he replies, “Victor and I will take the upstairs room, thank you, Christophe.”

“You’re certainly welcome.”  Christophe looks positively gleeful as he shows the two of them to a wrought iron spiral staircase in the middle of the flat that leads to an upstairs garrett.  Yuuri makes a point to give Victor a pinch for his earlier dramatics as they pass by a second floor and continue up to the third.  

“Don’t tease, Vitya,” Yuuri chides when Victor yelps, “Christophe was only trying to be courteous.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Christophe assures Yuuri with a wink as he opens a door to the small but charming attic loft, “It’s been years since I’ve had this much fun, and you’ve only just arrived.”

“That is the largest bed I have ever seen,” Victor observes, setting down his satchel.  Yuuri has to agree.  The massive bed and it’s plush furnishings look like heaven after days sleeping on hay bales and narrow ship bunks.

“I’m sure you’ll make good use of it, yes?” Christophe teases before going over the rest of their amenities, “There’s a bath just there, and I have a modest little garden in the back that I think your poodle will appreciate, not that I have an objection to her staying with you, if that is your preference.”

“Thank you, I think Makka will enjoy the yard,” Victor says, his tone warming when Christophe makes an effort to accommodate his beloved pet, “She’s been cooped up on all manner of transportation since we left St. Petersburg.”

“Wonderful, I’ll have Francois let her out.  Feel free to freshen up,” Christophe invites them, indicating the door to the en suite ,“And I have a late breakfast waiting downstairs whenever you’re dressed.”

“Thank you, Chris,” Yuuri says, shaking their friend’s hand again, “We really owe you.”

“Nonsense,” Christophe insists, “I still owe you , after that pickle you helped me out of with that nasty official at the Hermitage.”

“It was nothing,” Yuuri demurs at the mention of Phichit and Yuuri’s first encounter with their Swiss friend.  

“It was certainly something,” Christophe replies, “These are eventful times we live in, when one can’t even be a good looking tourist without attracting the wrong kind of attention.  Still, it has been worth it, to have made your most interesting acquaintance.”

Christophe leaves them to change, or at least he leaves Victor to change.  Yuuri is already wearing his best, though he does shake out his jacket and straighten his tie before sitting on the bed to get a rock out of his shoe that had been bothering him since they crossed the city limits.  Victor changes into his suit, having worn his own clothes on the road to keep the dust off.  Yuuri spares Victor his staring and instead looks over the large bed that they had volunteered to share.  

Yuuri glances up to see Victor’s attentions are likewise captured.

“This will be our first chance to share a real bed,” Victor murmurs, buttoning his cuffs, “Plenty of room for all necessary activities.”

Yuuri swallows, his gaze full of Victor, still in only his shirtsleeves, his waistcoat hanging open around his slim figure.  Victor eases into the space between Yuuri’s thighs like it was made for him.

“It is a pity we’ll have to wait to try it out until tonight.”

Victor tips Yuuri’s chin up, brushing his thumb over Yuuri’s bottom lip, and Yuuri is one hundred percent ready to leave Christophe and Phichit waiting downstairs for an extra half-hour--

“Ah, but I am teasing again.”  Yuuri squeaks embarrassingly as Victor withdraws his touch, as quick as you please.  “Forgive me.  We’re meant to be focusing on the task at hand."

“You’re a cruel man,” Yuuri grumbles, adjusting his trousers as Victor brushes off his suit jacket, looking terribly pleased with his clever trick.

“That is not what you said last night,” Victor replies, giving Yuuri a quick pinch on the behind before holding out his silk scarf once more.  

“Won’t you assist me, Yuura?” he asks, fluttering his lashes, “I still haven’t gotten the hang of these Western fashions.”

Victor has also conveniently forgotten that he isn’t meant to wear his shirt done up fully with this tie, leaving it to Yuuri once again to undo the top two buttons and deal with the temptation of Victor’s pale throat on display.  Yuuri slings the silk tie around his lover’s neck, giving just a slight tug to straighten the material and to enjoy the sight of Victor’s eyes wide and hot.  

“You’re lucky you’re so handsome,” Yuuri mutters, his cheeks warm as he does up the tie.  Victor beams, surprising Yuuri with a kiss on the tip of his nose.  

“The feeling is entirely mutual, miliy .”

Once they’re both dressed and their heart rates settled Yuuri leads them back down the spiral stairs to find Christophe and Phichit chatting away in a sunny breakfast room on the second floor.  Phichit appears to be quite willingly listen to Christophe tout the admirable qualities of his occasional sweetheart the Russian aristocrat.

“Mila Babicheva,” Christophe sighs happily, “The most radiant Russian flower in all of France.”

“Are you two courting?” Phichit asks, with hearts in his eyes, the perennial matchmaker.

“Ah, Mila courts no man,” Christophe laments as Victor and Yuuri join them at the table, “But she indulges me with her sparkling presence, and then I am free to indulge my own sparkling presence elsewhere, if you catch my meaning.”

“That’s very cosmopolitan of you,” Yuuri observes, to which Christophe shrugs goodnaturedly.

“Yes, well, needs must, and all that.”

Their company dressed and present, Christophe passes a tray of fluffy croissants filled with ham and cheese while his butler distributes coffee and little flutes of champagne and orange juice.  

“To take the edge off before the big performance,” Christophe says to Yuuri as he adds an extra dollop of sparkling wine to Victor’s glass.

“Are we seeing Mila today?” Yuuri asks.  Victor was delivering more acerbic lines by the hour, which Yuuri had figured out by now meant his nerves were getting to him.  Delaying their interview with Miss Babicheva would only worsen Victor’s anxiety, and Yuuri’s as well, if he’s being honest with himself.

“Yes, it’s all arranged,” Christophe promises, to Yuuri’s relief, “We’ll see Mila for tea at two o’clock, she’ll make her judgement, and then we are going out, to celebrate or drown our sorrows as the occasion requires.”

“Where are we going?” Phichit asks eagerly.  Christophe taps his chin thoughtfully.  

“Well I had some tentative plans, but now that I know I’m among friends ,” he muses with a wink for Yuuri and Victor, “I can rustle up something much more exciting.  I’ll have to loan you something to wear though.  We couldn’t show up to Chez ma Cousine with the three of you dressed like you’re on your way to seminary.”

Phichit claps his hands excitedly while Yuuri watches Victor sound out the French name with a puzzled expression.  

“You’re not hearing it wrong,” Yuuri murmurs to his lover, “It’s a jazz club with a clever title.”  

“Ah.”  Victor nods, eyes lighting up when he gets the joke.  “I see. That certainly sounds exotic.”

“First we see Miss Babicheva,” Yuuri reminds his friends, “Our social plans can wait until after Victor is promised a meeting with Duke Feltsman.”

“Right you are, Mr. Katsuki,” Christophe agrees, nodding sagely, “I’ll call the car around.  We don’t want to be late for tea!”

~

Mila lives in a townhouse in Montmartre that makes Christophe’s spacious living quarters look like a Soviet kommunalka.

“Twenty years ago this neighborhood was the artistic heart of Paris,” Christophe explains as they  disembark from his sleek 1924 Delage, “Where all the great thinkers gathered.  It never did quite escaped its aristocratic origins, however, and the new blood got tired of all the snobbery.”

A footman is waiting to show them around the house to a lush garden before they ever ring the doorbell.  Waiting for them with tea ready in a copse of hydrangea and rhododendron that would have had Monet itching for his paint pallette is a richly dressed young woman with startlingly red hair.  Like Christophe Mila is dressed in a manner that both befits her youth and her wealth, her violet chemise dress chic but maintaining a modestly draped neckline.

“Mila Ivanaya Babicheva, my spicy morsel of gingerbread,” Christophe declares, dropping to one knee to pull Mila’s fingers to his lips, “It's been too long since I've been in your luminous presence.  I’ve been languishing, truly.”

Christophe punctuates his sentiments with a liberal application of kisses that progress up Mila’s wrist at an alarming rate, to her apparent amusement.

Yuuri looks away politely from Christophe’s display of affection, instead surveying the welcome their hostess has laid out.  The table is artfully set, with china cups and platters of delicate tea cakes, both Russian and French.  A copper samovar bubbles away with the tea pot already in place at the top.  

“Mr. Giacometti you scoundrel. These gentlemen will think me terribly loose if you continue much farther,” Mila chides, though she certainly doesn’t seem to object to Christophe’s attentions, “Who have you brought for tea?”

“My darling, allow me to introduce my friends,” Christophe says, gliding gracefully back to his feet, “Katsuki Yuuri, Phichit Chulanont…”

Yuuri and Phichit both offer Mila a polite bow and a kiss to her gloved hand while Christophe ushers Victor forward.  

“And hopefully you will recognize the his Imperial Highness, the Heir Tsesarevich, Victor Nikolaevich Nikiforov.”

Victor bows over Mila’s hand and offers his own kiss as Mila stares, shocked.  

“It’s a pleasure, I’m sure,” Victor says in perfect, genteel French before switching back to Russian.  “I hope we haven’t intruded.”

“Not at all,” Mila replies, her good breeding overcoming her evident surprise.  She stands, circling Victor and casting an uncertain eye over Phichit and Yuuri.

“Christophe, my love, I never expected such a candidate from you ,” Mila says, surveying Victor thoughtfully, “Although he certainly does look like a Nikiforov.”

“Trust me mon cherie , I would never have brought him to you if I didn’t have the utmost confidence in these gentlemen,” Christophe replies, pulling Mila’s fingers to his lips for another ardent application of kisses, “Give Victor the chance you’ve given so many others.”    

Mila looks uncertain, her pale high heels clicking on the paving stones under their feet as she inspects Victor doubtfully.

“Very well,” Mila agrees at last, “Do sit down, Victor Nikolaevich.

“Thank you, Mila Ivanaya.”

“Russians,” Christophe jokes in French to Yuuri as they also take seats around the garden table, “It makes one feel very coarse, not having a patronymic to throw around conversation.”

“So, ‘Your Highness’,” Mila begins, “Where were you born?”

“At the Peterhof palace, Christmas day, in 1907."

Victor performs wonderfully .  Despite his nerves he answers each of Mila’s questions accurately, occasionally adding extra details that Yuuri and Phichit had drilled him on.  He displays perfect manners as Mila pours them tea, adding hot water to the strong Russian brew and foregoing the honey Yuuri knows him to prefer in favor of two sugar cubes which was the prince’s well known habit.  When Mila’s eyes follow Victor’s polite reach for the sugar dish Yuuri cheers.  Mila asks after the eccentricities of former members of the court and Victor answers them all.  Yuuri, Phichit, and Christophe watch the interrogation like a tennis match, their heads whipping back and forth as Mila’s questions grow less suspicious and more enthusiastic and Victor’s answers more and more confident.  

“...and he had a very ill-behaved dog,” Victor is saying, “I recall Count Anatolia insisted on bringing him to war room meetings, which irritated the duke to no end.”

Ah, don’t embellish, Vitya , Yuuri thinks, panicked, but Mila only laughs.  

“Yes, that’s right!  He still grumbles about it from time to time,” Mila says, sipping her tea with a keen eye, “I’ll admit you’re doing very well.  I only have one more question.  It may seem very personal, but please, indulge me.”

“Of course.”  Victor is a better actor than he gives himself credit for, Yuuri muses.  His posture is flawless where he’s perched in the white wicker seat.  Regal, yet casual, as if he were a prince born to comfort in luxury and not an orphan who’s never even owned a necktie before today.  Mila is being won over by Victor’s body language as much as she is by his correct answers, Yuuri can tell.  

“All those years ago,” Mila asks, voice growing solemn, “How did you escape from the siege of the palace?”

Yuuri despairs.  Of all the things to teach Victor, how could he have forgotten this one?  The one shred of proof that would be known only to the duke, himself, and the true Nikiforov heir.  Victor can’t possibly have an answer that will satisfy Mila, because Yuuri never told him the truth.  Except--

“I was with my uncle,” Victor replies slowly, with that tell tale furrow between his brows, “There was shouting, and I was frightened, but he promised we were going to Paris.”

Yuuri keeps his hands hidden under the table so that Mila doesn’t catch sight of his white knuckles.  Victor had begun vaguely enough, maybe he could bluff his way through--

“There was a boy.  A boy who worked in the palace.”  

Yuuri goes cold with shock as Mila sets down her tea.  “Go on.”  

Victor frowns, and shakes his head.  “He...opened a hole, in the wall?  That doesn’t make sense.  But, I remember.  He opened the wall, and we escaped, through a narrow passage.”

Yuuri can hardly hear the short remainder of Victor’s narrative over the blood rushing in his ears.  That couldn’t possibly be a guess.  Victor had that look about him, when he was recalling something from his forgotten memories, and what had surfaced was Yuuri . How could he have known--

Yuuri stares at the dappled afternoon light caught in his lover’s silver hair, and realizes finally, without a doubt, that he’s looking at the actual Victor Nikolaevich Nikiforov.  

Victor has been the missing Tsesarevich all along.

Chapter Text

“Well, my dear?” Christophe asks after Victor has answered her final query, “What do you think of our Tsesarevich?”  

“Hm,” Mila muses, though a smile graces her lips, “I admit, he’s answered all my questions correctly.”  

Victor beams, and Phichit can’t contain a little cheer.  Yuuri can only focus on the pristine white of the tablecloth, anxiously crumbling a tea biscuit between shaky fingers.

“Wonderful!” Christophe declares, “So when do we see the duke?”

Mila sips her tea with a guilty expression.  “I’m afraid you don’t.”

“What?” Phichit exclaims, aghast, “But you said Victor answered everything!”

“He did, remarkably, but the duke has been deceived too many times,” Mila explains, “I’m afraid he has refused to meet any more men claiming to be the missing Nikiforov heir.”

The garden descends into momentary chaos as Phichit and Chris rush to defend Victor’s authenticity.  Yuuri should do the same, but the words stick in his traitorous throat.  He catches Victor’s eye, and for a moment he thinks he sees his own guilty relief reflected back in Victor’s gaze, but then Victor frowns and Yuuri sees his expression for what it is: disappointment.  

Of course.  Victor has come all this way and proven himself, only to be denied his chance to know the truth of his past at the last moment.  

Yuuri hardens his heart, replacing his selfishness with determination.  Victor would see the duke and be reunited with his family.  Yuuri will see it done no matter what the cost.

“Mila, my buttercup, my perfect blueberry blintz, there must be a way, if you really believe us,” Christophe pleads, “Anywhere at all where we could orchestrate a chance meeting?  The briefest of encounters and I’m certain the duke will see Victor for who he is.”

Mila sets her tea down, tapping her chin thoughtfully before her eyes take on a gleam of mischief.  

“Have you heard that the Ballet Russes is putting on a revival of the Firebird?” she says, apropos of nothing, “Tomorrow is the opening night.”

Chris and Phichit fall silent, confused by the non sequitur.  Yuuri glances at Victor again to see he is equally puzzled.     

“Stravinsky is the duke’s favorite,” Mila continues blithely, sipping her tea, “He’s never missed a premiere.”

Christophe’s eyes light up first and he practically jumps up from the table.

“Say no more, my tender little zefir, we’ll be there with bells on,” he declares, “Might I beg the use of your telephone? There’s errands that must be done and so little time!”

With Mila’s permission Christophe vanishes into the house while Phichit shakes Yuuri as he realizes the solution to their problem.

“We’re going to see the real Russian ballet!” his friend whispers, “So exciting!  And the duke will be there!”  

Yuuri nods, eyes on Mila, who is studying Victor thoughtfully with something sad and mysterious in her gaze.

“You really do look like him,” Mila says, when Phichit falls quiet, “I’ve seen photographs.”

“I haven’t,” Victor replies.

“For the duke’s sake, I hope you’re real,” Mila continues, “He puts up a good front, but Yakov loved the prince as deeply as he would have his own son.  Whatever happened to Victor, he’s blamed himself for nearly ten years.”

“I…” Victor’s expression is terribly vulnerable.  “I hope I’m what his grace has been looking for.”

Christophe returns to the garden with his boisterous energy and the conversation is over, though Yuuri can’t shake Victor’s moment of anxiety from his heart.  

“My tailor will meet us at the house,” Christophe announces, bending to kiss Mila’s hand one final time, “Mon cher, I’m afraid we have much to prepare, but I eagerly await your calling card.  Thank you for your delightful hospitality as always.”

With promises to see Mila at the ballet the following night they return to the street, excitement flowing like a current.  

“Phichit and I haven’t got anything white tie,” Yuuri worries, “Can your man find something for us in just one day?”

“Trust me,” Christophe assures them as they pile back into his sports car, “For the chance to dress royalty, Josef could have three tuxedos in an hour .”

~

Josef the tailor is waiting for them when they return to Christophe’s townhouse.  The bald older man sets up shop in Christophe’s airy boudoir, measuring Yuuri and Phichit for their tuxedos with frightening speed and accuracy.  Yuuri’s never had a man’s hands on his inseam so soon after meeting in his life.

“Classic white tie, I think,” Christophe suggests as Josef makes a list of notes, his measuring tape slung around his neck, “And I’ll dress to match.  I usually prefer some rebellion but we don’t want to distract from the main event of the night.”

“The main event?” Victor repeats as he’s herded up onto a low stool in his shirtsleeves for Josef to measure.  Yuuri does his best to subdue a jealous scowl as the tailor hums in approval of Victor’s figure, whipping his tape along this limb and that.  

“I mean you , handsome,” Christophe says, “Josef has something special planned for the Heir Tsesarevich to make his grand entrance.”  

Victor looks surprised.  “I thought all formal wear looked the same for men.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me of the monotony of London fashions,” Christophe laments, “But here we are in Paris!  Why should our gender determine what side of the channel we must shop on?  No, my friend, you are going to the ballet in style .”

With Victor engaged with Josef’s measuring tape and Christophe supervising Phichit and Yuuri take refuge in the back garden.  They give Makkachin some much needed attention and enjoy the mild spring weather.  Phichit is deservedly excited, rehashing their tea with Mila in enthusiastic detail.  Kneeling down to scratch behind Makka’s ears Yuuri can’t help but sigh as Phichit bounces around Chris’ well kept topiaries.

“And the bit about the count’s dog? I thought we were goners but Mila ate it up--”

“Phichit--”

“Victor was just incredible!  And Christophe of course, he really came through, but Victor .  Even I believed him!  And I know--”

“Phichit, he’s real.”

“Yes, yes, I know he’s ‘really’--”

“No, you don’t,” Yuuri sighs, settling on a stylish bench in front of a bed of verigated carnations.  He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging the messy black strands back from his brow distractedly.  “Victor knew about the escape passage.  I didn’t feed him that line.  He just knew.  He remembered me.”  

“Remembered…” Phichit’s brow furrows in confusion before his eyes light up with understanding.  “You mean that kid who opened the wall was you?”

Yuuri nods miserably.  

“Victor is the Tsesarevich.  The true heir.”  He drops his head into his hands.  “And he stumbled right into our grasp.  We got incredibly, horrifically lucky, Phichit.”

“What are you talking about, Yuuri?” Phichit demands, “This is great news!  If Victor is really the Victor then he’s really going to be reunited with his uncle, and we’re guaranteed the ten million rubles, an-and you....you’ll….”

Yuuri pets Makkachin, focusing on the poodle’s fluffy coat while his friend’s enthusiasm simmers down.  

“I’ll get to go back to Japan,” Yuuri concludes, “And hopefully find my family.  And Victor will stay in Paris.”

“But you might never see him again!”

Yuuri nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.  “We never made each other any promises,” he says, “And Victor will be part of a whole different world after tomorrow.  I’m sure he’ll move on quickly.”

“But we don’t have to leave Paris right away,” Phichit suggests, “We could stay with Chris, or-or get a flat, and you and Victor could still--”

“Russian princes can’t afford to be seen with kitchen boys,” Yuuri says, “Or con men.”

“But Victor isn’t like that,” Phichit insists, “Even if you have to be extra discreet, he obviously cares for you, Yuuri.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuuri replies, “I won’t be a hanger on when Victor has a chance for a new life.”

“You could ask him to come with us,” Phichit says, though the doubt written across his features is enough to put the last nail in the coffin of that brief daydream.

“We haven’t even been going together for a week,” Yuuri reminds himself, “I couldn’t ask that of him.”  

“How do you know?” Phichit asks, “Maybe Victor doesn’t even want to be a prince.  Are you just going to leave him here to be miserable?”

“Who doesn’t want to be a prince?” Yuuri replies glumly.  

“I don’t know, a communist, maybe?” Phichit snaps back, “Now who do we know who fits that description?”

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri looks up to see Victor waving at them from a window on the second floor.  

“Come up!” he calls, “You too Phichit.  Josef is finished and Christophe means to get us dressed up to go out to a club!”

“We’ll be there in a moment,” Yuuri replies, pasting on a smile for Victor’s benefit.  Phichit is looking at him pointedly once Victor vanishes back inside.  

“You’ve gotta let him make his own choices,” his friend insists, “You’ll regret it if you don’t tell Victor how you feel, and you obviously feel something or you wouldn’t be so broken up about this.”

Yuuri shakes his head, giving Makkachin one more good rub down before they head back inside.  

“I’m going to enjoy the time we have left,” he murmurs, more to himself than Phichit, “That’s all I can do.”

Josef and his equipment are gone when Phichit and Yuuri return to Christophe’s room.  Instead his closet is open and the massive bed strewn with various shirts, ties, and accessories that range from the ordinary to the downright flamboyant.  Victor’s brown suit is draped neatly over a nearby chaise, while the man himself is now dressed in nearly white trousers and a shirt so luxurious it would probably give Comrade Lenin a heart attack on sight.  

“Yuuri!  Do you like it?” Victor asks, turning so Yuuri can appreciate the full ensemble, “Christophe loaned it to me.  It’s fortunate we have such a similar build.”

“You look very chic,” Yuuri says, eyes caught on the spring green silk clinging to Victor’s broad shoulders.  The neckline is something like a woman’s blouse, a Peter Pan collar with a length of ribbon tied in a looping bow.  It leaves Victor’s pale throat exposed, and the delicate fabric slips over the muscles in his arms and back in a way that has Yuuri blushing.

“It’s terribly bourgeois, but I feel wonderful.”

“You look wonderful, darling,” Christophe agrees, as he steps out of his massive closet in a bright seersucker suit, “But you’re still only half dressed.  You’d shock the rest of the patrons, even where we’re going.  Try this.”

A fitted suit jacket covers most of the green, the pinstriped summerweight wool leaving only a teasing shimmer of silk in the vee of the coats wide notched lapels.  

“It's a little big in the shoulders, but no matter,” Christophe declares, “The styles are starting to trend a little boxier anyway.”

Phichit and Yuuri haven't got the long limbs necessary to borrow from Christophe’s wardrobe, but as their friend assures them, it’s “all in the details.”  They trade out their conservative ties for Christophe’s colorful accessories, Phichit in a bright plaid bow tie and Yuuri in a blue and green floral necktie that very unsubtly matches Victor’s shirt.  

“We have to let our friends know who you came in with, hm?” Christophe says with a wink as he tucks a matching square of silk into Yuuri’s breast pocket and pops a straw boater hat on Phichit’s head, “Now try these socks, they’ll pull the whole look together.”

For the final touch to their evening looks Christophe reveals a small bag of cosmetics.

“Are you game, gentleman?” he asks, “I’m not sure how things are in St. Petersburg, but here a man has a right to a little shimmer if he’s so inclined.”

“When in Rome,” Phichit replies cheerfully, sitting on the vanity stool Christophe indicates.  He does something with mascara that makes Phichit’s already dark lashes seem very thick and dramatic, with a subtle smear of something blue and sparkling just at the edge of his eyes.

“I haven’t got any powder that would suit your complexion,” Christophe explains apologetically as he dabs a touch of pink onto Phichit’s lips, “But that doesn’t mean you should miss out on the fun.  There, now smear.”  

Phichit does as Christophe asks before surveying his handiwork.  

“Hey, I look great!” he declares, “It’s so glamorous.  Do Yuuri next!”

Yuuri declines lipstick, but he does submit to Christophe’s little brick of mascara, letting the Swiss gymnast carefully apply the oily, charcoal like darkener to his lash line with a tiny bristle brush.  When Christophe steps away to let Yuuri see his reflection he has to admit the effect is quite striking.  There’s something very mysterious and alluring, the touch of delicacy against his obviously masculine dress.  Yuuri blinks at his reflection and the motion becomes coy and coquettish with the extra weight to his lashes.

“Ah, Yuuri, you look beautiful!” Victor marvels as Christophe gives him his own kiss of rouge and powder, “Not that you aren't always a feast for the eyes, but tonight you are truly magnificent.”

“You look nice too,” Yuuri replies, cheeks warm, “What time are we leaving?”

“Soon!” Christophe replies, expertly giving himself a swipe of mascara, “It’s too early for Ma Cousine, but I know a charming little cafe that won’t object to serving a few very nice boys like ourselves. Tell me though, how do you gentlemen feel about foie gras?”

“What is that?” Victor asks, brushing a bit of invisible lint from Yuuri’s shoulders.  Christophe looks quiety horrified at Victor’s inquiry, but then he laughs.  

“I forget how it is to have never lived in France,” he sighs, “My friends, tonight you are in for a treat.  I am going to ensure you enjoy a true Parisian experience.”

Chapter Text

The stars are out when they finish their dinner and Christophe chauffeurs them to their intended destination for the evening.   Chez ma Cousine is a squat little cabaret tucked into one of the winding cobbled streets of Montmartre, its bright red facade the only thing to indicate its singularity among the genteel architecture of the neighborhood.  Well, that, and the fact that it was absolutely full of people.  

Christophe ushers them from the starry night outside through a narrow door into the stylishly warm darkness of the club.  Victor’s senses narrow as they descend a shallow stair and leave the cool night air behind them.  The air in the bar is full of laughter and conversation, all muffled by the sound of a trumpet and piano being played in a manner Victor has never heard as part of any orchestra.  The walls are a rich red which complements the polished gleam of the dark wooden bar stacked high with all manner of golden spirits and crystal glasses.  A fine haze of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, giving the dim lights overhead a fuzzy halo.  

“The first time ever I came to this establishment, I enjoyed one too many cocktails and wound up giving a demonstration of my pommel horse technique on the bar,” Christophe reveals with a wink, “Terribly uncouth.  Fortunately the patrons appreciated my display of, ah, flexibility .”

Far from out of place in his silk shirt and makeup, Victor discovers that he and his companions might be some of the more conservatively dressed in the crowded establishment.  The dance floor is packed with pairs of men wearing everything from suits and tuxedos to cocktail gowns and diamonds.  There are women as well in sharp tailored menswear, leading their partners confidently to the sultry jazz that fills the air of the club.  The music stems from a tiny stage where a beautiful black woman in a sparkling knee length gown sings with a piano and trumpet player to accompany her.  

“So many regulars tonight,” Christophe says, eyes bright and posture at ease here in his natural element, “Jean-Claude, Michael, Alexander... is that--it is!  Salvador, you old crackpot. How are you?  You must meet these gentlemen, just in from St. Petersburg!”

Victor has never been kissed by so many people in his life.  Christophe introduces them to droves of fit and fashionable men, all eager to give Victor and his friends a continental hello and offer them drinks.  Christophe does accept a tray of something green on their behalf, passing Victor, Yuuri and Phichit each a delicate cocktail glass.  

Phichit sips his right away, but Yuuri examines the nearly luminescent drink with a suspicious expression.  

“Is this--”

“Absinthe?”  Christophe guesses before laughing as he drinks from his own glass, “Tragically no.  You would have had to get here about ten years ago before they banned it.  A few of these and you’ll think you’ve had the green fairy though, I promise you.”

Victor follows Yuuri's lead and sips from his glass, humming his approval as the fizzy liquid passes over his tongue.  It hardly even tastes of alcohol, only licorice and mint.  

Victor imbibes with some caution, letting the French conversation Christophe has engrossed their party in wash over him.  He understands a sentence here and there, enough to know Christophe is talking politics and that his well dressed friends are socialists of all things, right here in the very heart of bourgeois capitalism.  Christophe points at Victor and says something that must not be about his potentially royal lineage because both men’s eyes light up.

“From St. Petersburg?” They repeat, laughing when Victor replies with the affirmative.  

“And my friends as well,” Victor points out, reminding them of Phichit and Yuuri’s presence.

“Wonderful!” Comes the reply, “Another drink then.  And a toast, to your comrade Lenin!”

Victor offers a smile and raises his own glass in toast, but stays quiet.  After all, he’s here drinking, wearing a silk shirt that likely cost enough to feed all the children in his former orphanage for a week.  Who is he to judge these men for their indulgences?  

The toasts continue, as do the topics of conversation as Christophe acquaints them with all the personalities of the Parisian nightlife.  By the time Victor is on to his second cocktail he has raised his glass to Lenin, Doumerge, George V, free love, Chanel, and the first transatlantic flight, and the liquor has begun to buzz pleasantly in his veins.  He’s not quite properly drunk, but there is enough of a punch to the sugary drinks Christophe has been handing him that Victor has found a new appreciation for the modern music floating through the air, and for the way the dim light casts Yuuri in alluring golds.  Christophe’s mascara makes Yuuri’s pretty eyes into something fey and mysterious.  Victor finds his gaze drawn back to those sienna depths again and again as their glasses empty and Yuuri’s smiles grow freer.

With the sight of so many others like them, leaning close in dim corners or sharing secret smiles over drinks, Victor eventually finds his courage and gets Yuuri’s attention with a hand at the small of his back.  Yuuri glances up, the warm electric light sparkling in his brown eyes.  

“Would you like to dance?” Victor asks, leaning down to murmur in Yuuri’s ear as the noisy club necessitates.  Yuuri’s eyes widen, but when he casts his eye over the floor and sees the crowd of dancers, all enjoying partners of the same sex, he offers Victor a shy smile and nods.  

It’s surreal, to take Yuuri’s hand in the middle of a crowded club and lead him to the dance floor, but here they are.  It’s clear the dancing is not about ceremony, and truly there isn’t the space on small dance floor for so many people to keep a proper frame as Yuuri taught him on the ship.  Instead they keep the simple necessities: Victor’s hand at the small of Yuuri’s back, Yuuri’s arm wrapping over Victor’s shoulder.  The counterclockwise swirl of dancers move quickly, and they haven’t got the luxury of counting in like they did alone on deck of the passenger liner.  A couple bumps into Victor from behind and he stumbles into Yuuri.  They laugh as they untangle their feet and finally step into the rhythm of the smoky waltz.  

“It’s not exactly the Imperial ball you’ve been training me for, is it?” Victor teases as they turn about the floor, pressed closer than would be proper at any formal gathering.  Yuuri circles his thumb over the light material of Victor’s suit jacket where he rests his hand on Victor’s shoulder.  

“I think I prefer it here to any ballroom,” he replies, glancing around to the full floor of couples.

In one of the few free opportunities he’ll have to dance with Yuuri in public, Victor can’t say he disagrees.  

They share the waltz, and the foxtrot that comes next.  It’s fun, Victor doing his best to remember the steps Yuuri taught him, and simply enjoying holding Yuuri close when he loses his rhythm.  Victor can tell they are turning heads on the floor, with his silver hair and Yuuri’s warm gold complexion.  For the first time on this journey together he does not mind the attention.  They are ‘among friends’, as Christophe phrased it, and the eyes on them are only meant with admiration, or perhaps harmless envy of Victor’s attractive dance partner.  Victor can hardly blame them for looking.  Yuuri is, after all, very beautiful.

Their dancing comes to a pause when the band begins a new song with a swinging beat that Victor can’t quite discern how to move to.  The other patrons do however, and he and Yuuri are soon jostled to the edge of the dance floor by couples doing something that looks to Victor like a rabbit hopping about.  

“I am afraid I don’t know the steps to this one,” Victor confides, still with his arm about Yuuri’s waist.

“I don’t even know what this one’s called ,” Yuuri replies as they sidestep a swiftly moving pair.

“It’s called the quickstep.”  The interjection comes from a sharply dressed young man.  He offers Yuuri a short bow.  “I’d be happy to show you how it’s done, if you care to share a dance with me.”

“Oh.”  Yuuri looks surprised to be propositioned so boldly, but Victor can already see his lover’s eyes following the swift footwork of the other couples on the floor even as he makes to refuse the gentleman’s offer.  “Thank you, but I’m here with--”

“Please, Yuuri, I don’t mind,” Victor interjects, “If you’d like to learn the steps you should.  We are here to enjoy ourselves, yes?”  

“It does look interesting” Yuuri muses, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, miliy ,” Victor says drawing Yuuri’s fingers to his lips for a kiss, “Just promise you’ll find me for the next waltz?”

Yuuri smiles, brushing his thumb along the curve of Victor’s cheekbone.  “Of course.  Make sure Christophe isn’t getting Phichit into any trouble for me?”  

With the promise made to check up on their friends Victor leaves Yuuri to the quickstep and winds his way back to the bar and the little flock of tables there.  He can see Christophe’s blonde hair where he and Phichit have managed to reserve one of the low bistro tables.  Victor waves and joins them, Christophe sliding him the half finished drink he’d abandoned on the bar in favor of a turn on the floor with Yuuri.  Victor sips the warming cocktail and slips back into the conversation, which thankfully has returned to Russian.  

“I’m telling you, a Thai ballet would be an international sensation,” Phichit drunkenly insists to an amused Christophe, “All I need is the capital to get me started.”

“Hm, I’m not sure,” Christophe disagrees, “Money is all well and good, but without the right connections you would open an empty theatre.  It sounds to me like what you need is a cultured investor .”

“Are you volunteering?” Phichit asks.  Victor thinks Christophe might laugh off Phichit’s question, but his gaze actually turns thoughtful.  

“Perhaps,” Christophe says, waving to a man behind the bar to bring another round, “Tell me more about it while you’re still too drunk to censor yourself.”

“With pleasure!”

Victor laughs and sips the remnants of his drink while his friends chatter, one eye always on the dance floor where Yuuri is engaged, now with a well groomed woman in a tuxedo.  

Now that it’s apparent Yuuri can lead and follow on the dance floor it seems he’s been deemed a favorite by the club’s patrons.  Victor stifles feelings of jealousy as his lover is passed around the floor by handsome men and handsome women alike.  A few men ask Victor to dance but he doesn’t have the confidence in his French or the latest dance steps to accept, and he’d prefer to be free whenever Yuuri sees fit to reclaim him.  Phichit is invited to the floor by a person of indeterminate gender and he vanishes onto the dance floor, leaving Christophe and Victor at the table to observe the rollicking festivities.  With the liquor still leaving him cheerful Victor is content to enjoy the sights and sounds of the club, keeping his eye out for the occasional peek of Yuuri gliding across the floor.

“Mr. Katsuki is certainly something once he lets his hair down, hm?"

Victor smiles at Christophe’s observation.  “Yuuri is always ‘something’,” he says, “But yes.  It’s wonderful to see him for once without his worries.”

“You seem quite taken with him,” Christophe muses, “And he with you.”  

Victor’s cheeks warm.  “Yuuri is...I am quite taken with him.  Yes, I suppose you could certainly say that.”  

Christophe sighs.  “You make me quite jealous, really,” he declares, “Falling in love on an adventure across Europe. Terribly romantic.”

The word love sends a spiral of anxiety through Victor’s gut, and his eyes track instantly to Yuuri, still on the floor without a care in the world.   Love , frightening in its accuracy and it’s equal impossibility.  

“Yuuri and I are merely enjoying each other’s company,” Victor says, the words like ash in his mouth, “Given our present course it would not do much good to dwell on feelings.”

“Hm...interesting.”  

Christophe’s gaze goes skeptical and Victor finds himself bristling.

“Have I said something strange?” he asks, “Or is that outlook not cosmopolitan enough for you?”

“Quite the opposite,” Christophe says, sipping from yet another bright green cocktail, “Far be it from me to espouse monogamy, but why force a liason to be casual when it demands passion?  You at least have certainly invested more into our mutual friend than would befit the temporary fling you just described.”

But what has Yuuri invested , Victor wonders, And what can I ask of him, with my own future so uncertain?

“I...don’t even know who I am,” Victor replies, “And after tomorrow night I might be someone completely different.”

Will Yuuri still want who that man turns out to be?

“My friend, you’re in Paris!” Christophe insists, “The city of love .  Who knows what tomorrow may bring for any of us?  Whatever you feel, share it with Yuuri tonight, and face the morning when it comes.”

“Victor!”  

“Ah,” Christophe demurs, toasting his glass somewhere over Victor’s shoulder, “The sweet sound of a lover’s call.”

It is Yuuri calling to him, eyes bright as he escapes the dance floor where the music has just shifted into three-quarter time.  Victor is already on his feet when Yuuri reaches them.

“A waltz!” Yuuri says, loud over the cacophony of the club as he grabs Victor’s hands, “Our waltz!  You promised it was mine.”

Victor beams at his lover as Christophe snorts into his drink.  “Of course,” he agrees readily, “Lead the way.”

It’s a waltz in name only, the flow of dance ignored in favor of closeness with one’s partner.  Victor can even see a few couples embracing on the floor as he steps into place with Yuuri.  The time to show off technical skills has passed.  This is a place for lovers now.

“My dance mistress would be horrified,” Yuuri observes as they do little more than sway in place in each other’s arms, “We’ve abandoned our proper frame.”  

“It does look that way,” Victor replies, not that he is complaining, “I think we’ve all had a good amount to drink.  It makes all the complicated European steps seem less important than the person with whom you are stepping.”

Yuuri hums his agreement, and Victor’s breath catches when Yuuri’s hand moves from his shoulder to circle around the back of his neck.

“I like it.”  

Victor can only nod, wrapping his arm more firmly about Yuuri’s waist.

One song bleeds into another but Yuuri doesn’t suggest seeking any other dance partners.  Victor counts his good fortunes and selfishly keeps Yuuri all to himself.  With the late hour the floor fills to its capacity, and the space between couples shrinks to near nothingness, and the space between Yuuri’s body and Victor’s vanished entirely.  Victor shuffles Yuuri around the floor nearly pressed flush chest to hip and cheek to cheek.  He feels the caress of every breath Yuuri takes, and every brush of his dark lashes against his cheek.  Victor stopped drinking nearly an hour ago but this closeness with Yuuri has him feeling intoxicated in an entirely different way.  Fully dressed Victor still feels as though they are bared to one another on the dance floor.  

“You’ve been so incredible tonight, Yuuri,” Victor murmurs into his lover’s ear, “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you for a moment.”

Yuuri’s eyes are hot when he meets Victor’s besotted gaze.  “Good.”

Victor is mesmerized by the faint sheen of perspiration on Yuuri’s brow, and the gloss left behind on his lip when Yuuri’s tongue darts out to wet it.  Unable to restrain himself he leans down to press a kiss to the very corner of Yuuri’s mouth, stomach swooping with the fear and elation of such a touch between them in public.  A flush blooms across Yuuri’s cheeks as his eyes fall closed and Victor’s heart stutters. They breath against each other’s lips, noses and cheeks brushing, playing at the real kiss neither of them is quite bold enough to take even in the safety of this place.  

“I…”  Yuuri’s eyes are practically black when they flutter open to stare at Victor’s mouth.  Victor tips their foreheads together, his palm still pressed close to the small of Yuuri’s back.  

“Let’s go.”

Yuuri nods eagerly and he keeps Victor’s hand in a vice grip as he leads them back through the press of bodies to the small table where their friends are still talking animatedly.

Christophe takes one look at them and reaches into his pocket, tossing them a brass key ring that Yuuri clumsily catches.  

“To the house,” Christophe says with a lewd wink, “You have enough French to get a cab.”

“Thank you, Chris.”  Victor spares a grateful glance at their host even as he slips his hand under Yuuri’s jacket to feel the hot expanse of his back through only his shirt. Yuuri shivers under his touch as Christophe waves them off, amused.

“Have fun and check the side tables for necessaries. Mr. Chulanont and I still have business to discuss.”  

Chapter Text

Somehow Victor survives the fifteen agonizing minutes in a taxi cab it requires to return he and Yuuri to Christophe’s townhouse.  Every moment until they fall through the front door and can finally embrace one another is pure torture.  

The journey up the spiral stair to their garett is haphazard at best, and likely too noisy, but Victor can’t bring himself to care as he trips again against the wrought iron railing.  It presses uncomfortably into his back as Yuuri sinks his teeth into his bottom lip.

“Careful,” Yuuri cautions with a soft smile as he kisses the sting away from Victor’s mouth.  

“No,” Victor refuses, tugging Yuuri down until he’s nearly in his lap and Victor can feel the heat of his lover’s hardness against his own.  They do little more than shift against one another for a blissful minute before Yuuri nips at his mouth again.

“Upstairs,” Yuuri urges, “Upstairs, and I can have you.”

That promise jolts Victor back to his feet, and it’s with frantic fingers clinging that he drags Yuuri up the winding stairs until they are able to close a door between themselves and the rest of the world.   

“I want you so badly,” Yuuri groans while Victor bites at his throat, his hands dragging greedily over Victor’s silk shirt. Victor shudders with the tease against his skin, Yuuri’s touch made slippery and erotic by the luxurious fabric.  

“Anything you want,” Victor breathes, his lips hardly leaving Yuuri’s skin for a moment, “Name the deepest pleasure you can think of. Your most heated desire, Yuuri Katsuki, let me give it to you.”

Victor drags the heel of his hand over the evident erection tenting Yuuri’s trousers just to hear the desire in his quickened breath.  

“ Anything .”

Yuuri’s carefully slicked back hair is beginning to fall into his eyes as he tugs the jacket from Victor’s shoulders.  “I want you undressed.  I want to see you.”

“Yes.”  Victor lets Christophe’s borrowed jacket fall to the ground, his silk blouse following as he tugs it out of his trousers and over his head.  They both of them kick off their shoes and strip off socks before their mouths meet again.  They kiss, barefoot, at the edge of the massive bed, Yuuri’s blunt nails skimming down the breadth of Victor’s back and dragging a moan from his lips.  Yuuri’s hands slip to the waist of Victor’s trousers, undoing the buttons expertly until Victor can slide them down his hips and abandon them to the floor as well.  Victor leans his weight backwards onto the bed, parting his thighs around Yuuri’s clothed hips, inviting him forward.  Yuuri follows, looming over Victor still fully dressed.  His silk tie drapes over Victor’s bared chest, teasing against Victor’s nipples as Yuuri takes his mouth again.  Victor spreads his hands over the expanse of Yuuri’s waist, drifting down to explore his ass and hips, hungry for skin and being tantalizingly denied.   

“Yuuri,” he whines, tugging the hem of Yuuri’s shirt from his trousers.  Yuuri smiles against his lips before sitting back, spreading his thighs over Victor’s lap as he sheds his jacket and loosens his tie.  

Yuuri is in absolute control, Victor happily pinned underneath him as he shrugs the suspenders from his shoulders.  He doesn’t waste time with the buttons of his shirt, only loosening the collar before pulling the full thing over his head, necktie and all.  Victor’s mouth goes dry as he sees Yuuri completely shirtless for the first time.  Their clandestine fumblings and half-dressed lovemaking was nothing compared to this sight.  Yuuri is fit and lithe, life in the criminal underground keeping him thin.  Only when Yuuri leans to the side to fumble open the bedside table drawer Victor discovers a little pad of softness below his navel.  He drags his hands over Yuuri’s chest and belly, joyful to find evidence of a past Yuuri who knew gentleness that still hasn’t been starved or worried away.  

Victor wants to sink his teeth into that softness.  Mark his territory.  

Victor’s savage thoughts are interrupted by Yuuri’s soft sound of triumph, dropping an unmarked tin on the bedding by Victor’s head.  Sure enough, Christophe keeps every room in his house ready for the spontaneous fervor of sexual congress.  Yuuri shuffles out of his trousers as Victor opens the tin to discover exactly what he was hoping for.   Vazelin , they would call it in St. Petersburg, after the American manufacturer.  They used it in the orphanage for burns in the kitchen.  Victor has used it once or twice before, to enjoy union with a male lover.  

Yuuri rests his hands on Victor’s thighs, his thumb drawing a nervous circle just behind his knee.  For the first time that evening he looks uncertain, eyes drifting from the little tin back to Victor, spread out for Yuuri’s taking.

“Will you let me--”

Yuuri doesn’t even have to complete his question.  Victor is stripping off his drawers and spreading his legs, catching Yuuri between his thighs and pulling him in until they can kiss again.  Yuuri moans against his lips and grinds into Victor, only his own underthings keeping him from the connection Victor is salivating for.  With Victor’s unbridled enthusiasm and consent Yuuri’s confidence returns, and he pins Victor to the bed with one hand as he reaches for the tin of vaseline.

“I’m going to make love to you, Vitya,” Yuuri promises.  Victor bares his throat, delighted.

“I am going to ruin you,” Yuuri continues, their earlier alcoholic indulgences unsticking possessive words from his throat, “You will never want to so much as look at another man.”

“Wonderful, Yuuri, yes,” Victor babbles, “Please do that.”

Yuuri slides his drawers off and away, giving Victor a mouth watering preview of his flushed and dripping cock before opening the slick and dipping his fingers inside.  He kisses Victor, their lips sliding together hungrily, as he rubs slippery fingers behind his balls until he finds Victor’s entrance.  They do little but breath against each other’s mouths as Yuuri circles that sensitive ring of muscle, spreading vaseline and giving Victor time to relax against his touch before finally pressing inside.  It’s slow and measured, the heat of their frantic embraces solidifying into something molten and momentous as Yuuri carefully prepares Victor to take his cock.  Victor can only react to the stretching and scissoring of Yuuri’s fingers, the sounds that escape him warning his lover to slow down, or to invite him to give more.  It’s loving, and intimate, and Victor finds himself blinking back tears that have nothing to do with the temporary discomfort of being fingered.

It’s been so long since Victor has been able to enjoy this kind of touch, and Yuuri is being so wonderfully gentle with him.  He manages to restrain himself until Yuuri has three fingers stretching him and Victor can’t contain his want for more.

“Please,” Victor begs shamelessly, “I need you, Yuura , please…”

“Okay.”  Yuuri’s eyes are dark and wide, staring where Victor is taking him inside.  “Okay.”

Yuuri withdraws his fingers and encourages Victor to turn over.  Resting on his forearms and knees Victor whimpers when feels the press of lips to his lower back.  Yuuri kisses a wet, plush trail up his spine, until Victor can feel Yuuri’s lips in the crook of his neck and Yuuri’s cock nudging between his legs.  

“I’m here,” Yuuri promises, kissing over Victor’s shoulders as he dips his fingers back into the tin of vaseline, “I’m going to give you all of me.”  

Yuuri sighs with pleasure as he slicks himself and the warmth of his breath against Victor’s skin is hopelessly erotic.  He grips Victor’s hip, fingers still slick and greasy with vaseline as he steadies himself and Victor exhales, shaky, as Yuuri presses inside him.

Victor presses his brow to the mattress and breathes as Yuuri takes him, his fingers gripping tight in the crisp white bed sheets.  It’s the possession he didn’t fully realize he’d been wanting, his body giving way to Yuuri’s cock with quickly fading pain.

Despite the needy puff of Yuuri’s breath against the back of his neck Victor’s lover is patient, working Victor open with short, shallow fucks and long pauses to let him adjust to their joining.  

“You can-- ah --you can move,” Victor urges him after some minutes, reaching clumsily behind himself to clasp Yuuri’s thigh and pull him closer, “I want...it’s so much.  Give me more, please.”  

“ Oh ,” Yuuri exhales as he pushes in on a real thrust.  His hands roam, clinging to Victor’s hips and smoothing over his chest.  It’s overwhelming and wonderful, Yuuri’s weight at Victor’s back and his touch finding every inch of sensitive skin.  The thick stretch of Yuuri inside him.  

“You feel so good,” Yuuri whimpers against his skin, fucking in again, the beginning of an urgent rhythm that Victor craves, “You feel so good around me.”

Yuuri is sweet like this.  Tender.   Possessive , telling Victor how lovely he is.  How beautiful.  How hot and tight he is around his cock.  Victor bites back a moan that could likely wake the whole house.   

“Don’t quiet yourself,” Yuuri urges, voice growing heated, “Let them hear you, Vitya.  Let all of Paris know who makes you scream .”

Victor obliges him, throwing his head back with a shout when Yuuri’s next thrust puts stars behind his eyelids.  

“God, god Yuura , like that,” he cries, rocking back as best he can onto Yuuri’s cock.  Yuuri meets him halfway, fingers digging into Victor’s hips, and the results are spectacular.

Victor loses himself in the rhythm of their bodies, the sharp pleasure of being taken driving out his anxieties and the ever growing collection of piecemeal memories he isn’t sure he wants.  The Victor Nikiforov he’s starting to fear he might be will bear the brunt of expectations.  There will be opinions about who a Russian prince is seen with, how he comports himself, what activities are appropriate for him to enjoy.

At least for tonight, let there be no doubt that this Russian prince is enjoying being fucked by his lover.

Yuuri’s rhythm grows desperate, the sounds escaping his lips louder and less sensical as he nears his orgasm.  Sweat slicks their skin and threatens to drip into Victor’s eyes as Yuuri tangles their fingers on either side of Victor’s head.  

Victor puts his weight on one elbow so he can guide Yuuri’s hand where he needs it.  Yuuri’s fingers are still greasy with vaseline when they wrap around his cock, easing the slide of his fist as Victor begins to fuck forward into his lover’s grip.  It’s ecstasy, the throbbing need inside him satisfied no matter how Victor rocks forward into Yuuri’s fist or backward onto his cock.  Yuuri surrounds him and fills him, his weight pinning Victor to the bed and his hands bringing him to the brink of climax.

“Come on, Vitya,” Yuuri urges, working Victor’s cock with smooth, sure pulls that match the urgent pounding of his hips, “I want--let me feel you. Show me how good it is.  How I’ve made you feel.”

“Yuuri, Yuuri --”

Victor comes, secure in the knowledge that he will never be pleasured again the way Katsuki Yuuri has pleasured him tonight.  He spills over Yuuri’s fist and clenches down on the cock inside him, blood rushing in his ears as Yuuri reaches his own climax.  Victor shudders with oversensitivity as Yuuri thrusts into him once, twice, three times before stiffening with a rough groan.  

Yuuri practically collapses against Victor’s back, his brow pressed between Victor’s shoulder blades as they both come back to their bodies.  Victor clings to Yuuri’s sticky fingers, mindless of the come smeared across his belly from his orgasm. Without the sounds of their lovemaking the room grows quiet, the close, humid silence only punctuated by the exertion of their breathing.   

With a final kiss to the back of Victor’s neck Yuuri separates them, carefully withdrawing before dropping onto the plush mattress beside him.  Despite the discomfort of Yuuri’s absence, Victor rolls to face him, shivering when he feels the slide of vaseline and come between his thighs.  Yuuri catches the little tremor and Victor preens to see the flash of pride in his lover’s languid gaze.  

“How does that compare,” Yuuri asks, his chest still heaving, “to Vanya the fishmonger’s son?”

After a beat Victor laughs, hoarse and breathless.  He slaps the back of his hand to his brow dramatically.

“Alas, poor Vanya,” he laments, “Who was he?  You’ve burned him from my memory entirely.”

Yuuri laughs, leaning in to kiss Victor, loose and satiated.  “Let me get something to clean us up.”  

Victor hears the running of the faucet in the little washroom just out of sight, and then Yuuri is back with a soft cloth soaked in hot water.  Victor sighs as Yuuri wipes the sweat and spend from his skin, dipping between his thighs without hesitation.  Victor is distracted by Yuuri’s gentle cleaning when his lover hisses.  

“Is something wrong?” he asks, frowning.  

“I didn’t realize I was being so rough,” Yuuri says, tracing over a faint pattern of bruises on Victor’s hips that match the span of his own fingerprints, “I marked you, Vitya.  I’m sorry.”

“Mm, don’t be,” Victor replies, leaning up to kiss his own marks left on Yuuri’s throat while they were still making their way upstairs, “I loved it.  I’ll wear them happily tomorrow under whatever ridiculous costume Christophe is having made for me to wear to the ballet.”

Yuuri blushes in the dim starlight, but he smiles as he leans down to drop a chaste kiss to one of the fingerprints decorating Victor’s hips.  Victor’s heart thumps as he drags his fingers through Yuuri’s sweat damp hair.  He lets him vanish into the en suite once more to dispose of the soiled cloth.  Victor sprawls on the massive bed, biting his lip as he shifts and savors the pleasant soreness of his muscles and the ache where he can still feel his and Yuuri’s passionate connection.  It will likely be only a memory in the morning, but Victor wishes the feeling would never fade.

“This has been one of the best nights of my life,” Victor confesses when Yuuri returns to bed.  For a moment Yuuri looks pained, but he smiles as he covers them both with soft white sheets.  

“I...me too,” he says, kissing Victor once more before they settle into their pillows.  They touch everywhere, legs tangled under the blankets and hips cradled close.  Yuuri’s arm encircles Victor’s waist and Victor cups the back of Yuuri’s neck with one hand, Yuuri’s head tucked under his chin.

“Thank you,” Yuuri murmurs, face tucked against Victor’s pulse, “For everything, Vitya.  Thank you.”

Victor can’t help but think as they drift off in each other’s arms that it sounded like Yuuri was already saying goodbye.  

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.”

Chapter Text

“We clean up pretty good, huh Yuuri?”  

It has been one of the longest days of Yuuri’s life.  Even waking up in Victor’s arms after sleeping away most of the morning, Yuuri has spent the hours until they can leave for the ballet pacing the rooms of Christophe’s townhouse, anxiety and anticipation clamoring for equal attention in his frazzled thoughts.  

The worst part is, there’s nothing to be worried about .  Victor is the missing Tsesarevich.  The duke is bound to recognize him, and even if not with Victor’s returning memories he will be able to provide more than enough testimony to prove his identity eventually.  Yuuri and Phichit are nearly guaranteed the reward money, everything they need to finally return to their homelands.  

And Victor, if not in his homeland, will at least be reunited with his uncle, to live the life of a prince in one of the cultural capitals of the world, without Yuuri to drag him down.

It’s a win-win for everyone, really.

“Yuuri?”  

He snaps out of his spiral to face the mirror where Phichit is admiring both of their tuxedos.  Plain black tails and white tie, the material is nonetheless some of the richest Yuuri has ever worn, and he and Phichit look handsome in it.  There’s little use in false modesty.  

“A big improvement,” Yuuri agrees, managing a grin for his friend, “If only Mikael could see us now, yeah?  We’ve come up in the world since we left St. Petersburg.”

Yuuri laughs when Phichit scowls, remembering their former acquaintance who had scammed them on their train tickets.  

“And we keep much better company,” Phichit agrees, pulling on his white gloves and passing Yuuri his own pair, “Now come on!  Josef is still putting the finishing touches on Victor’s suit, but I’ll bet he’s almost finished.”

Every hair in place Yuuri and Phichit emerge from the guest room to seek out their royal friend.  Once again Christophe’s boudoir has been utilized as a makeshift fitting room.  He sticks his head out the door when they knock, looking terribly handsome in his own tuxedo.  

“Ah, gentlemen, you must see our Victor,” Christophe gushes, ushering them into his rooms, “As usual, my tailor has simply outdone himself.  Josef!  I hope everyone is decent!  I must show our friends your masterpiece.”

The tailor in question offers Yuuri and Phichit his respectful greetings before disappearing behind a folding screen where the top of Victor’s silver haired crown is just visible.  

“Just let me take out these pins--”  

There is a brief shuffling, and then Christophe’s tailor pushes aside the woven screen with no little flourish to reveal Yuuri’s lover.  Phichit gasps, and even Yuuri has to admit that Christophe was correct.  The tailor has truly outdone himself.

Josef has draped Victor in starlight.

His suit is a deep blue, so rich as to be almost black, except for the shimmer of the material as he moves under the light.  Black satin lapels frame his bust, contrasting the pure white of his shirt and his pale face and hair.  His crisp shirt, waistcoat and white tie are marked only by subtle silver shirt studs and cufflinks.  It's a nod to the classic tuxedo.  However where Yuuri, Phichit, and Christophe’s suit coats cut away in front and end in black tails, Victor’s jacket is cut short.  Instead, clipped to his shoulders and cascading down his back is what Yuuri can only call a cape of sheer glittering fabric.  It flows behind him in an elegant train as he steps forward, tiny sewn in crystals sparkling with every breath.  

The whole ensemble is undeniably masculine, yet lends a delicacy and elegance that outstrips any gown, no matter how chic. Victor’s complexion is clean, and undecorated. This will not be an event where men will be wearing cosmetics, but Victor is all the more beautiful for his ungilded features.  Against the midnight blue and sparkling crystal of his suit Victor’s pale features and silver hair have become something ethereal and otherworldly.  Only the natural pink of his cheek and mouth separate him from art, the slow intake and exhale of his breath marking him apart from the perfect marble gods of a past age.

“What do you think monsieur? ” Josef asks as Yuuri approaches Victor in awe, “Will he pass for royalty?”

“No,” Yuuri replies, clasping Victor’s white gloved hand in his own, “Nothing so earthly as royalty.  You look divine, Victor.”

Victor’s porcelain skin is stained with a blush, despite his love of Yuuri’s compliments in the past.  

“It is Josef who should receive your compliments, not me,” he demurs, “I am still your same comrade, even in all this finery.”

Yuuri presses a kiss to Victor’s knuckles and offers him a reassuring smile.  “Of course.”

“You know what would look great with this,” Phichit pipes up suddenly, “Your pin, Victor.”

Yuuri blinks.  “His what?”  

“Do you think so?” Victor asks.  

Phichit fiddles with something on Victor’s discarded undershirt before holding up an antique brooch.  

“Yeah,” he replies, “Besides, you said you were found wearing it, right? It could be a clue to your identity!  Maybe the duke will even recognize it!  May I?”

Victor nods, and Phichit carefully pins the enameled ornament to Victor’s lapel.

“Perfect,” Phichit declares, and Yuuri gives Victor his nod of agreement, reaching out to brush the delicate Cyrillic lettering on the gold brooch.  

“‘The world is yours, Vitya’,” he reads.  Victor smiles uncertainly.  

“We shall see, won’t we?”   

“Shall we go, then?”  Christophe suggests, unusually sober.  Victor nods, and they set about getting into Christophe’s car and off to the theatre.  

There is a new solemnity to their company as they journey through the city. Christophe and Phichit are far from their chatty selves, and Yuuri can’t pretend it’s caused by anything but Victor’s presence beside him in the back seat.  Despite his assurances the Victor seated beside him, bedecked in the very heavens themselves, is not the same comrade they found in rags in the Winter Palace.  Nor is he the traveler in a second hand suit who Yuuri danced with on an aging passenger liner, or the man Christophe put in a woman’s blouse to enjoy the nightlife of Paris with his lover.  

No, as they approach the Palais Garnier it is apparent between Phichit, Christophe, and Yuuri that their friend has become something more.  Something no costume could provide, no matter how effective the illusion.  Something one can only be born into.

They reach the opera house where The Firebird is to be staged, joining a queue of elegant automobiles waiting to drop off their wealthy occupants for the performance.  

A line of valets await to assist them as they finally reach the front of the line.  Christophe and Phichit step out first, and Yuuri makes to follow when Victor seizes his hand suddenly.

“Vicchan?”  Yuuri asks softly, mindful of the milling aristocrats just outside the car.  Victor’s eyes are wide and beseeching as he winds their fingers together.   

“Kiss me?”

It’s dim inside the car carriage despite the open door, and a little curtain blocks the view through the slim rearview window, so Yuuri allows himself to close the distance between them.  He presses his lips to Victor’s in a soft kiss, cupping his lover’s cheek with one white gloved palm.  Yuuri swallows the quiet, anxious sound that Victor releases against his mouth, stroking his thumb over Victor’s cheekbone until his hand no longer shakes where it clutches Yuuri’s.

They part too quickly, but Christophe and Phichit are waiting as Yuuri gives Victor one final peck and a smile for luck.  

“Everything is going to be fine,” he promises.  After a deep breath, Victor returns Yuuri’s smile.  

“I’m ready.”

A brief hush falls over the crowd as Victor finally emerges into the evening air, using Yuuri’s shoulder for balance as the train of his glittering cape slips from the carriage to pool elegantly at his feet.  The valet receiving Christophe’s keys drops them, the brass ring hitting the stone beneath their feet with a jangle as the uniformed young man stares with his mouth agape.  

Yuuri is aware of curious and awestruck looks from nobility and commoners alike, all taking in Victor’s transcendent beauty as they make their way up the shallow staircase to the ornate architecture of the theatre entrance.  Yuuri even sees a few members of the press, milling about to document the wealthy patrons populating the ballet premier, raise their modern compact cameras to attempt to capture an image of the mysterious stranger and his entourage.  He can hardly blame them, even as he blinks the unpleasant ghost of the flashbulb from his eyes.  In comparison to Victor the men’s classic tuxedos seem plain and Puritanical, the ladies’ ornate gowns are made gaudy and overwrought.  Caught between the starlight and the soft glow of the Palais lights, Victor has captured the eye of Paris in a way none of these other socialites ever could, no matter how many medals are pinned to their chests, or how many jewels drip from their necklines.

“I fear Christophe has dressed me in something scandalous,” Victor murmurs, noting the whispers as they step into the foyer of the theatre.  

“He may have,” Yuuri admits, “But you look beautiful in it.”

Yuuri places a hand to the small of Victor’s back under the guise of helping him avoid a waiter with a full tray of champagne passing by.  Victor throws him a grateful look, understanding the touch for the support it is.  Safely inside the opera house Victor pauses to pick up his short train with Yuuri’s assistance, securing the excess material with a subtle clip at his wrist to keep it out from underfoot in the crowded theatre.  

“Well done, cher ,” Christophe says with a grin as he passes off his top hat and cane to a waiting attendant, “They’ll be talking about you for years to come, crown prince or no.”

“When do we see Duke Feltsman?” Yuuri asks when Victor only smiles uneasily.

“Mila will introduce us at intermission.” Christophe shows their tickets to an usher, who points them up the grand staircase to the second floor.  

“Until then, we’ve been reserved our own private box,” their friend reveals, leading the way up the polished marble stairs, “So let’s try and enjoy the show, yes?”  

“Wow, the real Ballet Russes,” Phichit breathes as they climb the stairs, pausing to survey the glittering chandeliers and gilded walls of the theatre, “At the actual Palais Garnier .” 

It’s a short walk down a hall with rich wooden floors and ornate mouldings. Cherubs wink at Yuuri from the ceilings, painted with frescoes of the personified arts.

“Someday I’m going to open a theatre even more beautiful than this one, I swear,” Phichit vows with sparkling eyes.

“I know you will,” Yuuri replies as another usher pushes aside the red velvet curtain that cordons off their private box from the outer hallway.  Christophe slips inside first, then Yuuri encourages Victor to go ahead.  

“We can do anything we set our minds to, Yuuri,” Phichit replies, clasping Yuuri’s shoulder with sparkling eyes as they step into the dim light of the balcony seats, “Tonight is proof.  Anything is possible.”   

Yuuri smiles in agreement, but he can’t help cast his eye to Victor’s silver hair, turned gold in the warm lights of the cavernous theatre.  

Almost anything , he thinks mournfully.  

Only moments after they take their seats the lights dim and the overture begins.  With nothing to do but wait Yuuri does his best to keep his focus on the dancers as they appear onstage, leaping and twirling to the modern strains of Stravinsky’s first ballet.  As always, Yuuri feels a kind of ache, to see the danseurs in their princely costumes, the perfection of their positions as they move across the stage. Muscles long unused cry out to join the men onstage as they weave between the ballerinas.  In another life, Yuuri would be among their number now.  

He shakes his head as a prince and the firebird begin their pas de deux.  There is only the life he lives now, and this is a crucial moment in it.  There’s no use dwelling on what might have been.

Some ways into the performance Christophe passes Yuuri a small pair of brass binoculars.  Opera glasses.  

“Across the way,” Christophe murmurs, directing Yuuri’s curious gaze, “Three boxes up from the floor.”

Yuuri follows Christophe’s instructions and after some fumbling he catches a glimpse of Mila’s red hair.  Beside her is Duke Yakov.  Yuuri recognizes him from newspaper photographs, and from his own hazy memories before the fall of the palace.  The duke’s visits were few during Yuuri’s time as a kitchen boy, but his presence was always accompanied by great ceremony, and a joyful Tsesarevich.  This is undoubtedly the same man Yuuri remembers being hounded by the happy young prince, aged by grief and time as he may be.  

With a quiet nudge Yuuri gets Victor’s attention, and passes him the binoculars.  Victor looks confused until Yuuri points him to the box across the theatre.  

“There he is.”  Yuuri waits for a few long seconds, holding his breath, before Victor focuses the lenses and gasps, nearly dropping the glasses.  Even in the dim light Yuuri can see the wideness of Victor’s eyes as he looks again, studying the duke from afar.

“I know him,” Victor breathes, white as milk as he returns Christophe’s binoculars, “I am sure of it, Yuura.  I know that man.”  

“He’s your great uncle,” Yuuri confirms.  Victor seems to be blinking back tears.  

“He’s too old,” he insists, “He should be fifty, fifty-five at the most.”

“In your memories,” Yuuri reminds him, “He is.  That was over a decade ago, Vitya.”

Victor’s nerves appear to be forgotten in this new deluge of memories the sight of the duke has evoked.  Yuuri worries at his lover’s distress until Victor smiles despite the tears clinging to his lashes.

“He would call me Vit’enka,” he recalls, voice a choked whisper, “Vit’enka, his little fish.”

Onstage the prince is captured by monsters, tragically separated from the princess he has fallen in love with.  

“When do we see him, Yuuri?  When?” Victor demands in a hushed whisper, “I must speak to the duke.  I have to know--”

As if on cue, the dance ends and the lights come up after a thunderous round of applause from the audience.  

Intermission.  

“It’s time.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, stifling the anxiety that threatens to smother him.  

“Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?” Phichit offers, but Yuuri shakes his head.  It has to be him.  He is the only one who was there that night with Victor and the duke.  

“Mila will be waiting for you,” Christophe reminds him, gripping Yuuri’s hand in a firm shake, then Victor’s, “Good luck, my friends.”

“Thank you for everything,” Victor replies, and then Yuuri is following him out of their box, and back into the winding hall of the theatre.  They make their way through the ornate passageway side by side, avoiding curious stares and alluring glances until they arrive at the correct alcove.  Duke Yakov’s box is undoubtedly more expensive than their own, boasting a private door rather than a curtain.  

As promised, Mila is waiting for them outside the duke’s box, the picture of elegance in an understated emerald gown and white opera gloves.  

“Don’t you both clean up nicely,” she greets them, accepting their bows with accustomed grace, “The duke is inside.  He doesn’t care to mingle, so he never leaves his box during intermission.”

“Does he know we’re here?” Yuuri asks, belly twisting as Mila shakes her head.  

“With Duke Yakov, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she says, though Yuuri can’t miss her own flash of nerves, “Come on then, it’s now or never.”

“I’ll make introductions,” Yuuri says, encouraging Victor to wait so that he can show the duke his proof.  He turns to go, but is stopped when Victor catches his arm.  

“Yuuri--”

Words hang unspoken between them, Victor’s grip on Yuuri’s forearm betraying the no doubt intimate nature of what he wishes he could say, but there are too many people milling around the hall.  Too many ears that could overhear, or gazes that could catch too familiar a touch between them.  

“Good luck,” is what escapes Victor’s lips, eyes bright with emotion that makes Yuuri’s eyes burn, “And thank you.”  

Yuuri can only nod, and follow Mila through the door with the warmth of Victor’s touch clinging to his arm like a brand.  

They step into a small antechamber, where the familiar velvet curtain hangs parted.  Through it Yuuri can just make out the outline of the duke.  

“Cousin Yakov?” Mila calls, “There is someone here to speak with you.”

“Is it the waiter at last?” The duke inquires without turning around, “I’m certain we have been waiting on our tea for a near half hour.”  

Despite the gruffness of the duke’s words Mila ushers Yuuri forward with an encouraging expression.  Cautiously Yuuri steps forward onto the balcony.  

“No, your grace,” he says, stepping in front of the duke and offering a deep bow, “My name is Katsuki Yuuri.”  

“I’ve found your nephew, Victor Nikiforov.”

The duke looks up sharply from the paper ballet program he had been studying, a pair of half-moon glasses perched low on his broad nose.  At Yuuri’s declaration removes his glasses to rub at his eyes with a sharp exhale.

“Mila…” he sighs, “What mischief is this?  I told you no more. ”

“Please, hear him out,” Mila entreats her relative, “He’s not like the others, Yakov I promise.”

“He is exactly like the others,” the duke barks, “Interrupting my peace and quiet to try and scam me out of ten million rubles.”

“Please, your grace, I’m not here to cheat you,” Yuuri insists.  

“Then what are you here for?” The duke asks, surveying Yuuri critically, “To reunite me with my Vitya, out of the goodness of your heart?”

Yuuri swallows any defense of himself.  It smacks too much of a lie to claim he had no interest in the reward.  The duke nods.

“As I thought,” he grumbles, “I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Katsuki, even if altruism was your only motivation, you cannot possibly have found Victor Nikiforov.  It has taken me ten years, but I have accepted it, and so should you: the prince is dead.”

“He’s not,” Yuuri replies, dropping to one knee before the duke, “The Tsesarevich is alive, and he’s waiting just outside this room to see you.  I can prove it.”

From his pocket Yuuri reveals the enamel and gold box that once was Victor’s most prized possession.

The duke examines the trinket box in Yuuri’s hand, his face as solemn as the grave.  

“Where did you get that?” he asks at last.

“I picked it up off the floor,” Yuuri explains, “After it fell from Victor’s pocket during your escape from the Winter Palace.  After I led you to the passage through the servant’s hall.”

The duke’s eyes widen a fraction.  “You--”

“I didn’t know for sure that it was him,” Yuuri confesses, “I was planning to deceive you .   But Victor remembers me.  He remembers how you both escaped.  And I think you remember as well, your grace.”

“As if I could forget,” Duke Yakov huffs after some moments, “Perhaps you are that boy who opened the passage.  There were not so many Japanese servants working in the palace that I could mistake you easily, but it makes little difference.  Your story proves nothing.”

“Sir--”

“You may have granted us escape from the palace that night,” the duke continues, “But you were not there when the prince was lost.  You did not feel his fingers slip through your own as the train pulled away from the station.  You did not watch from safety as he fell, and was swallowed by the mob.”

The duke’s words sputter out briefly, and his fist tremors where he has clenched it around his ballet program.

“You were not there,” he repeats after a breath, looking impossibly tired.  

“No,” Yuuri agrees, “But Victor was.”

He falters, uncertain of how much he can, or should divulge.  But despite the grip of anxiety in his belly Yuuri knows this is not the time for timidity.

“He has nightmares, sometimes,” Yuuri reveals carefully, “He talks of trains in his sleep.”

The duke’s gaze flickers up to Yuuri’s curiously at that, but Yuuri swallows his trepidation.  

“Your nephew lives , your grace.  Just speak to him,” Yuuri pleads, “One word.  You will not regret it, I swear to you.”

Leaning back in his seat, the duke lets out a weary sigh, tossing his crumpled program aside.

“If I see this man,” Duke Feltsman says at last, “This ‘Tsesarevich’ of yours, will you leave me to watch the second act in peace?”

“Yes,” Yuuri breathes, “Anything.”

The duke nods.  

“So be it,” he declares, nodding to Mila, “You may show him in.”

~

It seems a lifetime that Victor waits in the hall outside the duke’s box, avoiding the stares of the other patrons before Mila finally reappears.  

“The duke will see you now,” she says simply, ushering Victor into a softly lit room that opens onto the duke’s balcony seat.  Victor steps forward to be greeted by Yuuri as his lover parts the red velvet curtain, offering Victor a reassuring smile.  Victor pauses to face him in the moment before he truly steps out onto the balcony.  Yuuri looks so terribly handsome in his tuxedo, the black and white making his warm complexion sing, and his brown eyes glow.  

Victor will treasure the sight as long as he lives.  

In his hand Yuuri holds the little gilded box that Phichit first showed Victor while they were still on the ship bound for France.  

“It’s long past time I returned this to its rightful owner,” Yuuri murmurs, placing the trinket in Victor’s gloved palm.  Briefly, he brushes his fingers over Victor’s cheek, something like grief in his gaze.  

“Yuuri--”

“An answer is an answer,” is all Victor’s lover replies, “Yours is waiting.”

With the barest flash of a smile, Yuuri steps past Victor and out of the private box, leaving Victor alone with the duke.  Victor steps forward, out of the antechamber and past the curtain, to get a proper look at his supposed relative.

Still seated with his back turned, Victor nonetheless recognizes the set of the man’s shoulders, bent with age as they may be.  His hair has gone from thinning brown to dull steel grey, completely gone from the top of his head and shot through with white at the temples.  His coat is a conservative navy, but the gold braid at the shoulders betrays the uniform of the Russian nobility, and when the duke shifts Victor can see the edge of a black armband, the subtle sign of a man still in mourning.   

“Well?  Aren’t you going to say something?”

Victor nearly jumps to hear the gravelly voice of the duke speak to him.  He takes a cautious step further into the balcony box.  When no words come, he looks down to the trinket box Yuuri had pressed into his hand.  

No, Victor realizes, seeing the enameled box with new eyes, A music box .  

Guided by the merest trickle of a memory, Victor fumbles with the brooch still pinned to his lapel, unclasping the latch with trembling fingers.  The edge of the gilded brooch slides into the hidden notch on the little box and Victor twists, gasping to hear the mechanism inside whir to life.

“I don’t have time for this,” the duke grumbles, rising to his feet with the heavy aid of a cane, “Young man, whoever you are--”

The duke sees Victor’s face and his words die.  The lid to the music box opens as Duke Feltman’s cane falls to the floor with a muffled thump.  

Face to face with the ghost of his past, this grey haired old man who is the last of a family that once held Victor’s entire heart, the words come to him.  The memory comes to him.

“Uncle Yakov?”  

Victor holds out the open music box as the tinkling sound of Stravinski fills the quiet alcove.  His own miniature figure dances around the Eiffel tower, to the theme of the Firebird they just saw performed by the Ballet Russes.  

“When you gifted this to me,” Victor says, looking back to the aging duke, “You promised, if I studied hard enough, I could come and visit you.”

Yakov stares, as though he has seen a ghost.  Victor swallows around a lump in his throat as the duke takes a halting step forward.  

“I’m here, uncle.  I’ve made it to Paris at last.”    

Victor’s voice runs out as a single tear streaks down Yakov’s weathered cheek.

“ Vitya.”

Chapter Text

Victor awakens the morning after the ballet feeling as if he were in some kind of dream.  Or perhaps, as though his entire life has been a dream, and he is once again ten years old, waking up in his bedroom in the Winter Palace.  He opens his eyes to velvet drapery above his head, the tied back hangings of an ornate four poster bed.  A glance around the room reveals rich wood paneling and gold leafed embellishments, expensive wooden furniture inlaid with twining vines and carved swans.  Every surface is stacked with priceless trinkets and cameo photographs of royals long dead.  Or at least, thought to be dead, until recently.  

Victor studies one such photograph as he blinks the sleep from his eyes in one of his Uncle Yakov’s myriad guest bedrooms.  He’s wearing the silk pajamas a valet had assisted him into last night.  The featherweight material is a cool grey, with silver embroidery at the cuffs and the double headed eagle crest of house Nikiforov on the breast pocket in stark black and gold.  That same seal is visible in the photograph Victor examines in the early morning light. It’s a portrait of himself as a boy, along with his father and several of his officers.  Victor looks to be no more than six, still in short pants and smiling with silver hair just past his shoulders while the Tsar and his men stare solemnly at the camera in their stark imperial uniforms.  Victor attempts to reconcile the self he knows with the prince in the photograph, but it’s like attempting to put on a suit that simply doesn’t fit.  With a sigh Victor abandons the small gilt frame on the marble topped side table and rolls onto his back.  After stretching his long limbs with a yawn Victor examines the pattern of his bedding, fingers tracing the heavy gold thread that winds over the maroon brocade in intricate patterns that illustrate gardens, rivers, and even village scenes, youths and maidens dancing with one another under textile stars.

It was all of it undeniably and ostentatiously Russian , and yet unlike anything Victor has come to think of as familiar.  Lying under the lushly embroidered coverlet Victor suddenly feels a fierce swoop of homesickness for his narrow bunk at the People’s Orphanage.  He used to rise at about this time, just before the rooster’s call, and make crisp hospital corners of his threadbare blankets.  Once he had dressed and completed his chores Victor would help to herd the younger children to the common room where Comrade Lilia’s painstakingly maintained iron samovar would already be bubbling away, brewing their breakfast tea in a chipped but sturdy pot.

Amidst all these relics of the imperial past, Victor feels as though he is trying to sleep in a museum exhibit.  Or a mausoleum.

That eerie feeling rouses Victor from his bedclothes, throwing back the covers to sit up at the edge of the too large bed.  He rests his head in his hands, watching the play of weak dawn light across the floor where it’s managed to leak through the edges of the velvet draperies.  

That horrible, complicated, amazing knot of feeling that Victor has been lugging around ever since he could remember has been combed out at last, but the question remains: has Victor been set free, or unraveled?  He attempts to grasp the feelings swirling behind his breastbone, fingers doing little more than tangling in gossamer fine strands.  

Joy.  Despite his uncertainty concerning his new luxurious circumstances Victor cannot deny the immense relief of an answer to his life long question.  He is Victor Nikiforov.  Better still than even a name, he has been reunited with his beloved great uncle.  Victor is not ashamed to recall how he wept in Yakov’s embrace last night, overwhelmed by the rush of memories of the gruff old duke who never spoke down to a ten-year-old prince, but loved him as a son.  More valuable than any memory was Yakov, alive and present, clinging to his nephew just as tightly despite his reservedness.  Victor was never truly abandoned.  Despite his words the duke had never given up hope that he was alive.  

Second to his happiness?. Unease. Discombobulation. He is after all, a communist in silk pajamas.  A prince raised to curse the Tsars.  And what is he to do now?  Despite the happiness of their reunion Yakov has given no hint as to his expectations of Victor now that he is again counted among the aristocracy.  And what of Yuuri?  Of Victor’s private proclivities?  Is Victor Nikolaevich as free to follow his heart as he was before he gained a patronymic?

There are no immediate answers to those questions.  Victor cannot even say for sure that Yuuri cares to be involved with a member of a royal family.  By the time Victor and Yakov had emerged from the balcony at the theatre, his lover had vanished.  Victor can only hope to see him again soon, and make his feelings clear.  He does not plan to give Yuuri up easily.  

Beyond this certainty the rest of Victor’s myriad emotions are more difficult to pin down, warring for his attention and hiding in strange corners.  Curiosity.  Pride.  The ever present homesickness.  There is grief, but it remains veiled, a hazy curtain that blurs the faces of his mother and father.  It can hardly be considered a shock, to learn that his immediate family is dead.  He was, after all, raised in an orphanage.  But the how, and why ...a deluge awaits him, perhaps, the consequences of fear and violence Victor had all but forgotten even twenty-four hours ago, but for now there is only a sort of detached sadness when he stops to dwell on the fate of the Tsar and his wife, like phantom pins and needles in a limb long amputated.  Besides, Victor feels a much more immediate ache.  

This is first time, Victor realizes as his feet brush cold hardwood, that he has slept alone since he left St. Petersburg.  Even discounting the luxury of Yuuri’s intimate company, which Victor certainly does not, he hasn’t been without his friends for more than a few hours since they first encountered each other in the Winter Palace, whether dozing on the train or curled with Yuuri on the narrow cabin bunk, enduring Phichit’s endearing snores above.  

Compared to a mattress of jostling hay bales with Yuuri’s belly as his pillow, Victor can again only think of this opulent four poster bed as a kind of shroud.  

Such morbid thinking, Victor muses wryly, Lilia would give you a thorough scolding for such foolishness.

Victor’s retrospecting is interrupted by a knock at the door and the entry of a young maid in a pressed black and white uniform.  

“Oh! G-good morning, Your Highness,” she stammers with a low curtsy, clearly surprised to find Victor awake, “I only came to draw the curtains, if that won’t be a disturbance, sir.”

“Not at all,” Victor assures her, attempting his best reassuring smile, “Pretend as if I am not here.”  

The maid goes about her duties, pulling wide the drapes on the two large windows to let in the light of the rising sun.  Victor does his best not to stare, instead enjoying the view of Montmartre that Yakov’s mansion affords.  

“Your valet will be along shortly, but there anything else I can do for you, your grace?” Victor’s attention is brought back to the young maid, who blanches at once. “Oh!  I mean Your Highness!  B-begging your pardon--”

“Please, there is no need for such formality,” Victor interrupts her, “My name is Victor.  And I don’t need anything, thank you.”

But the maid only offers a distressed “Of course, Your Highness,” scurrying away after yet another curtsy, and leaving Victor with a distinctly uncomfortable twisting in his belly.

Discombobulation.

Despite the early hour Victor decides to make his escape, before he can be subjected to whatever additional kowtowing his valet feels obligated to perform. Upon leaving his bed Victor discovers a neatly folded dressing gown waiting for him on a nearby vanity.  The warm burgundy flannel is trimmed in velvet, but it’s far better than being discovered in just his flimsy pajamas, so Victor wraps firmly about himself before slipping out into the hall in bare feet.  

Feeling like an interloper Victor cautiously explores his uncle’s home, or at least the main hallways of it.  He bypasses closed doors and only peeks inside open ones, padding over intricately patterned hardwood floors and lush oriental carpets as he investigates unoccupied bedrooms, a parlor with a gleaming grand piano, and a library with more books than Victor has ever seen in one place in his life.  All the walls are covered in richly patterned paper, with dark wooden trim that matches delicately carved furniture.  Gold gilt accents catch Victor’s eye with every turn of his head.  Paintings hang on every wall, lush oil scenes with massive baroque frames.  Victor wonders as he finds his way to the main staircase, if he never actually left the Palais Garnier , and this is all some strange dream he’s experiencing.  Surely one man does not live by himself in this palace, surrounded by such excess.  

Then again, compared to the actual palace of Victor’s early childhood he supposes his uncle’s residence is actually quite modest.  

Victor is still wrestling absently with his swiftly changing class status when he stumbles upon a sunny breakfast room, with a veritable feast laid out on the cream colored table linens.  He sees blini and syrniki, with all manner of jams and sugars in little jars on the table, as well as a huge centerpiece of arranged fresh flowers.  On a sideboard against the far wall is a beautiful antique samovar. Silver and enamel, its intricate floral design is a complement to the china breakfast set on the table.

“Vitya, you are up and about already?”

Seated at the head of the table is Victor’s great uncle, the day’s newspaper spread out before him along with a cup of tea.  Despite the early hour it would seem he is already dressed for the day in a conservative suit only brightened by a deep blue tie, his black mourning armband conspicuously missing.

“Good morning, Uncle Yakov,” Victor says, offering a short bow from some long forgotten but ingrained habit, “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Nonsense, I am glad you are an early riser, like myself,” the duke says, putting aside his newspaper to gesture to the chair beside him where another place setting is waiting, “Come, sit.  Did you sleep well?”

“I’m not sure I ever got to sleep at all,” Victor admits, “With all the excitement last night.”

“Were I not so far into my own twilight years I’m sure I would still be bouncing about the streets of Paris myself.”  Yakov makes this declaration with a straight face, though even with his half-formed memories Victor is certain the duke has never ‘bounced’ anywhere in his life.

“My apologies for coming undressed,” Victor says as he takes a seat, tightening the knot of his dressing gown, “I was uncertain what to…”

The duke waves aside his apology.  “It is nothing, my boy,” he declares, “You could hardly wear your white tie to the breakfast table, as unusual as it was.  We will see to your things this morning, after a good breakfast.  Iliya, if you please.”

“Of course, sir.”  In short order a footman has a napkin in Victor’s lap and is pouring him a steaming mug of tea, offering him the creamer and sugar bowl with a polite bow.  

“Eat, Vitya,” Yakov urges, as Iliya piles Victor’s plate with savory blini and sour cream, “You are far too skinny for a man your height.”  

“You sound like Comrade Baronovskaya,” Victor laughs over his cup of strong black tea.  The china he sips from is so delicate he fears he might chip is just by breathing too harshly.  

“Who?”

“Ah, Lilia, the mistress at the orphanage,” Victor explains, trying a bite of the mincemeat blini and humming his approval, “She pretended at cold-heartedness, but during the worst of my growth spurts she would always try to slip me second portions at supper, even though it cut into our rations.”    

There is a soft clink of silver on china, and Victor realizes Yakov has stopped eating, his fork dropped to his plate.  His sharp blue-grey gaze takes in Victor’s lanky figure in a new light.

“I see.”  The duke turns to the footman once again.  “Iliya, would you ask the cook to also fry the prince some eggs, please.”  

“That’s not necessary,” Victor objects, “Thank you, but this is plenty, and it’s delicious.”

Yakov is unconvinced.  “Iliya.”

“Right away, your grace.”  The footman vanishes, leaving Victor and his uncle at the breakfast table in an awkward silence.

“You have spoken of your missing memories,” the duke says at last, silver fork returned to his hand, “But surely you remember enough of your life before the revolution to understand why the idea of you being raised in a….a Soviet orphanage would cause me to--”

“I do not speak of my childhood to grieve you, Uncle Yakov,” Victor says carefully, “Or to cause you guilt for something that was out of your control.  My life in the orphanage was not without it’s challenges, but it is the only life I knew, and I was far from unhappy there.”  

Yakov sighs, shaking his head.  “What you should have had--”

“Whatever I ‘should’ have had, I was found with nothing,” Victor continues, “Not even the memory of who I was beyond a first name, but I was given a place to live, and food, and comrades who did their best to look after me.  I did my fair share of work and I was given my fair share in return, as it should be.”

“The only true unhappiness I suffered was not knowing who I was, or why I had no family,” he concludes, “But I am here now.  I know who I am, and I’ve found you.  So I do have family, yes?”

With the end of Victor’s declaration the room returns to quiet, only chirping birds out the window keeping them from total silence, and Victor feels his cheeks heat to realize the firmness with which he had been speaking.  

“Yes,” Yakov agrees at last, “Yes, you certainly do.”

“I did not intend to give such a speech before the sun was fully up,” Victor ventures after Yakov has studied him in silence for some moments, “I hope I haven’t shocked you, uncle.”

“I suppose given the upbringing you describe I shouldn’t be,” Yakov muses, “Perhaps what is more shocking is that your ancestors have not yet rained fire down on our heads from beyond, to hear a Nikiforov speak well of socialism at my breakfast table.”  

To Victor’s surprise and relief, Yakov seems to find this situation humorous, sipping his tea with a rueful chuckle.

“And what say you to my opinion of socialism?” he inquires cautiously.  The duke’s expression turns solemn, but he thinks over his answer before giving it.    

“I think the Bolsheviks shot your mother, and father, and likely would have shot you as well, even as a child,” Yakov declares, sobering in his bluntness, “But it is as you say.  As an anonymous citizen the state provided for you.  I, despite all my wealth and connections here, failed to do the same.”

“But that is my burden to carry, not yours,” his uncle concludes, “As to what conversation is allowed at my breakfast table?  You were dead, and now you are alive.  I am happy to hear any politics you care to endorse, Vitya.”

“Oh.”  Victor find he has no further comment to make, and takes another bite of his breakfast to fill the silence, curiously watching the man who once served as a diplomat in his father’s imperial court flip open his newspaper once again.  He was hardly hoping for an argument, but Yakov’s quiet acceptance of Victor’s philosophy is surprising, based on what little Victor remembers of his uncle’s politics.  Then again, a revolution can cause a lot of changes, and not just on the global stage.  Neither Victor nor his uncle are the same as they were in 1917.

“I’ve already sent someone for your luggage,” Yakov says once Victor has cleaned most of the blini from his plate, and a fried egg besides.  

“My luggage,” Victor repeats, thinking of the single leather satchel sitting nearly empty in the garrett of Christophe’s townhouse.  

“Yes, Mila was good enough to provide Mr. Giacometti’s address.  She says you have been staying with him.”

“Yes,” Victor agrees, “And my friends also.  You met Yu--Mr. Katsuki, who aided me in finding you.”

Yakov hums noncommittally.  “I also understand you have a dog.  I am not so much a fan of dogs myself--”

“Makkachin is a very good dog--”

“But I’m sure she is important to you, so she is welcome here,” Yakov continues, “I will have the cook see about her proper feeding.”

“Thank you.”  Poor Makkachin.  His most constant companion on this voyage and he had allowed himself to be spirited away to this mansion without a second thought for his beloved poodle. Victor can only hope she did not think he had intended to abandon her.

A life in the lap of luxury will at least be palatable to Makkachin , Victor muses as Yakov continues with their in itinerary for the day.

“And my tailor will see you before lunch, to fit you for some suits, and a proper set of tails--”

“That’s very generous of you,” Victor interjects, “but I already have plenty of clothes.  I don’t want you to feel obligated to spend money on me unnecess--”

Victor falls silent when Yakov settles a hand on his forearm.

“I have been denied half a lifetime of gift giving opportunities with my great-nephew.  This is but one time I can attempt to make up for that lack,” Yakov rumbles.

“Humor an old man, won’t you?”

Victor does his best to summon a smile.  “Of course, uncle,” he replies, “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The sun is nearly at its zenith as Yuuri makes his way down a busy Parisian lane.  It’s a nice morning, and even the French are cheerful, greeting one another as they go about their morning errands and enjoy the blossoming of spring, but Yuuri can spare little attention to the charming ambiance of the old city.  He continues on at a brisk pace, his eyes on the ground before his feet and his thoughts a snarl of unhappiness.  

Yuuri finally slows his pace as he reaches Christophe’s block of Montparnasse, catching his breath as he walks through the cool shade of the well kept trees the line the sidewalk in front of the elegant residences.  He must have anxiously trudged at least five miles by now.

Yuuri had slipped out of Christophe’s townhouse just before dawn, determined to be anywhere but in the garrett bedroom, with its massive, empty bed.  He’d hardly slept, and when he had, waking up alone had been one of the worst moments of Yuuri’s life.  So he’d thrown back the covers, dressed, and practically run out the door, his hard steps on the cobblestone sidewalks filling his head and keeping out thoughts of a warm embrace.  Of silky silver hair.  Of Victor’s soft voice curling around the long ‘U’ of Yuuri’s name as they lay curled together in bed.  

Yuuri shakes his head, cursing his traitorous thoughts as he reluctantly makes his way back up Christophe’s drive.  A few seconds after he rings the front bell he’s welcomed back inside by Francois the butler.  Yuuri’s hardly hung up his hat before he hears the eager tread of his best friend from the guest room.  

“Yuuri! You’re back! Oh, I just knew you two would--” Phichit falters, confused, when Yuuri steps into the foyer very much alone.  Yuuri frowns as Phichit cranes his neck over Yuuri’s shoulder.  

“You didn’t--but why...where’s Victor?” he asks finally.   

“Victor?  With his uncle, I imagine” Yuuri replies, “Where else would he be?”

“Oh.”  Yuuri doesn’t understand why Phichit would look so crestfallen.  “I thought...nevermind.”

“I told you, cher ,” Christophe says to Phichit, leaning against the doorframe that leads to the breakfast nook, “Yuuri, welcome back.  I hope you didn’t have a hard time getting around on your own?”

“No, thank you, I was fine.”

“You’re just in time for a late breakfast,” Christophe continues, “I hope you both like crepes.”  

“So where were you then?” Phichit begins once they’ve been served, “It seemed like we barely got back from the theatre before you were running out the door.  The sun was hardly up.”  

Yuuri washes down the tart sweet flavor of his lemon crepes with a sip of black tea.  

“I just needed a walk,” Yuuri says, eyes on his teacup, “I did wind up at the Gare de Lyon, eventually .”  

“Where?” Phichit asks.  

“The train station,” Christophe explains on Yuuri’s behalf, “One of the busiest in Paris.  Hardly the place to clear your head, my friend, if you were looking for peace and quiet.”

“I was looking into trains,” Yuuri reveals, “There’s a reasonable fare to Geneva that leaves tomorrow afternoon.  From there we could go on to Italy, or Turkey, or any number of routes that would get us back into the Eastern Hemisphere--”

“Trains?” Phichit repeats incredulously, “Yuuri we just got here.  I think we can afford to take a few days off before we go rushing back into another adventure.  Besides don’t you want to talk things over with Vic--”  

“I already bought the tickets,” Yuuri admits, cutting Phichit off before he can say that name again, “I thought getting started right away would be best.”

“Without even talking to me first?” Phichit demands, “We’re supposed to be partners , why would you jump ahead without me like that?”

Yuuri frowns.  “I don’t understand why you’re upset.  This was always the plan.”  

“Well plans change!” Phichit exclaims, “At least, I know mine have.  I’m not ready to leave yet, not when I might have a real chance at starting my dance company, which you’d realize if you could shake yourself out of this downward spiral.”

“Your dance company?” Yuuri repeats dumbly.  

“Yes.  Christophe has volunteered himself as an investor,” Phichit reveals, as Christophe gives a genteel mock bow, “With his connections I can have a running start at opening my Thai ballet theatre, but that won’t matter if you have us stealing away on the first train to Asia.”

“Well, I’ll go alone then,” Yuuri decides, continuing quickly when Phichit’s eyes widen with hurt, “Just to Switzerland, while you two settle your plans.  I can make our travel arrangements east while I wait for you in Geneva.”

“That sounds very...pragmatic,” Christophe comments, clearly aiming for diplomacy while Phichit swears vehemently in Thai.

“Don’t encourage him, Chris,” Phichit says  “This isn’t practicality, this is masochism. ”

“I can’t,”  Yuuri swallows around a lump in his throat.  “I can’t stay here, Phichit.  Not without...that is to say, I’ve been away from home for long enough.”

The half-truth is bitter as it crosses his tongue.  Yuuri does miss his family, his village, his homeland , but when he bought those train tickets this morning it was not the blurred faces of his mother, father, and sister that were forefront in his mind.  

While Christophe clucks his tongue in sympathy, Phichit’s eyes narrow.  Yuuri’s best friend is no fool, and he isn’t afraid to call Yuuri out, a trait he normally appreciates.  

“I miss home too,” Phichit reminds him, “I haven’t seen it since I was ten years old and every day I still miss Thailand so badly it makes my teeth ache. But I know that I have something good here, worth waiting a few extra days to pursue.”

“And I’m happy for you, and your new business opportunity,” Yuuri cuts him off, “But I have no such impediments.”  

Phichits well meaning rebuttal is cut off by the chiming of the door bell.  In near coming unison all three men whip their heads toward the front door as Christophe’s butler goes to answer it.  For nearly three seconds Yuuri allows himself to wish, to hope , that Francois will open the door to reveal one Victor Nikiforov.  Yuuri’s lover will sweep into the house and announce that this has all been a terrible misunderstanding, that he is definitely not royalty and there are no hard feelings from the duke, and wouldn’t Yuuri like Victor’s company for his long journey to Japan?  Yuuri can see Victor’s heart shaped smile, feels the warmth of his embrace as he takes Yuuri in his arms, hear Chris and Phichit cheering--

Francois opens the door to reveal a stranger, in a well pressed uniform bearing the Nikiforov crest.  The butler and the messenger exchange a few brief words before Francois steps into the breakfast room to speak quietly to Christophe, who nods after some moments.  

“He’s here to collect Victor’s things,” Christophe explains as Francois shows the well dressed servant up the spiral staircase to the garrett, “And Makkachin as well.”  

Yuuri swallows around a lump in his throat.  “Oh,” he says, “Of course.”  

“Victor couldn’t come himself?” Phichit pipes up, looking at Yuuri with an unnecessarily sympathetic expression.  

“I’m sure the duke is loathe to let Victor out of his sight,” Christophe guesses, “Thinking he was dead for more than ten years, I can’t say I blame him, as much as I miss our royal friend."

It takes only a moment for the servant to reemerge given how few possessions Victor had to call his own before they embarked on their whirlwind journey.  Francois lets Makkachin in from the garden, and Yuuri’s eyes burn to see their canine companion whine, sniffing around the house for her absent master.    

Makkachin, at least, would be reunited with Victor shortly.

They all give Makkachin a farewell belly rub in the front room before they allow the servant to lead Victor’s beloved poodle away on a slim leather leath,  their friend’s threadbare satchel looped over his shoulder.  

“Is that all taken care of then?” Christophe asks his butler, who nods.

“Yes sir.  He also left a message, for Mr. Katsuki,” Francois says, offering Yuuri a cream colored envelope bearing the heavy wax seal of Duke Feltsman.  It’s with anxiety twisting his gut that Yuuri breaks the seal and reads the short message inscribed on the expensive stationary.  

His Grace requests the honor of your presence at the earliest convenience to express his gratitude in your role in reuniting him with his grand-nephew.

“It’s about the reward,” Yuuri reveals, passing Phichit the note, “I almost forgot, but that’s why we went through all this, right?”

His friend scans the short lines with a thoughtful expression, biting his lip as he looks at Yuuri in concern.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says seriously, “We don’t need the money.”

Yuuri frowns, confused.  “But, your theatre--”

“Has a well connected patron,” Phichit says, thumbing at Chris over his shoulder, “Which is worth more than five million rubles will be on Thai soil anyway.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “My family--”

“Will be glad to know you’re alive, just like Victor’s uncle was happy to find him,” Phichit insists, “Helping Victor hasn’t been about the reward since before we even left St. Petersburg.  At least, it hasn’t been for you.”

“Go see the duke,” Phichit urges him, “But don’t take the money.   Talk to Victor.  I know he’ll want to fight for what you have Yuuri, I just know it.”

“That’s very romantic,” Yuuri replies at last, “But Victor doesn’t need to be associating with criminals now that he’s finally where he belongs.  I won’t drag him down because he feels obligated to me.”

Phichit throws up his hands, and even Christophe makes a sound of disagreement, but Yuuri ignores them, working through his breakfast doggedly, the delicate lemon crepes like ash in his mouth.  

Phichit is wrong.  Yuuri does need the money.  He needs the emotional severance.  A transaction done, like forging a passport.  With the money in his hands maybe Yuuri will be able to let Victor go.  

“I’ll go meet the duke first thing in the morning,” Yuuri declares, ignoring his friend’s unhappy expressions, “Before my train leaves.”

Chapter Text

Yuuri stands in the library of Duke Yakov Feltsman, feeling once again as if he is an eight year old kitchen boy, caught somewhere he does not belong and about to be scolded.  He knows academically that isn’t the case, quite the opposite, but against the polished wooden floors and ornate wallpaper of the study, the heavy shelves of gilt edged texts and imperial knick knacks, Yuuri can only see the scuffs on his shoes, and the worn seams of his carefully patched traveling clothes.

This is not a world where Yuuri has ever belonged.

Behind the duke’s polished oak desk hangs a portrait of the last Tsar when he was still only a Tsarevich himself.  Amidst the painted relics of his wealth Nicholas stares down at Yuuri in benevolent condescension, at once a near perfect match to Victor’s own likeness and yet completely unlike his son, whose vivid warmth Yuuri can’t help but call to mind with every breath.  

Yuuri drags his gaze away from the unsettling not-Victor portrayed in the painting to focus on Duke Feltsman, who stands behind his desk with the grim look Yuuri realizes must simply be his resting expression, given the reason Yuuri is here.

“It seems I owe you a great debt,” the duke begins, “Despite my coarse words to you at the ballet, you have indeed brought my nephew safely to Paris.”

“I did not act alone, your grace,” Yuuri replies, “My friend and business partner Mr. Chulanont was an equal participant in getting the prince out of Russia, and Mr. Giacometti’s help to us in Paris was also invaluable.”

“Your humility speaks well of your character, young man,” Duke Yakov says with what likely passes as an expression of amusement by his standards, “But your friends did not help my nephew and I escape from the Winter palace in 1917, at great personal risk.  You were only a child yourself.”

“It is like you said, your grace,” Yuuri says, “Whatever I did, Victor didn’t escape St. Petersburg with you that night.”

“Perhaps your actions could not prevent the prince from being lost,” the duke agrees, “Neither could mine.  However, if you had not aided us from the palace Victor would not be alive today.  He would have died along with his parents, in a basement in Yekaterinburg.”

Duke Yakov pauses, whether to clear his throat from emotion or some dust in the room, Yuuri does not attempt to guess.  His own throat feels rather tight, knowing how delicately Victor’s life had hung in the balance that night.  

“So,” the duke continues, “For that, and for reuniting me with my nephew, I would like to express my gratitude.”

The duke opens an intricately carved wooden chest on his desk, revealing several neat stacks of banknotes.  It doesn’t seem so grand a sum, tucked into a chest no bigger than a breadbox, but it is easily more money than Yuuri has ever seen in his life.  Enough to live on for years.    

“Ten million rubles,” Duke Yakov declares, leaving the way clear for Yuuri to approach, “As I believe I advertised.”

Ten million rubles in exchange for Victor.  

Yuuri’s resolve to leave Paris is unwavering, but he realizes, facing the reality of reducing he and Victor’s time together down to a financial transaction, that he would rather stick his hand in a lit fireplace than touch one ruble of the duke’s offered reward.

“I accept your gratitude, your grace,” Yuuri says with another short bow, “But I have no need of your money.”

It’s clear the duke is taken aback by Yuuri’s declaration.  “What do you want then?”  

“Nothing you can give,” Yuuri replies, “Or at least, nothing I should have.”

Duke Yakov frowns.  “Mr. Katsuki, you have done a great service to the Nikiforov house,” he says, “You saved the prince’s life, and mine.  You restored him to me, yet you want no reward?”

Yuuri stares at the intricate paneling of the wooden floors.  “Not anymore.”

“Why the change of mind?”  

Yuuri grips the handle of his suitcase with a shaking hand.  “It was more a change of heart.”

Duke Yakov does not reply, whether confused by his words or dumbstruck by Yuuri’s unadulterated sentimentality he cannot guess.

“I have a train to catch,” Yuuri says in farewell, “I hope that Victor...that the Tsesarevich can enjoy the life he deserves.”

With another bow Yuuri leaves the library, his obligations complete.  It’s with a guilty sort of relief that he reaches the landing of the grand staircase, only a few steps down and a door between him and escape, and all without running into--

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri stops walking with a sigh, his eyes closed as he braces himself against the light sound of Victor calling out to him, his voice catching cruelly on every ragged edge of Yuuri’s heart as it reverberates through his chest.  

“Hello, Victor.”

With regret, Yuuri opens his eyes, only to feel a horrific swoop of vertigo as Victor approaches from the bottom of the stairs, his lover’s happy features blurring back and forth to the cold eyed stare of the portrait of Nicholas II hanging in the duke’s library.  

Victor is dressed in the imperial suit of the Tsars.  His broad shoulders and trim frame are fitted perfectly in a pure white coat over navy trousers and polished black shoes.  Gold epaulettes and braided trim sit heavy on his shoulders, and trace the high collar at Victor’s throat.  Shimmering in gold embroidery across the breast of his coat is the double headed eagle of the Nikiforov dynasty, parted only by a thick red sash that slashes across Victor’s chest like a wound.  Yuuri feels a nonsensical compulsion to try and staunch the bleeding, prevent Victor’s life force from gushing out before only the ghost of a prince is left where there once was a man Yuuri loved.   

“ Miliy , I am so glad to see you.  I--”  Victor pauses, looking down at his own chest where Yuuri’s no doubt queasy stare is fixated.  

“Oh,” Victor says, indicating his costume absently, “They wanted me to try it on, for a fitting.  I look like I am a child playing dress up, no?”

You look like a faded newspaper photograph , Yuuri doesn’t say, This gold and red has bled you out, and turned your silver hair to anemic white.  Where is my lover, buried under all this cold silk?

“No,” he says instead, “It suits you.  You look very handsome.”

Victor blushes at his compliment and that, at least, brings some color to man Yuuri holds dear.  

“What brings you here, Yuura?” Victor asks, glancing up through his lashes as he reaches for Yuuri’s free hand.  Against his better judgement Yuuri allows the touch, Victor’s careful gloved grip on his fingers burning like ice.

“Your uncle,” Yuuri begins, “Well, I guess there was a reward.  For finding you.  Bringing you to Paris.  So his grace asked me here.”  

Is it his imagination or does Victor look disappointed?  

“That’s...good.  Great,” Victor says despite his wistful expression as he stares at their joined hands, “I’m glad.  I never would have made it here without you.  And Phichit.  You both deserve to be rewarded.”

“Yes, well, the duke is very generous.”  Yuuri lets Victor believe he claimed the reward.  If this can’t be reduced to a transaction for him, maybe it can for Victor.  

“Phichit is still at Christophe’s,” Yuuri says when the silence drags on too long, “He’ll be staying there for a while yet.  You should call on them, they’re both wondering how you’re doing now that you’re royalty.”

“I will,” Victor promises, “But what about you?”  

“I’ll be heading to Geneva soon,” he reveals, mustering up a smile, “Have to start planning for the next adventure, right?”

“Oh.”  For a moment Victor looks devastated, but then he manages a smile of his own.  “That’s wonderful, Yuuri.  We’ll have to see each other a few more times before then, though, yes?”

“My train leaves in a few hours,” Yuuri says reluctantly, glancing at the face of a grandfather clock at the base of the stairs, “I’m headed to the station now, in fact.”

“What?”

Victor steps back, looking Yuuri up and down as his face goes milk white.  His eye pauses on Yuuri’s suitcase, on his traveling clothes, on the ticket envelope in his jacket pocket.  

“I don’t understand,” he says at last, “I thought we--”

Victor swallows visibly, but Yuuri says nothing.  

“You’re leaving today,” Victor stammers, voice rough, “And you only came here because my uncle summoned you.”

Yuuri nods.  “Yes.”

“You would have left?”  Victor demands, “Without a word to me?  After everything we’ve been through?”

“We did not make each other any promises,” Yuuri bites out.  He pulls away from Victor’s touch, knowing full well he may as well have slapped his lover in the face, but this mansion, palace , is too full of people.  Too many servants who could see them together and ruin Victor’s new life before it even begins, all for a newspaper story or a society scandal.  He and Victor’s romance would be smeared, just for another shot at the sinful decadence of royalty.  For all the friendship and acceptance they found in Paris after dark, there are certain proclivities that will never be allowed a prince in the light of day.

Yuuri stares at the white silk uniform trapping his lover like a straightjacket, barring Yuuri from his embrace forever.  For the first time in his life he feels something that could be called hatred.  He resists the urge to rip the sash from Victor’s chest along with the rest of the pristine suit until the Tsesarevich is gone and only Vitya remains, bare and free for Yuuri to cling to as he so desperately wishes.

If only Yuuri had been wrong.  If they hadn't been so cursedly fortunate, and Victor were just another Russian orphan.  They could run away together, escape the past and Duke Yakov and the ghosts of the Tsars and live in the changing world.  They would struggle, no doubt.  Scrap and starve, and make love to each other every night.  Share every sunrise.

Yuuri’s eyes burn with the perfection of that fantasy.  

“It…it was lovely getting to know you, Vitya,” Yuuri manages, softening his tone, “Even if only for a short time.”

“It was more than that Yuuri, and you know it,” Victor pleads, “Please don’t go.  I’m not ready to say goodbye. I need you here.”

“There’s never a good time to say goodbye,” Yuuri replies, “But we aren’t on the same path anymore.  We can’t be, and I have to move on.  I’m sorry.”

“Yuura…”

“No, Victor--”

“My lord, are you alright?”  A passing servant must have noticed Victor’s rising voice.  Victor tries to wave him off, but the butler scans Yuuri’s plain dress and a frown of disapproval settles on his stern features.

“Young man,” he reprimands Yuuri, “Remember where you are.  You will bow, and address the grand duke as ‘Your Highness’.”

“Please, that’s not necessary--” Victor interjects.  

“No, it’s fine,” Yuuri cuts him off, offering a low bow, “Goodbye...Your Highness.”

It’s the gentlest devastation Yuuri can offer.  He keeps his eyes on his feet as he continues down the stairs.  A footman opens the door for him while Yuuri tries to blink back traitorous tears.  It’s better this way.  If their parting moments are in anger then at least Victor will be able to move on that much quicker.  

“Yuuri.”

In his weakness Yuuri turns back in time to see the first sparkling tear plop onto Victor’s pristine imperial uniform.  

So much for anger.  

“You did make a promise,” Victor calls to him from the stairs, “You promised you would not abandon me.”

“I haven’t,” Yuuri replies, one foot out the door, “You’re with the people that love you.”  

Yuuri turns and leaves through the ornate front door, but he can’t outrun Victor’s final words.  They strike his back like rifle fire.  

“I thought I already was .”

Chapter Text

Yuuri’s exit is so sudden and unexpected that Victor has to admit he goes numb to the reality of it.  There is perhaps a hidden fragment of himself that breaks down, that runs back to his rooms and sobs into Makkachin’s soft fur at the unfairness of it all.  At having complete and total happiness snatched from his grasp just when Victor thought it was his to own.  At realizing your cross country romance was only the convenient byproduct of financial necessity.

However, while that hidden fragment enjoys its catharsis the rest of Victor merely wipes his eyes on a monogrammed handkerchief, dabs the stain out of his jacket, and continues upstairs where Yakov is waiting to speak to him.  Victor climbs the stairs, letting the sparkling costume of the Tsars encase his heart in ice.

There’s a raw grief in his uncle’s gaze when Victor presents himself dressed in imperial white.  

“You look so much like your father,” the elderly duke sighs.  Behind Yakov’s desk there hangs a massive portrait of the man in question, dressed almost exactly as Victor is now.  It must have been saved from elsewhere in Europe, perhaps painted before Nicholas was coronated.  He stands, the Great Imperial Crown of Russia set beside him on a cushion along with some other markers of the Nikiforov house.  

“This was to be your birthright,” Yakov intones, “Heir Tsesarevich, Victor Nikolaevich Nikiforov.   Future emperor of all Russia and her territories.”

Victor stares at the portrait of the Tsar, a mirror image of himself perhaps ten years in the future.  He tries to find something to connect them, some glimmer of emotion or memory that could tie Victor to this man besides their matching silver hair.  But there is nothing yet.  Nicholas II steel grey eyes are as flat as gunmetal where the painter’s illusion makes them meet Victor’s own.

“What kind of man was he?”  Victor asks.  “My father.”  

“Nicholas held a great respect for tradition,” Yakov says, “And for family.  He loved you and your mother very deeply.”

Victor nods, wishing he could recall something of his mother besides the swish of silk skirts, and something of his father besides the brushstrokes of a painted portrait.   

“He could also be an arrogant fool, when he wished it.”  

Victor startles at his uncle’s blunt words.  Yakov’s gaze is steady, but not unkind.  

“There are those who would make your father a saint to you, Vitya,” Yakov warns him, “A martyr to the glory that was Imperial Russia.  You must not let them.”

“Who am I , then?” Victor asks, indicating his costume, “You have me dress like this, but say I shouldn’t be my father.  Neither can I be who I was before I regained my memories, an unknown citizen.  What now, uncle?”

“Therein lies the precipice we stand on,” Yakov says, leaning on his desk, “What was your birthright then is still yours now, and there are those in and out of Russia who would support you should you seek to claim it.  So I must ask:  Would you sit on the throne as Tsar?  Restore the monarchy?”  

Yakov continues, “If it is what you wish I will spill my last drop of blood to see it done.  But only if it is what you want.  If you think it is what’s best for Russia.”

What’s best for Russia .  Who was Victor to even make such a judgement?  And yet, those judgements would have been the activities of his daily life, had the revolution never occurred.  But it did, and Victor knows with a calm certainty that he is not the man he would have been if he’d spent the last decade in a palace, being groomed to rule an empire.

“What I recall of my childhood,” Victor says, “I learned many things necessary to be a prince. I was taught to waltz, and speak French.  I learned exactly how deeply to bow to each tier of the nobility.  But I was never taught what would be necessary to be an emperor.”

War. Economics.  Politics.  Swiftly changing tides that Victor’s father did not survive, for all his supposed divine claim to an imperial throne.

“Even if believed in the right of any man to rule over another by nature of his birth, placed on a throne I would be what I was taught to be as a child,” Victor continues, “A decoration.  A figurehead for an imperial system, without the knowledge to transform it to better serve my people.”

“No,” Victor decides, “There will be no more Tsars in Russia.  Or at least, none that bear the name Nikiforov.”

Yakov’s weathered visage eases into an expression of relief and approval.  “Then you are a wiser man than your forefathers, Vitya.  Thank god.”

“Abandoning the civil war idea, then,” Victor wonders, the joke feeling a little cheap in his mouth, “What is our next step?”  

“Most likely, we announce you to the world,” Yakov says, “Throw a ball in your honor, let all the hobnobs lay eyes on you and see for themselves that you are the legitimate heir.  From there, practically every door of society will be open to you, for better or worse.  Politicians, businessmen, socialites.  They will all want your endorsement, your condemnation, or to marry you off to their daughter.”  

...I won’t marry, or father heirs to carry on my supposed line.

Victor meant what he said, sitting beside Yuuri in their shared bed, and his words are still true now.  It is as his lover wished.  Victor has no desire to seek another partner, man or woman.  Not after Yuuri.  

“Let’s assume marriage is not of interest to me,” Victor says with what is hopefully a humorous lilt.  Yakov gives a gruff laugh.  

“I wasn’t making any plans behind your back, moya ribka , don’t worry yourself.”

Victor smiles uneasily, giving a brief moment to the thought of what his life might have been like had the monarchy endured, and what kind of political marriage he would likely be facing.

“Married or not, you certainly have the fortune to live the life of a socialite without responsibility,” Yakov suggests, “Though given what I have learned, I assume this would not hold much appeal for you.”

Victor shakes his head, wrinkling his nose.  “You are quite right, uncle.”

“There is always philanthropy,” Yakov says next, “The Nikiforovs have left a legacy in European minds, much of it negative.  Selfish, opulent, extravagant.  Your name on the board of a charity could offset that, and you could spread your income to those who have less.”

Victor hums thoughtfully.  If he has wealth there is little point in his hoarding it.  Even with the indulgences he’s enjoyed so far in Paris there is no way he could spend it all, nor should he.  

“There would also be a place for you in politics,” Yakov continues, “Obviously not as a candidate, but there would be a great many voices that would listen to the heir of an imperial throne reject his divine mandate in favor of democracy, or communism.”  

“You do not care for this path,” Victor guesses, judging by his uncle’s reluctant tone.  Yakov sighs, indicating the portrait behind the desk once more.

“Nicholas married himself to autocracy at the start of his reign, and that was the day he marked his own downfall,” he warns, “I can only advise you not to do the same, however opposite your ideologies.  Unlike your father you are free to change your views as you see fit.  Once you have spoken to a crowd, you will become something other than yourself, and the people will force you to wear that mask for the rest of your life.”

Victor absorbs his great uncle’s wise words as the faint chime of the front door bell sounds from the first floor.  

“What would you have me do, uncle?” Victor asks, “Surely there is a choice among these that would make you happiest.”

“I will not answer that question,” Yakov replies, “A man must choose such things for himself, and I won’t influence you through family ties or financial ones.”

Victor’s frowns.  “If I had escaped with you that night,” Victor insists, “If I had been raised here, in Paris, you would have some expectation of me.”

“What may have passed is not what is here now,” Yakov declares, resting his hands on Victor’s shoulders, “To see you alive, to see the man you have become, that is all I wanted.  What is it that you want, Vitya?”

What do I want , Victor wonders, What do I want that I can actually have?  

He’s spared answering by a sudden commotion from the first floor.  Apparently whoever had rung the bell had urgent business, and they aren’t taking no for an answer.  Voices rise until Victor and Yakov can hear the clear through the cracked door of the library.

“Please, the prince knows us we have to see him--”

“I’m sorry, but his grace and his highness are in a private meeting--”

“ Monsieur , we must see our friend, in the name of love!”

“What on earth is going on out there?” Yakov grumbles.

“I’m not sure,” Victor replies, though he thinks he recognizes the voices coming up downstairs.

“I demand to speak to my cousin this moment. It’s a matter of life and death --”

“Sirs, Miss Babicheva, I really must insist--”

“Victor!”

At the sound of his name Victor steps out of his uncle’s study, taking the few steps to a landing where he discovers Phichit, Christophe, and Mila Babicheva locked in a heated exchange with Iliya the footman on the floor below.  

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Call a guard,” Iliya orders another servant, “Your Highness, I do apologize, these men simply burst right in the door--”

“No, it’s alright,” Victor calls from the top of the stairs, “These are my friends.  Phichit?  What’s going on?”  

“Victor, thank god,” Phichit declares as Iliya reluctantly allows them into the foyer, “It’s Yuuri.  He’s leaving .”

Victor sighs as he descends the staircase, his spirits sinking despite the urgency of his friends’ tone.  “I know.”  

“He could be boarding a train to Geneva as we speak, we have to--” Phichit blinks, confused.  “You know?”   

“He was here,” Victor says, his heart aching in his chest, “But only to collect the reward my uncle offered.”

“What?” Both Christophe and Phichit look shocked.  

“Yuuri did not even intend to say goodbye,” Victor reveals, “I asked him not to go but he said...he said we are on different paths.”

“ Mon dieu, what a fool.”  

“Yuuri is not-- ” Victor objects indignantly, unable to stop himself defending his lover even though he agrees with Christophe in this case.  

“My life is bound to become very public from now on,” he begins again, “And if that isn’t something Yuuri wants to be involved in, or if he doesn’t feel strongly enough about our attachment to endure it then I can hardly blame him for--”

“No, no! Yuuri loves you, Victor I swear,” Phichit interrupts, “He’s being all dumb and self-sacrificing because he thinks he’s making your life easier, just because of his reputation in St. Petersburg or because he was a servant--”  

Phichit cuts off his argument as his gaze tracks over Victor’s shoulder, his eyes gone round.  Victor turns in confusion to see what has caught his friend’s attention and the bottom of his stomach drops out when he sees his uncle at the top of the stairs, observing the goings on with no little consternation.  

“Iliya, you can leave us.”

At Yakov’s order the footman quickly bows and exits with a nervous “yes, your grace,” leaving Victor and his friends alone in the foyer with the duke looking down on them.  Still leaning on his cane Yakov makes his way down the stairs one step at a time.

“I won’t pretend to know the full picture of what his happening here,” the duke rumbles as he nears the bottom, “But I think I am beginning to have an idea.”

“Uncle Yakov, I…”

“Victor.”  Yakov’s grip once again settles on Victor’s shoulder, something tired and understanding in his gaze.  “He didn’t take the money.”

“...what?” Victor breathes, a sort of daze coming over his thoughts.  

“This young man, Katsuki, he refused the reward,” Yakov repeats, “It seemed like foolishness to me, but...perhaps it means something different to you?”

Victor processes this new information, coupling it with the testimony of Phichit and Christophe.  The ice around his heart cracks.

“It...it does,” he realizes, looking up at Yakov.  Before his uncle Victor feels small, ten years old again.  Uncertain and fearful and staring in wonder at the pretty eyes of a servant boy.

The servant boy, Victor realizes, The boy with pretty eyes who opened the wall.

Yuuri.  

“I love him.”

Victor’s voice is little more than a whisper, but such a proclamation only needs saying once.  Phichit cheers but Mila gasps and even Christophe’s eyes widen, looking to the duke with concern.  His uncle the duke, a former member of the imperial court who heard the views of a socialist at his breakfast table without judgement.  But even so broad a gap as that was only mere politics in comparison to this moment, as Victor waits for his uncle to speak.  Is he, the prodigal son, to be cast out as quickly as he was welcomed?  

It doesn’t matter, Victor realizes, as he and Yakov both go through a visible range of emotions.  This moment, though perhaps in not so dramatic a circumstance, was bound to happen eventually.  Victor did not want to hide such a crucial part of himself from his only blood family, nor would he have been content to deny himself to preserve some antique family legacy.  Discretion, caution, these things he can stomach as circumstances necessitates, but to button up his heart behind an imperial suit and never speak of it again in the light of day? Victor would trade the white silk for a hair shirt in a moment if it meant he could have Yuuri in his arms again.  To be condemned by his uncle now would break his heart, yes, but he would survive, and he wouldn’t be alone.

Victor was right, when he called after Yuuri earlier.  He has been with the people that love him all along.  Phichit and Christophe have proven it by coming here today, risking their freedom and reputations.  Mila, in being willing to help them.  Even Yuuri, misguided though he may be, is about to board a train and break his own heart in the name of Victor’s happiness.

No matter what is about to pass, Victor has all the family he could ever want.  And he will not give it up.  He waits, if not totally without anxiety than at least with moderate calm, for his uncle to speak.

“I am an old man, Vitya,” Yakov sighs at last, “Old fashioned, I have been called.  Traditional.  And that is likely true.  I have lived in Paris for many years, and some of the social goings on, what is considered acceptable , I will never understand.”  

Victor swallows, something burning behind his eyes, but it seems his uncle is not done speaking.

“But I have learned, even in my old age,” he continues, “The cost of letting an opportunity go by.  Of letting yourself be pulled to safety.  Of boarding a train without the person who matters most, and living with that failure.”

“As one who tried and failed,” Yakov says, “When you love someone, you do everything in your power to get them on that train.  Or off it, as your case may be.”

“Uncle Yakov, are you saying--”

“I cannot offer you my opinion on your own inclinations, for better or worse,” his uncle replies, almost smiling, “But it is obvious even to me that you must not let this young man go to Switzerland, Vitya.”

“But how could we--” Victor’s head is spinning. “You said, all eyes will be on me, once the people know the Tsesarevich is alive.  That I am alive.  Even if I could stop him in time, we would never have a moment’s peace.”

Yakov shrugs.  “Then we will not tell anyone.”

“...we won’t?”  

“It is like I said.  I have no political ambitions on your behalf,” his uncle promises, “No one has to know that Victor Nikiforov has been found.”

“But, you’ve waited so long--”

Yakov only shakes his head.  “I waited to know the truth.  Whether my weakness cost the life of the child I would have gladly called my own.  But despite everything, you survived .  You, Vitya, just as you are. What would have been expected of the crown prince of Russia is not what I expect of you.”

“My boy, I would gladly see the Tsesarevich dead if it means that Victor Nikiforov continues to live.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Victor breathes, voice rough as he pulls Yakov into a hug.  It’s brief, and a little stiff, but this is Victor’s family, and he’s never been more grateful for it.

“Now go,” Yakov orders, “Complete whatever heroic mission awaits.  Then you return here, with your friends.  And whatever your next path in life, I will do everything in my power to ease your way.”

Victor nods, squeezing his uncle’s hands where they rest on his shoulders before turning to his friends.

“We have a train to catch, yes?” he says, something giddy and fearful in equal measure taking up residence in his chest.  

“Yes!” Phichit cheers

“My car is outside,” Christophe says, “Quickly, there isn’t another second to lose!”

Without another word Victor follows his friends out the door.  He can only pray that he can reach his Yuuri in time.  

Chapter Text

The Paris-Gare de Lyon is crowded as Yuuri waits in a long line to board the train to Geneva.  Multiple locomotives are boarding, their furnaces smoking and humming as large groups bustle back and forth with their luggage in the warm afternoon light that streams through the open vaults of the industrial canopy overhead.  It was lucky Yuuri had arrived with plenty of time, given the busy hour of his departure.  He shuffles his small suitcase forward as the conductor checks the tickets of passengers ahead of him.

To the side of the queue is a couple making an emotional goodbye.  The young woman is carrying a suitcase, frantically embracing her partner.  From what Yuuri gathers of their French the young man had tried to buy a ticket to join her but the train was full, and it would be many weeks before they could be reunited in Switzerland.  

Overhearing their heartache only reminds Yuuri of his own, the sight of Victor, his lovely cheek streaked with tears still fresh in his mind.  Unlike the man and woman he’s eavesdropping on Yuuri has denied himself a heartfelt goodbye in his lover’s arms, the sting of sorrow sweetened with kisses.  His lips tingle with the lack of it, his arms aching to hold his Vitya.

The line moves forward, and Yuuri shakes his head as he’s jostled from behind by another passenger.

You’re doing the right thing , he reminds himself firmly, You can’t stay.  You don’t belong here .

Somewhere across the tracks a street musician starts up a mournful jazz tune, the sound of their trumpet floating over the cavernous space of the station.  It’s a waltz, romantic and heady.  If Yuuri closes his eyes he can almost imagine he’s back on the deck of a ship, or in the downstairs room of a club.  Victor is in his arms, his hand pressing sure and warm at the small of his back.  

Beside him the couple is still intertwined.  The woman’s face is streaked with tears but she’s smiling as the man promises the happiness they’ll share in the future.  That no hardship or distance between them will ever keep them apart forever.  The struggles will be worth it, he promises, because they will love each other through it all.

“Ticket, please.”

Yuuri jumps, engrossed as he had become in the man’s words, realizing that he’s reached the front of the line and is face to face with a conductor.

“Your ticket, sir,” the conductor repeats, impatient, “Or aren’t you planning to travel to Geneva today?”

“Oh, right.”  Yuuri has the envelope in his hand, it’s just a matter of fishing out his pass and handing it to the conductor.  The paper ticket is a soft blue, like the false tickets that nearly got them thrown off a train in Poland.  Like the Baltic Sea.  Like Victor’s eyes.  

“Wait!” he exclaims, just as the officer is about to crunch down with their silver hole punch, “Wait please, I’m sorry.”

The conductor eyes him suspiciously but hands back Yuuri’s ticket without comment.  He’s quickly edged from the line as impatient passengers seek to board the train, but he doesn’t object.  Ticket in hand, Yuuri approaches the young couple whose conversation he’d overheard.  

“Excuse me,” he says in stumbling French, “But you wouldn’t be looking to get on this train, would you?”  

~

“Go, run!” Phichit urges Victor, practically kicking him out of the car as Christophe pulls up to the Paris-Gare de Lyon , “You might still make it!”

“Thank you, my friends,” Victor says, resting his hand only for a moment on the open windowsill of the automobile.  

“Later, darling!” Christophe says from the driver’s seat, “There will be time for thanks when you have your man!”

With a grin Victor takes off for the massive turn of the century building at a run, weaving between tourists and travelers as he climbs a wide shallow staircase and passes through one of the open doors into the vaulted transept of the station just as the high pitched scream of a steam whistle echoes through the space.  

He’s dressed like a drunk or a ruffian, in only his undershirt and Christophe’s suit jacket over the navy pants of his Tsar’s uniform, but he could hardly race through the bustling train station in imperial white.  Not if he plans to keep his royal status out of the papers.

Victor’s identity is the last thing on his mind when he reaches the first set of tracks only to find them empty, steam and smoke still hanging in the air from a departed train.  It only takes a glance at a nearby board to confirm his worst fears: Yuuri’s train has gone.  

Victor stares, bereft, at the empty tracks for a long moment.  He’s missed his chance.  With his friends cheering him on he’d been so sure that he could arrive in time.  That he could catch Yuuri, convince him to stay, before their separation truly began.  Despite the knowledge that all hope is not lost, that Geneva is only so far and Victor had more than the means to pursue his wayward lover, Victor allows the heartbreak to swamp him for the moment, his eyes blurring with tears.  

Yuuri.      

“Vicchan?”

Victor whirls around to find the most beautiful sight he has ever laid eyes on.  Yuuri, still in his plain suit, his well traveled suitcase resting on the cobblestones near his feet.  He stares at Victor in shock, as though Victor’s appearance were beyond his wildest imaginings.  

“ Yuuri .”

It might be unwise, to pull Yuuri into a tight embrace in the middle of a public train station, but let the milling crowds assume what they will.  Victor cannot find it in him to care when he’s holding Yuuri in his arms, and when he feels Yuuri’s arms wrap around him just as tight.  

“I...didn’t get on on the train,”  Yuuri admits, his breath warm through the thin material of Victor’s undershirt.  

“Thank god.”  Victor is not a religious man, and he never will be, but those are the only appropriate words he can think of in this moment.  He buries his face in Yuuri’s dark hair without remorse.  

“I gave my ticket away,” Yuuri continues, “I couldn’t leave.  Not yet.”

“Oh?” Victor repeats, a bolt of fear in his heart.  It dissipates when they separate and he can see that Yuuri is smiling.  “Are you making new travel plans already, miliy ?”  

“Well, nothing definite, not without consulting a few important people,” Yuuri murmurs, “But I did see there’s another train leaving in a week?”  

“A week, yes,” Victor agrees, a smile tugging at his own lips, “Plenty of time to prepare for a journey.  Along with a few companions, yes?”

Yuuri’s laugh is a little hoarse, all his bottled up emotions finally shining through on his beautiful face as he nods.

“I’m thinking we’ll need three tickets,” he says, “One for me, and one for Phichit…”

“Is the third ticket for the missing Tsesarevich?” Victor asks.

“ No,” Yuuri replies, his lovely eyes brimming with happy tears, “The third ticket is for the man I’m in love with.”

“Yuura.” Victor’s voice breaks on the beloved syllables.

“I don’t know much about his past,” Yuuri continues, grasping Victor’s hand in his own, “But he has some strong feelings about the rights of the working class, and he’s a divine dancer.”  

“I’m hoping…” Yuuri's gaze is hopeful and resolute, “I’m hoping he’ll come with me, to find my family in Japan, if I can work up the nerve to ask him.”

“Ask me Yuuri,” Victor pleads, “The answer will be yes, you must know.”

“But what about the duke?” Yuuri asks, “Your--your titles, and--”

“Yakov is my family,” Victor agrees, “And he will be my family whether I wear silk or rags.  You were right all along.  Yakov has no agenda.  He wants me to make my own choices.  He’s promised to help us on our path, whatever it may be.”  

Yuuri’s eyes widen.  “Us?” he repeats.  Victor nods.  

“Us.” Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hand.  “Ask me.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath.  

“Come with me.”

“I don’t know what waits for us,” Yuuri admits “And the journey will be hard.  It could be weeks.  Months, if things really fall to pieces.  But we’d be together through it all.  And...and everything after.  If you like.”

Victor cups his lover’s face in his hands, resting their foreheads together.  

“Why, Yuuri,” Victor declares as the first tear, this one caused by pure joy, streaks down his cheek, “That sounds almost like a marriage proposal.”

Yuuri’s reply is one Victor will cherish forever.  

“Good.”

Chapter Text

Russian Duke Ceases Search: “The Tsesarevich is Dead”

After a private mourning ceremony at Alexander Nevksy Cathedral, Duke Yakov Feltsman, previously of the Russian imperial court, announced to several reporters that he considers the search for his grand-nephew to be over.  The Duke’s public offering of ten million rubles to any man who could produce the authentic Victor Nikiforov was spurred by rumors that the prince survived the capture and eventual execution of the Russian royal family during the socialist revolution in 1917.  However, at least according to the duke, these rumors have at best been misguided, and at worst a deliberate fraud for those seeking to lay claim to the remaining imperial fortune.  “For those who hold him dear, my nephew will continue to live on,” says the duke, “However it is long time to face the truth, and cease with all this unnecessary spectacle: the Tsesarevich is dead.”

Older readers will remember the shock across Europe when the death of Tsar and his family was announced as a socialist victory in St. Petersburg...

~

Dear Uncle Yakov,

Hello from Geneva!  We’ve just arrived after an uneventful train ride.  My friend Mr. Chulanont is on the phone with Mr. Giacometti as we speak, so I have no doubt you’ll hear about our trip from Mila long before this letter reaches you.  Nonetheless I write, to keep up our communications during my new adventures abroad!  Switzerland is not very exotic compared to our future destinations, but we have managed to find plenty to divert ourselves while we await our departing river barge.  The scenery is beautiful.  My Yuuri and I have enjoyed plenty of long walks through Geneva’s charming streets.  There is a also a fascinating culinary concept in the clubs here, which they tell me comes from the mountain villages in the north.  I can’t recall the word, but it involves dipping bread into little hot cauldrons of melted cheese!  I think the concept could catch on quite well in St. Petersburg, enjoying a communal pot of cheese with one’s comrades...

~

Dear Yakov,

Today I remembered my mother.  I can’t say what brought her suddenly to life in my memory.  It could have been the kind woman who sold us baklava this morning, or a whiff of perfume as we boarded our ship, or just my mind giving up its treasure with the passage of time, but one moment I was enjoying the view of the Mediterranean with my companions and the next I found myself with tears streaming down my cheeks.  I have never felt such a profound grief, and yet I can also rejoice to finally recall Maria’s laughter, and her low voice calling me her zvezdochka .  

I regret to say I likely made a sorry fool of myself on deck, crying like a child, but I am fortunate to be with the best of friends. My Yuuri has been a tireless companion through tears and happiness alike.  Over lunch with Phichit today we feasted on Greek pastries and laughed ourselves sick as I recounted my early attempts at waltzing.  You might recall as well Yakov, the first time my mother indulged me with a dance at an imperial ball?  A few of those rubies were never recovered and it was three weeks of bedrest to heal mama’s turned ankle.  

While my grief is sharper than ever, so too is my joy, uncle, both to finally be recovering my memories and making new ones on my life’s adventure.

~

UNCLE YAKOV[stop]  

TURKEY A LOVELY COUNTRY  [stop] LOCALS V. FRIENDLY ON ACCOUNT OF RECENT FRIENDSHIP WITH RUSSIA [stop] COFFEE HERE EXCELLENT AND V. STRONG!!! [stop] HAVE NOT SLEPT IN 2 DAYS IN FAVOR OF COFFEE AND SIGHTSEEING [stop] LETTER TO FOLLOW [stop] BEST, VITYA [stop]

~

Uncle Yakov,

Today Yuuri and I took our leave from Bangkok, after a long and happy month helping our friend Mr. Chulanont settle into new quarters in the bustling Thai (or Siamese?  I am unsure based on the local nomenclature) metropolis.  It’s unnerving to leave our friend on his own, but with Mr. Giacometti’s generous sponsorship we can leave Phichit to pursue his dream of a Thai ballet with confidence.  As you know dear uncle, goodbyes are never forever!  Yuuri and I have made our agreement to return for all of Phichit’s future premiers, and many more visits besides that.  Our friend has already surrounded himself with a new circle of fans and followers, certainly only to grow as Mr. Chulanont achieves his lofty ambitions.  

The separation has been hard on Yuuri, for all it’s only been a few hours, but I know that this is not the last of our adventures...

~

Dear Uncle Yakov,

When this letter reaches you, we will have at last arrived in Osaka, and from there only a short train ride stands between us and my Yuuri’s native soil.  The future holds nothing but uncertainties, and yet we both share a state of utter calm.  There is an abiding peace of mind, uncle, that accompanies the knowledge that one is loved unconditionally.  I hope and pray that we arrive in Hasetsu to find Yuuri’s family waiting with open arms, but no matter what--

“Victor?”

“Over here, miliy .”

Makkachin perks up at where she’s lying at Victor’s feet as Yuuri approaches them on the empty deck of the ship.  He’s left his jacket below deck, enjoying the still balmy autumn weather in only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.  Yuuri kneels to give Makkachin a scratch between her ears as he quietly glances around deck to ensure their privacy.  Apparently satisfied, he rises to tip Victor’s chin up for a sweet kiss, which Victor eagerly returns.

“You’re going to ruin your sight, sitting out here in the dark writing letters,” Yuuri scolds him when they part, though he’s smiling when Victor sets aside his pencil and pulls him down to sit across his lap.  

“Perhaps,” Victor agrees, Yuuri’s thigh warm under his hand, “But I would have you to be my eyes, yes?”

“Mm, of course.”  Yuuri tucks his head under Victor’s chin contentedly.  “That might be convenient, really.  No one would question my holding hands with a blind handsome foreigner.”

Victor laughs softly, enjoying the last colors of the setting sun as they play across Yuuri’s warm complexion.  It’s been a transformative time, traveling across the south of Asia.  Unlike in Russia and the West it’s Victor who is constantly out of place, his pale skin drawing looks and freckling in the sun.  It’s led to some uncomfortable moments, but Victor is glad to make the trade, to see Yuuri settling back into his own skin.  

The crystalline waters of the South China sea crash rhythmically against the sides of the ship as Victor and Yuuri enjoy their comfortable position, tucked between a few crates where Victor had set up his makeshift writing desk.

“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” Yuuri confides, murmuring the tender words into the crook of Victor’s neck.  

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” Victor replies.  Yuuri’s smile curves against his throat.  

Their journey from Paris has indeed taken months, though Victor wouldn’t say things had gone to pieces at any point.  Far from it.  Homesickness, danger, unexpected memories and sudden fevers in unknown climates, through it all Victor has treasured he and Yuuri’s slow, steady transition from lovers to partners.  With every passing day and every halting, hesitant insecurity voiced and soothed Victor has seen the doubts fade from Yuuri’s eyes.  With every night spent in a tender, passionate embrace Victor’s heart has only grown more devoted and determined.  Whatever the opinion of the world, Victor has already made his vows, at least to himself.  As long as he lives, he will never be parted from this beautiful man.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” Yuuri murmurs, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

Victor opens his mouth to reassure his lover, but Yuuri silences him with a finger pressed to his lips.

“Whatever happens,” he repeats, brown eyes serious, “Whoever is or isn’t waiting for us in Hasetsu, I still have family.  I found him months ago, wandering around the Winter Palace with no memories and a poodle.”

“What a coincidence,” Victor replies, “Because that was the same day I met my past--”

Victor presses a kiss to Yuuri’s brow.

“My present--”

Another kiss, to the tip of Yuuri’s nose.

“And my future.”

Yuuri is ready when Victor leans in to take his mouth.  He cups the back of Victor’s neck as they kiss, drawing a shiver when he brushes his thumb over a sensitive spot behind Victor’s ear.

“All that in one man?”  Yuuri asks when they come up for air, though his eyes crinkle in laughter.

“I know,” Victor agrees, resting his cheek against the crown of Yuuri’s head, “Incredible, isn't it?”  

Victor hums tunelessly into Yuuri’s soft hair, picking up bits of melody here and there as he recalls them.  A bit of a lullaby from his childhood in the palace, the refrain of the cheerful song Lilia taught the children in the orphanage to encourage them through their chores.  Eventually the melody transforms into something soft and swinging, bits and pieces of the jazz he and Yuuri danced to in Paris.  Yuuri laughs softly once he recognizes a song and he joins in, mumbling a few of the French lyrics here and there when he remembers them.  His voice is low and husky, a little off key and perfect.  Victor can’t help but steal the sound from his lips, kissing Yuuri softly as the sun sets and they are left only in the starlight.  

Yuuri’s eyes are sparkling when they part.  

“Dance with me?” he requests breathlessly, stepping gracefully to his feet and tugging Victor along until they’re both standing on the wooden deck.  Makkachin offers a soft boof of approval, and  Victor laughs as he slips his arm around his lover’s waist and takes Yuuri’s hand in his.

“Anytime, comrade.”

They step into a loose waltz with only the crashing of the ocean’s waves to keep their rhythm, cheek to cheek under the stars as the first signs of a rocky island coastline appear on the horizon.  

Victor holds Yuuri in his arms and welcomes another new beginning.