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Chapter Text

please forgive me, if you want to read this. i have a horrible case of procrastination

Chapter Text

There was a time, not very long ago when we lived in an enchanted world of elegant palaces and grand parties. The year was 1960, and my uncle, Nicolas, was the Czar of Imperial Russia.

The music played, and people danced. The dressed twirled as the ladies danced with their lovers. A clap rang out, seconds later two more came. The Grand Duke, nephew to Czar Nicolas, Viktor Nikiforov, took his seat and waved at the young boy dancing with his father. 

The words came out quick, but no less affectionate, "Hello, darling!", and the young boy's lips twitched into a smile. He didn't stop dancing with his father though, and when Nicolas picked him up, he let out an "Oh, papa," with a small giggle. It was barely heard over the joyful music

We were celebrating the 300th anniversary of our family [redacted]. And that night no star burned brighter than that of our sweet Yuratchka.

Yura walked up the stairs with a little struggle, grumbling at his garbs. When he got to Viktor, though, he presented the teenager with a card of a cat sitting elegantly on what looks to be a velvet bench. Viktor, who had always adored dogs more than cats, still clutched the card to his heart and ruffled Yura's soft blonde hair. Only for appearance's sake, he scowled as he smoothed the strands back down, before sticking his tongue out at Viktor.

My youngest cousin. 

Unbeknownst to the two, a young servant boy around Yura's age stumbled out into the banquet hall. He nibbled on the red apple in his hand, as he stared at the handsome teenager on the throne, enthralled by the silver hair and pretty blue eyes. Like cerulean blue, he thought numbly before the head butler whispered out a harsh "Yuuri!". The boy jolted and dropped his apple as the butler pulled him away, saying, "You belong in the kitchen!"

Viktor pulled out a gold and green box from his purse. Yura's eyes went wide and curious, so innocently childish.

He begged me not to go to Paris, so I had a very special gift made for him. To make the separation easier.

Yura's smaller hand gently grabbed it, "For me," he murmured, "Is it a jewelry box?"

The question went unanswered as Viktor's nimble fingers grasped a necklace, put it to the box, and twisted it ever so gently.

"Look," Viktor breathed, and the lid opened. Two figures appeared, and music played gently. Yura's eyes lit up, and he let out a gasp, "It plays our lullaby."

"You can play it at night before you go to sleep, and pretend it's me singing." He said cheerfully. Yura's retort of I'm not sure I want to hear that, was lost as he looked at the figures of his mother and father twirling around. 

"On the wind, cross the sea, hear this song and remember," Viktor crooned, and took his cousin's hand as he started to sway, "Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December," they sang, and Yura finished with a little bow.

"Read what it says," Viktor gave the necklace to the boy, his fingers twisted it as he tilted his head, "Together," he said, "in Paris." Yura's head jerked up, "Really! Oh, Viktor," and Yura opened his arms wide, and was swept into a sweet hug.

But we would never be together in Paris.

A hooded figure walked through the doors, his lanky body covered in a dark robe. The crowd parted around him with terrified gasps and indignant murmurs. One of the women closer to the unknown figure only took steps back as her glass slipped out of her fingers.

For a dark shadow had descended upon the house of the Plisetskys.

The man stepped onto the shattered glass, crunching the shards even more. He was an ugly man, with a long, diamond face, fat nose, and long, bony fingers, paired with long nails that looked like talons. His overgrown beard swayed with each crooked step, along with a glowing cylinder dangling from his hip.

His name was Rasputin. We thought he was a holy man, but he was a fraud; power-mad, and dangerous.

His lips were spread over his teeth, and it almost seemed disarming at first. But the mad gleam in his eyes told of the truth.

"How dare you return to the palace!" Nicolas was disgruntled, it showed in his eyes, his face, his tone, the way his arm stretched out accusingly at Rasputin.

Rasputin only pulled down his hood and mocked innocence, but it only made him seem more unctuous, "But I am your confidant!" he drawled.

"Confidant?! Hah! You are a traitor; get out!" Nicolas shouted, but it was no use.

"You think you can banish the Great Rasputin?!" He yelled, " By the unholy powers vested in me, I banish you!" Gasps were heard from the crowd, and Rasputin's boney finger was pointed at the Czar. "With a curse!" 

Viktor held Yura closer to him and leaned back in his chair, unsettled. Yuuri, who had wandered back out, was visibly shaking and took a step back. 

"Mark my words," Rasputin drew his arms in, turned to the crowd, and after giving them all a good hard look, he flung his arm back around to Nicolas, his gaunt finger pointed at the Czar, and vociferated, "You and your family will die! Within the fortnight!" The rich ladies and lords broke into mutterings, aggrieved. Nicolas turned back to his family for split second, almost like he was checking if they were still there, if they were still alive.

But his voice was louder than the crowd, and as it grated the ears around him, he screamed, "I will not rest until I see the end of the Plisetsky line!" The chain in his hand clinked with every perturbating movement. With a grand gesture, Rasputin turned back to the crowd, finished his monologue with a foreboding, "Forever!", and held up the reliquary as the green grew brighter and brighter. The light came out from the eyes of the skull and stuck the chandelier. Amongst the high pitched screams and the scrambling feet, the chandelier fell from the ceiling and split into pieces.

Consumed by his hatred for Nicolas and his family, Rasputin sold his soul for the power to destroy them.

Rasputin threw something in the well, and let out an elated gasp as a beacon shot up. Red whirling fire, and deep purple streaks of lightning. As he grasped at his throat, his cloak, skin, and muscles were sucked into the void, finished with the disgusting plopop of his eyeballs. When he reached out his skeleton hands to the tube, green gas pouring from the mouth, it all grew back. He gestured with his hands, encouraging the demons to come out, and whispered the order of "Go. Fulfill your dark purpose, and seal the fate of the Czar and his family. Once and for all."

From that moment on, the spark of unhappiness in our family was fanned into a flame that would soon destroy our lives forever. 

The tiny green bat-like demons came out of the reliquary and unlatched the lock of the palace gate for the angry townspeople. It was night, and the snow was falling heavily. But it didn't stop those who were armed with nothing but rope, sticks, and torches. When they reached the statue of Nicolas II, they looped up there ropes, threw it on the statue, and pulled. It came tumbling down with a grumble, and the head smashed off the body when it met the stone pavement.

Surrounded by flames, as the red smoke lit up the night sky, those in the castle were running for there lives, dressed in nothing but the sleepwear. "Papa!" Yura called, and Nicolas' voice echoed amongst the crowed, directed towards his family, "Hurry children!" 

Yura's stomach sank even further, and his eyes went wide as he screamed out "My music box!" and ripped himself out of Viktor's grasp, who chased after him, with a wavering shout of, "Yuratchka! Come back, come back!" Yura threw open his heavy wooden doors and scrambled to the play-fortress in the middle of his room. Viktor came in after him, wide-eyed and frightened, and closed the door behind him. "Yuratchka," he called, and Yura looked at him as he grabbed the music box from the fortress. Explosions sounded nearby, Viktor flinched and looked around, his own tussled hair whipping him in the face, for somewhere to go. Yuuri peeked in from the servant's entrance, as Bartok landed outside the window. "Please, hurry," and grabbed Yura's shoulders leading him back out the room. Yuuri, in a singular moment of courage, grabbed onto Viktor silk robe, and yanked him in the direction of the servant's entrance. "Come, this way," he said, "Out the servant quarters." Viktor allowed himself to be pulled along, his hands and eyes kept on Yura.

As he pulled Yura in front of him, the music box fell out of the boy's carpet. "Hurry Yuratchka," he said, and threw one last look at the young boy behind him, all he saw was pale skin, dark hair, and warm brown eyes before he was ushered in after Yura. As he hurried down the small hall, Yura turned around and ran into Yuuri, who was frantically pushing him back in the wall. "Rasputin," Bartok exclaimed as he rubbed his hands against his head nervously, "She's getting away!" 

"My music box," Yura started, but Yuuri only yelled, "Go, go!" Just in time, he closed the half door back up, as he heard shouting from the main hall. Soldiers threw the door open and shouted at Yuuri, "Where are they, boy?!" Yuuri looked around, and he saw a weird twisty thing which he threw at the men, but it was futile. They ran to Yuuri, and beat on him with their guns. As the butt of their guns turned his skin black and blue, he pried open his eyes and grabbed at the music box on the ground. He tucked it into his chest and closed his eyes.

Dawn was approaching, and it lit up the sky. Viktor was pulling Yura along in the snow. When Rasputin saw them, he let out a dissatisfied grumble, and jumped from the bridge, latching onto Yura's leg, who screamed. Yura collapsed with the force, and it pulled at Viktor's shoulders. He turned around and let out a growl of, "Rasputin!" and pulled at Yura who was screaming, "Let me go! Please!"

"You'll never escape me, child," he grunted, and through clenched teeth, he let out, "Never." But the ice beneath Rasputin started cracking. He let out a terrified grunt, and his eyes grew wide. He released his grip on Yura and scrabbled for purchase, his long, pointy nails scraping pitifully at the snow. The was a small flurry of white against the snow, "Bartok!" he yelled, "Master!" he yelled back. But Bartok could do nothing and stood there as his master sank into the freezing depths of the water. Gurgling was heard, and the only that Bartok saw last was the greenish skin of his master's hand before he sank even farther.

The whistle of the train broke through the air, and people passed luggage, grabbed at hands, all trying to board the train. "Yuratchka, hurry," Viktor grunted as he forced his way through the crowd. When he reached the latter of the train, the passengers on board grasped at him to help him up. Yura was left reaching out for Viktor, as he reached back at him. But Yura was so young, and his little legs could only go so fast. Viktor leaned over the rails, doing anything he could to grab his little cousin's hand. "Viktor," Yura whimpered, tears in his eyes. "Grab my hand!", Viktor managed to clasp their hands together, but it was feeble. "Don't let go!" Yura cried, his eyes wide and scared. Viktor felt tears gather in his eyes as he felt Yura's fingers slip through his grasp, and the loss of force caused Yura to fall. His head hit the ground with a thud, and Viktor was left shouting "Yuratchka! Yuratchka!" as the train carried him farther and farther away from his unconscious little cousin.

So many lives were destroyed that night. What had always been was now gone forever. And my Yuratchka. My beloved cousin; I never saw him again.

Chapter Text

Viktor hadn’t known sorrow so intimately before. Hadn’t known loss, or anger, anything so uniquely as he did that night. He yelled, raged, and cried. He broke an irreparable amount of decor. Drank a noteworthy amount of alcohol. Sent out a record-breaking number of search parties.

Yuri was never found.

The lost prince, the people called him, until they stopped talking about him entirely—the con of the century.

Viktor, Christophe had said, gentle as a mother’s kiss, the little prince is gone.

But Viktor’s bleeding heart kept beating. He kept looking, posting ads everywhere, promising a reward for his return. Find the lost prince, the people would whisper, and you’re set for life.

Viktor knew cruelty now - knew life’s cruelty intimately. Find the lost prince, and the underbelly of society would question, but what if you became the lost prince? And somehow, his heart broke more.

Viktor’s little cousin was dead, and for some reason, there were more Yuris in the past decade than there had ever been. He can still hear the pleas, the promises, the lies. He knew the chance of Yuri coming back to him was slim. He had hoped, prayed. All that was returned was deceit.

A heart can only break so many times, Viktor had learned. Of course, he wanted his Yuratchka back, but he knew that day would never come. Not for many, many years.

Gazing up at the pale sun peeking through storm clouds, Viktor nurses his drink and tucks his hopes back into his heart, turning them to stone.

In Paris, alone.

Yuri knew his mouth would get him into trouble. He knew his fate was set in stone the day he realized he shared the same name as the lost prince but had none of the finesse to be him. He’d be cursed to mirror an image of what he could’ve been, stuck in the same dreary depths he’d been reared in for his entire life.

At least, what he remembered of it.

The matron said he was a blight. She never failed to remind him that he was a nuisance and a bad omen. She was cruel regularly, but some nights, she spat and seethed and swore Yuri must’ve killed his parents.

He was never the same after that. When he arrived at the orphanage a decade ago, he’d been quiet. Rendered useless with a head wound that never healed quite right, he feared that if he ever spoke out against the matron, he’d lose the only place he could call home within seconds.

And then he gave up. When she cursed him, he’d scream his curses tenfold. If she grabbed him, he’d yowl and scratch until she let go. A particularly vicious cat-like creature, he’d been called. The younger children didn’t mind him much, but Yuri couldn’t bring himself to interact with them outside the necessities. He preferred not getting close to any of the children at the orphanage, struck with endless nausea and a gaping maw in his chest, he didn’t want to decipher.

So yes, Yuri knew for a long time that his mouth would get him in trouble. He was all too used to spitting back vile insults, and now that he was eighteen, he was fair game.

One wrong moment, and Yuri was cast out into the snowy wasteland that he’d grown up in, with only a fleeting dream.

With one last curse to the matron and a lackluster goodbye to the children, Yuri takes the first steps of a change he could’ve never predicted.

As the snow crunches under his boots, he thumbs the cold necklace resting on his chest.

To Paris, he goes.

Chapter Text

to all my fellow companions of this dying fandom, i come to you heavy with regret. i am putting this work on hiatus. while i recently updated it, i just couldn't bring myself to write more about it, as most of the content i produce are passion pieces. i do plan on coming back to this and wrapping it up, and the chances of this being discontinued are significantly less than my other work. under no circumstances will this fic ever be deleted, orphaned at most.

i'd like to thank everyone for the kind comments and patience, and i hope to come back to this one day with a better grasp of what i want