#i love his blocky fucking everything. and then his precious little eyes

[subsequentibis]

did some drawovers on mgs3 & mgs5 screenshots and im struck by how similar ocelot's face shape & structure is. like how well they keep the same geometry he had in 3 and just. update the model to be less blocky. my concave cheeks pointy nose bigass ears fivehead boy. in glorious hd.

[laughablelament]

First Day Of Wincestmas: Soulmates

The diner is lit up with a golden glow. The wrists of a teenage couple sitting a couple tables over are shining, their fingers intertwined. Sam can’t help but gawk.

Two soulmates meeting is, no doubt, the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his five years of life.

“Don’t stare.” Dean huffs, elbowing Sam in the side. “S’ rude.”

“But… so pretty,” Sam mumbles, poking his eggs ‘n bacon with a fork. “I wanna have a soulmate too!”

“When you’re older.”

“How much older?”

“When you’re sixteen.”

“What will happen?”

“You’ll get the name of your soulmate written on your wrist. Right here.” Dean taps his left wrist with two fingers. “Sam, c’mon, man, I told you this stuff a million times already. C’mon, eat.”

“Mommy and Daddy were soulmates too, right?”

Dean swallows thickly, stares his meal down. “Yeah,” he says softly. “They were. Gold shine ev’rywhere I looked, Sammy.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Now eat.”

Daddy’s soulmate mark is all red and raw like a tattoo healed bad. Always scabbed over, and he scratches and picks at the skin there sometimes when he’s angry or sad. Like he doesn’t want it to heal.

Bobby’s mark is faded into a muted grey from a jade black. Pastor Jim wears a long sleeve over his, so Sam hasn’t ever seen it.

Come to think of it, not a lot of people Sam knows had a happy ending with their soulmate. But maybe it’s going to be different for Sam. It totally will!

-

Dean’s away with Dad on a hunt when his sixteenth birthday hits. Sam can’t even celebrate it with him, stashed away at Bobby’s. Can’t even be with Dean when he gets the most important news in one’s life.

He gets awful sick on the day after. Pukes his guts out all day. Like there’s a ball of lead heavy in his stomach. Must be Bobby’s goddamn chili. But Sam can’t possibly be mad when Bobby’s the one wiping the sweat off his forehead and tucking him in. Sam white-knuckles the edge of the blanket and breathes through the pain. Bobby actually checks his discarded clothing and his duffle for hex bags, but there’s nothing.

Sam feels all better by the time the familiar roar of Baby’s engine resounds outside. He rushes over to meet Dean and Dad on the doorstep.

“So?” Sam beams. “Who’d you get?”

“None of ya business.” Dean pulls off his coat. Sam tries to catch a glimpse of Dean’s wrist, but he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

“Uh, yeah, it is. C’mon.”

“Bite me, Curious George.”

“Dea-a-an.” Sam sighs, following him to the kitchen. “C’mon, tell me. Tell me. I can keep a secret, I promise.”

“Leave ‘im alone, Sam,” Dad shrugs. “It’s a personal thing.” Dad’s just relieved Dean didn’t run off to chase his soulmate down, Sam’s pretty sure. Whatever keeps Dean under Dad’s thumb.

Dean’s sound asleep on the bed next to him that night, arm outstretched to Sam as always, in case Sam has a bad dream and need to grasp at someone in the night to keep himself grounded.

…Dammit, why didn’t Dean tell him? They’re best friends. Dean tells him everything. And he’d hide something as important as this? Sam just wants to know who gets Dean, with his pretty freckles, and his wide green eyes, and his bravery, and his stupid sense of humor and—

He slips out of the bed, sneaky-quiet, and tugs at Dean’s sleeve. A white bandage is wrapped around his wrist. Sam frowns but tugs at that too, trying to peer at least at the first name.

Dean’s skin is bloody and raw, the skin bubbling up in places. The name’s scorched off his skin. Sam gasps and jerks away.

Did the monster do this? But if Dean has been captured and hurt, Dad woulda been way more on edge. Did Dad do this? No, he was totally chill, and no matter who Dean got, even if it was a something bad, Sam can’t imagine Dad branding his skin.

So Dean must’ve done it himself. ‘Cause it was that bad. His soulmate must be dead. Or they’re soulmates with someone else. This whole soulmate system isn’t faultless. Being someone’s soulmate isn’t always a mutual and happy thing.

Sam carefully pulls Dean’s sleeve back in place. Dean groans in his sleep but doesn’t stir, not until Sam’s already back in his bed, trying to calm down his desperately beating heart.

He feels so bad for Dean. Whatever it was, it must’ve been something horrible for him to burn it off. It must’ve hurt so much. But if he tried to comfort Dean, he’d know Sam’s been snooping. So Sam just quietly agrees to Dean’s stupid cowboy movie choice the next movie night and lets him have the bigger half of popcorn. Dean seems suspicious, but doesn’t say anything.

Sam curls up against his side, arms wrapped around Dean’s neck.  

-

By the time sweet sixteen comes up for Sam himself, he’s sick-and-twisted happy that Dean isn’t off with his soulmate. Because he kinda loves how Dean’s always around, and even if he comes stumbling back late at night, smelling of cheap perfume and even cheaper booze, he always comes back to Sam. Ruffles his hair and gives him side-hugs and opens beers they’re both too young for.

Sam’s hand tingles mid-birthday dinner (read: a small cake and beers and soda, the two of them huddled at the small motel table), and he wants to slip away ‘cause no way he’s rubbing getting a soulmate into Dean’s face, but it all happens so fast. One second it was empty, the next, he’s looking at a chicken scratch kinda writing across his wrist, blocky jet-black letters.

Dean cranes his neck too and Sam’s not sure which one of them makes a shocked noise first.

“Dean,” Sam says, and he might as well been reading the writing on his wrist aloud. “Dean Winchester.”

“Oh, holy shit.”

“You got me too, didn’t you?” Sam raises his eyes. “Didn’t you? That’s why you scorched it off!”

“…Yeah. But, Sam, look—”

“Gimme your hand.” Sam never thought finding his soulmate would be so easy. He imagined an epic quest, not reaching across the table. “C’mon, Dean.”

Dean grabs Sam’s fingers with his own. Warm and calloused. Sam expects the golden glow, the fireworks, the everything that having a soulmate should be, what he’s read in the romance novels (a guy can have his guilty pleasures). He brushes a finger over where Dean’s skin is warped by the burn.

There’s nothing. Sam’s hollow and rattled.

“You ruined it.” His voice quivers. “How could you?”

“How would I explain it to Dad if he saw? To Bobby? To anyone?” Dean shakes his head.

“It’s not like you chose to have this mark.”

“It’s still sick. I didn’t want a reminder of it, Sam. Sue me.”

“You shoulda held out hope!” Sam snaps, slamming his hands on the table. Dean flinches. “You should’ve believed I’d get you too.”

“Dude, you’re my little brother. I mean, what were the chances—”

“These are the chances.” Sam jabs his wrist with his finger. “And now you ruined it. This is all I ever wanted. A soulmate. You.” A choked-off sob leaves Sam’s shoulders shaking. Dean stares up at him, wordless. “You ruined it, Dean. You broke it. Our bond— you’ve fucked it up!”

It’s not enough to destroy the soulmate mark to snap a bond. The bearer has to will it away with all he’s got.

He buries his face in his hands.

“And we won’t ever feel what it’s like.”

“M’ sorry,” Dean finally says after a long, long stretch of silence. “Sammy, I’m so sorry. I just… freaked. I didn’t wanna hurt you somehow.”

He exhales. Scrambles to his feet and walks over to look in the window. A nice May day out there, and he’s cold as ice.

Dean comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Sam’s torso, tight. Buries his face in Sam’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, at last, turning around in the circle of Dean’s arms to face him. “It’s okay, De. Soulmates or not, I got you. That’s what matters.” He reaches out to grasp Dean’s chin and tilts his head up until their eyes meet. “I got you, right?”

“Course you got me, Sammy.” Dean smiles, a brief-quick twitch of his mouth’s corners. “Come hell or high water.”

“I got you.”

Sam leans in first. Dean grabs his waist, and then they’re kissing, they’re kissing, just like Sam dreamed it so many times.

He kisses Dean slow. Soft. Dean pays him back in kind. Sam never thought Dean could be so tender with someone. Always seemed like the rough and tough kind, but there he is, careful with Sam like he’s something precious.

Sam grabs Dean’s hand and presses a kiss to his wrist where it’s pink and perpetually chafed.

“It’s okay,” he says, and it’s only then when Dean’s veins glow gold. Sam rushes to lace their fingers together, tight like a corset. “Oh god, Dean,” he mouths. Dean’s skin heals over, inch by inch, until Sam can make out his own handwriting.

Sam Winchester, it says.

Dean kisses him again, yanks him close, hand in Sam’s hair, holding on like he doesn’t wanna let go, ever.

Sam sees fireworks and he knows Dean’s seeing them too.

Omg? *sniffle* Feelings. I have them. Dean, devastatingly perfect, scarring himself to protect his little brother. Ungh. And Sam, all hopeful and romantic. So perfect nonny. Thank you!! ♥

[lady-therion]

Homecoming: Part 1 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian really misses his feisty mate.

(Post-bonding. Post-ACOWAR.)

A/N: Because y’all know this precious overgrown bat baby would straight up sulk (like whine-at-the-door-and-paw-at-it sulk) if Nesta was gone for too long.

***

   He missed her.

   That was all. He missed her.

    “So write her a godsdamn letter,” said Azriel, dancing along the edge of the sparring ring. He’d been on the receiving end of Cassian’s fists all morning and had yet to be reprieved. “It’s only been a week, Cas. We’re all getting tired of your moping.”

    “Who says I’m moping?”  

   “Everyone,” his brothers said in unison.

    Cassian turned to scowl at Rhys, who had been sharpening his sword on a nearby bench. “Yes, everyone,” he added smugly. “Feyre, Amren, Elain...”

   “Elain?”

    Azriel smirked. “The actual word she used was ‘cranky.’”  

   “I am not cranky.”  

   “An understatement if there ever was one,” Rhys drawled. “I think what sweet Elain actually meant was: insufferable ass.”

   Cassian growled.

   “Right. Because you acted like a godsdamned ray of sunshine when Feyre handed herself over to our enemies in the Spring Court.” He bared his teeth. “How did it feel knowing your mate was in danger and all you could do was wait? Because I sure as hell feel like shit and am in no mood for this today.”

    Rhys’ violet eyes remained cool, but Cassian could detect a flicker of guilt that almost made him feel sorry. Almost.

   “Point taken,” said Rhys. “I apologize, brother.”

   “So do I,” said Azriel.

   Cassian sighed.

   It had been Rhys’ idea for Nesta to travel south to strengthen their ties with the mortal realm, which was now horribly fractured thanks to those treacherous wyrm-queens. As emissary, it would have been Nesta’s duty to go. But Rhys always believed in having a choice, so he gave her one.

   Of course she decided to go. Of course Cassian understood the importance of her going. She wanted to do something for her people. She wanted to see the world. And deep down, he could never blame Rhys for granting her that wish in the first place.  

   But that didn’t mean Cassian had to like it, especially since it meant that she would be gone indefinitely.

   “Mother knows Nesta can take care of herself,” he went on. “Hell, if she were here, she’d be the first one to kick my sorry ass all the way to the Rainbow. But this…this isn’t easy for me.”

   He already failed her once—the memory still horrifically fresh despite everything that happened between them since. There were some nights where he could still hear her screams as Hybern’s men forced her into the Cauldron. He would wake up on those nights in a cold sweat, unable to be calmed by anything except his mate’s arms.

   He had seen over half a millennia of death and destruction, had been the harbinger of both himself, but never had he been so overcome by such breathless rage and sheer terror as he was in that moment. They laid hands on his mate...had violated her beyond imagining...and he had been completely and utterly helpless to stop it.  

   Never again.

   “She’ll be all right, Cas,” said Azriel. “Mor is with her and so is Lucien for whatever that’s worth.”

   Cassian shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

   The point was that he made a promise to protect her, and he didn’t like breaking promises twice.

***

   Several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t returned.

   Cassian could still feel her though, much to his relief. He knew she couldn’t cross the bridge of their bond too often; not with so many enemies nipping at her heels. Still, he could feel her—her warmth burning inside him like an eternal flame.

   He noticed it most often when his moods grew so black that even he couldn’t tolerate himself.

   Sometimes, it felt like a flare—as though she were chastising him from afar for behaving like a prick. Sometimes, it felt like the glowing embers of the firelight at their hearth, soothing him like nothing else after another grueling day at the war-camps. Other times, it blazed and smoldered, and he knew without words that she longed for him as much as he longed for her.  

   Thank the Mother she also sent him letters, though they were few and far between. The first one came shortly after his quarrel with his brothers.

   Dearest—

   I wish I could write more, but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Your family tells me you’ve been acting like an insufferable ass. I wrote them back asking if they only just noticed. Is my absence really all that unbearable? I promise you: I am whole and safe and healthy.

   So stop sulking. You big, ugly brute.

   N.

   It was the first time Cassian had laughed in days. He looked at that letter for hours, marveling at her elegant hand, no doubt trained by a slew of governesses by the time she was out of swaddling. It made him more than a little self-conscious about his own blocky chicken scratch, since he hadn’t learned how to read or write until Rhys’ mother taught him.

   Sweetheart—

   What can I say except that this big, ugly brute misses you? And yes, it’s unbearable. Almost no one says anything nice about my hair now that you’re not here to braid it! But in all seriousness: I want you home. I want you in our bed. I want to do all the wild and filthy things I said I would do once we became mates. Do you remember? If not, I’ll make damn sure to remind you. Thoroughly.

   Stay safe. Come back to me.

  C.

   He watched the paper vanish, only to return a few moments later.

   It was the same letter he just wrote, only with a note added to the end.

   ‘I’ll make damn sure to remind you.’ Is that a promise, my dear Commander? Or a threat?

   Either way, I’ll come...

   N.

   Never was Cassian more sure that he had mated himself to an actual goddess.

***

   Another several weeks passed and Nesta still hadn’t come home.

   But rather than sink into despair, Cassian threw himself into the one thing he was good at: violence. Needless to say, his legions bore his relentless ferocity with varying shades of bitterness and a little more than fear.

   “Take a timeout, Cas,” Rhys drawled. “I mean it.”

   This, after an evening of drilling that had their soldiers practically begging for the Mother’s mercy. True, Cassian’s training had been nothing short of brutal, savage, and unyielding. But Illyrians were nothing if not resilient and cunning bastards—and Cassian was the prince of them all.  

   “There’s still more to do.”

   “There’s always more to do,” said Rhys. “But at the pace you’re setting? We’d be lucky if our men can stand let alone fly at first light.” He turned to him, gaze softening. “Be honest. How bad is it?”

   “Bad.”

   It seemed like a lifetime ago when Cassian made some jest about Rhys’ mating bond chafing at him. Now having experienced it himself, he realized that it didn’t really chafe as much as it burned a fucking hole through his mind, fraying layers upon layers of rational thought. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself in check...and sometimes even that was not enough.

   “It’s not an uncommon reaction,” said Rhys. “Especially among new mates.”

   Cassian swallowed.

   Some mates didn’t leave each other’s sides for weeks, months even, after they consummated their bond. Nesta left mere days after the tenuous thread between them snapped into place.

   “Have you called out to her?”

   He had—his mental cries ringing like a bloodsong in his ears. But the wall that held Nesta’s thoughts remained cold and silent, surrounded by freezing mist. Nothing could penetrate it, no matter how hard he tried. All he could hear was the echo of his own desperation. A primal howl that longed to be answered.

   Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?

   “I tried. There’s nothing.”

   Her letters had stopped as well. The last one unnerved him so much he nearly flew to the mortal continent himself—orders be damned.

   I’ve had quite enough of the mess these traitorous queens left behind. The matter of their succession is a thorny one. I pray we all won’t bleed out by the end of it. Vassa plans to host a summit at her palace to end this farce once and for all. Lucien is suspicious of anything that breathes. Morrigan even more so. I myself wouldn’t be surprised if the whole affair was crawling with assassins.

   My love, I’ll have to tread very carefully now. I’ll send word as soon as I can.

   N.

   That had been ten days ago, and still no word had come—from either Nesta, Lucien, or Mor.

   “If anything happens to her, Rhys…,” he said, clenching his fists hard enough to draw his own blood.  

   In truth, he didn’t know what he would do...save tearing the world apart to find her and wreaking bloody vengeance on anyone who did her harm.

   “It’s a good thing the Archerons are so formidable then. And hardy.” A reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll come back, Cas. You’ll see.”  

   It was a long moment before Cassian nodded.

   “I know she will.”

   She has to.

***

   The next few days passed in a gray blur that held no meaning for the General Commander. Crops of fresh recruits had arrived from the neighboring clans, gawking and gaping at him as he stalked through their ranks, his Siphons pulsing bright and deadly at random intervals.

   “I heard he killed a Hybern commander…”

   “I heard his mate killed Hybern herself…”

   If the days were miserable, the nights were their own kind of agony. He tossed and turned, his fitful sleep lanced by the same nightmares. Nesta screaming. Nesta sobbing. Nesta broken and bloody. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

   Where are you?

   Then suddenly…

   I’m here.

   Cassian shot out of bed, nostrils flaring as he took in that unmistakable scent. The scent of wind and rain and thunder and lightning. The scent of storms and the clash of steel. He scrambled out of his tent, not even bothering to don his full armor before spreading his wings and darting straight for the camps.

   A small crowd gathered in the main pavilions, Rhys and Azriel among the circle. A familiar flash of gold told him that Morrigan was also there, giving them her full report. The Fox, however, was nowhere in sight. And his mate...where was his mate?

   I’m here, I’m here, I’m here...

   He could feel her then, his heart beating wildly as the thread between them went taut as an anchor.

   There.

   She was standing apart from the rest of the group, speaking softly to a squadron of Illyrian females—one of the few that had been allowed to continue their training despite the odds.

   He dived for her, landing so hard a small crater had formed in the bed of canyon rock. But none of the surrounding gasps or murmurs reached his ears as his vision narrowed to the most beautiful female in the world.

  She turned to him then and his breath hitched at the sight.

   Blue-grey eyes widened on a face that was partially sooty, as though she had walked through fire to get here. Her Illyrian leathers gleamed in the moonlight, the scales worn and muddy but not beyond repair. Tendrils of golden-brown hair escaped from a crown of braids, falling on the bare skin of her neck that captured most of his attention.

    He wanted to say something clever—romantic, even. But he had never been good with those kinds of words and besides, the words didn’t come. Once again, his mate had rendered him speechless.

   She marched toward him, her pace so quick and purposeful that he wondered if she was preparing to strike. Instead, she yanked his face down to deliver a kiss that seared his very soul, her tongue demanding entrance, her body giving off the not-so-subtle heat of her arousal.

   He growled into her mouth as he embraced her, wrapping his wings around her to shield them from the catcalls and dirty jokes. She molded herself into his arms, almost grinding on him as he broke away to trail eager kisses down her cheek, her jaw, and finally to that lovely, lovely neck. Impossibly, she held him tighter.

   Nesta...

   I’m here. I’m home.

   Then she leaned in to whisper in the shell of his ear.

   “Care to remind me of what I’ve been missing while I was away?”

   He grinned. “Well...I did make you a promise, didn’t I?”

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[handsingsweapon]

For the headcanon prompt meme- Victor, 25 :)

only then i am human / only then i am cleanthe prompt was “religion,” see below the cut for a post precious things bonus ficlet thing.

Victor hears the jingle of keys outside the door, the turning of the lock, and looks up from the nest he’s made in the couch: ankle propped up on the arm, bag of ice melting on top of a towel on top of his foot. Even after nearly five months it still surprises him sometimes, these sounds of Yuuri, coming back into his flat like it’s also his flat (because it is, Victor realizes). Yuuri’s coming back from a run and, probably, a stop in at the corner bakery, since the morning’s practice was cut short by Victor taking a fall on a quad lutz and Yakov barking at him to go home after inspecting his weak ankle. 

What are you doing practicing that, anyway? You’re not doing quads in Moscow!They’re in St. Petersburg for just a few more weeks; Yuuri’s already started packing suitcases for summer in Hasetsu, a departure delayed by Victor’s having volunteered them both for an ice show in Moscow in the middle of May. Worlds were already nearly a month ago in Boston; Victor can’t really remember who he stood next to the last time he wasn’t on top of the podium there, but he does vividly remember leaning over for the photograph, where behind Yuuri’s back he could sweep his fingers underneath his beautiful indigo blazer and stroke the small of his back. He remembers the look Yuuri gave him, too, the paradox of warning and satisfaction, and then he remembers how beautifully Yuuri blushed when Victor leaned over in front of all those cameras to kiss his gold medal.

He’s always known how to give the people what they want.

“Bakery closed early,” Yuuri grunts, kicking his shoes off as he orbits closer. Victor shuffles a bookmark into place, drops what he was reading onto the coffee table, and shifts to make room. Victor wants Yuuri to sit right at the bend of his waist, so that he can twine around him, long and lazy, and after a brief stop in the kitchen, that’s exactly what Yuuri does. “Something going on?”

Victor has to think about it for longer than he really should, considering his upbringing, trekking with Evgeniya, Mariya, and Sergei to church and then, eventually, just his grandmother. “Oh,” he murmurs. “It’s holy week. They’re probably getting ready for Easter.” Victor thinks the last time he really participated in the lead-up to the holiday may have been that last year he spent living with his Grandmother before moving in with Yakov and Lilia. Even then he didn’t take it particularly seriously: he remembers inviting Ivan to come with them largely for the thrill of playing footsie during the homily. He also remembers that babushka smacked him soundly on the leg with a bible for his scandalous behavior. And he’s pretty sure whatever solemn promises he’d made to her at the time about honoring the season of Lent almost certainly went broken: there had been too many things to chase back then, and if Victor had anything in common with the severe, sad icons of the church, he didn’t want to dwell on it. 

“Victor?” Yuuri asks, threading fingers through his hair, startling him from a reverie he hadn’t meant to fall into. It’s heaven. 

“Mm?”

“I asked if we’re supposed to do anything. Or if you want to … do you celebrate?”

“Not since I was little,” Victor responds with a shrug, and he twists further, tugs on Yuuri’s t-shirt. Yuuri won’t want to be pawed at while he’s still sweaty and flushed, but Victor can’t entirely help it. Yuuri is a real thing, present for him to touch, and Victor has other ideas for communion. “Going to go shower?” He asks, not at all innocently. If this is sin, better to rule in hell.

But Victor doesn’t think it is.

Katsudon thinks you’re avoiding Easter because you don’t want to make it weird for him, Yurio texts him later. Then he also texts: don’t you two have a fucking therapist? Tell Vasily he owes me money. Just pay me whatever you pay Vasily. 

I haven’t gone to Holy Saturday in years …? Victor writes back. The dots that indicate Yurio’s texting linger there for a long time while the teenager edits and edits again.

Sure, whatever, Mr. Agape.

“I got eggs at the store,” Yuuri mumbles, a day later, after he’s come back from one of his appointments with Vasily. He goes once a week now; they’re working on his anxiety. Victor goes once a month, begrudgingly at first because he’s been fine for a year. You’re always fine until you aren’t. And then you’re really far from fine. Vasily talks to him more seriously now about mania, has him identifying his warning signs. Vasily would think it’s a warning sign that Victor doesn’t want to step inside of a church. He’s not due to talk to Vasily again until after the holidays. Yuuri’s still talking. “… You’re supposed to paint them, right?”

Maybe because he’s just spent a morning in the dance studio with Yuri Plisetsky narrowly avoiding a shouting match over this exact topic, Victor finally hears this for what it is: Katsuki Yuuri, still trying to learn more about him, piecing together what it means to be Russian, what it was like to grow up in St. Petersburg. “Yeah,” Victor says, and realizes with some surprise that he’s more enthused about the prospect than he thought he would be. It’s good luck, traditionally, the eggs. He realizes he wants to see what Yuuri will make of them: a lifetime of writing in Japanese has made Yuuri’s handwriting neat and elegant in comparison to Victor’s blocky, cyrillic scrawl. Yuuri got them good luck engagement rings once. Victor doesn’t understand why he wants Yuuri Katsuki’s good luck easter egg suddenly, out of nowhere, he just knows he does. “I don’t think I have paintbrushes,” he realizes, belatedly, and his tone makes clear that this is a disappointment and not an excuse.

“I thought you might not,” Yuuri admits. “So I got the ones they had at the store.”

At the end of the day they have a carton of eggs of all colors. Victor’s have a distinctly Russian aesthetic, traditional, nostalgic. One of them he’s attempted to make into a matryoshka doll. Yuuri’s are softer, more delicate. Victor’s favorite is the one that looks like early spring, a very pale blue, dotted with black tree limbs and pink cherry blossoms.

Just take him once, Yuri texts before he leaves for Moscow. His Grandfather’s going to be busy making Kulich and Paskha for days. Plisetsky even texts him the recipe. Victor doesn’t save it, but he doesn’t delete it either. He’ll see how long and boring we make fucking everything and then he’ll never want to go again.

“It’s a really long service,” he warns Yuuri later. “It takes all night.”

“I don’t mind.”

This is how he finds himself in total darkness just before midnight at Vladimirskaya, the cathedral of his childhood. Yuuri’s helping Evgeniya get around. The two of them can hardly converse with each other, but she’s too busy being delighted that he exists to care, this boy who proposed to her Vitya and who evidently wants to spend a lifetime with him. Yuuri plays the part of the gentleman tremendously well; Victor suspects he’s secretly chuffed by his newly cemented status as her favorite. Victor stands next to him, quietly translating events as they transpire, waiting for the Holy Doors to be thrown open and for a priest to emerge with the light from the unsleeping flame. 

Victor fixes his eyes on the stoic face of an painting he can barely see in the dark, a saint whose name he no longer remembers. They always look so serious, these ancient faces, and their eyes are big and dark. Victor realizes suddenly that when he was younger he honestly believed they had the power to look right through him, this boy who wasn’t pious at all, sitting in a church; that they knew him for what he was. Fraud. 

He takes Yuuri’s hand and links their fingers together, kisses the ring. The smell of incense wafts their way as the bells begin to chime at midnight, and slowly candle after candle gets lit. Victor watches the way the reflection of Yuuri’s own candle dances in his eyes, studies the soft, flickering interplay of glow and shadow on his skin. They proceed around the church, and though Victor doesn’t sing the hymn he awkwardly translates it for Yuuri’s benefit. … The angels sing the resurrection of Christ, and on earth we … He’s out of practice, but it’s a long walk, and Yuuri’s patient. We on earth worship you with pure hearts. Yuuri’s hand stays in his through all of the rest of it: the incense, the singing, the breaking of the Lenten fast, the blessing of the baskets, even though he struggles not to yawn, over conscious of retaining Evgeniya’s approval. It’s nearly four AM by the time they leave, dropping Victor’s grandmother off at the home she’s lived in for decades and bypassing the idea of breakfast. 

The sky lightens for dawn, which they do watch, coming up over the river. “That’s Russian Easter,” Victor says, and he looks over at Yuuri, genuinely curious. “What’d you think?”

“I thought it was beautiful,” Yuuri hums, and he leans up on his toes to press the softest kiss to the corner of Victor’s mouth. Pious rituals be damned; Victor chases his lips. The real religious experience happens back at home in their flat, sunlight streaming in from the curtains; kissing the plane of Yuuri’s stomach is the best and most sincere worship Victor has ever offered anything, and paradise is an actual place that exists wrapped up in his arms.

In another week it’ll be something he talks about with Vasily. I think I thought you couldn’t be unhappy in church, Victor will say, that if God really loved us it wouldn’t be possible to be sad. Between them will be another unspoken confession: avoiding the place where quiet and ritual forced Victor to contemplate his unhappiness the most was a survival mechanism that kept up Victor’s illusions about himself for a decade. 

Vasily, who always has another question at the ready, will ask: what do you think now?

Victor equivocates. He knows that when he says the words воистину воскресе that he doesn’t whole-heartedly mean them, at least not in the literal fashion that his Grandmother does, certain of Christ’s miraculous birth and his death. Victor appreciates the fairytale quality of the story, likes that it has something to say about the human condition.  

He thinks that the universe must be a good place, a kind place. And he must have thought that long before he ever knew Yuuri loved him in return, because he wrote the Agape program once, which is the point Yura’s been making, albeit inept and angry, in these past few days of squabbles. “I’d like to think there’s something out there that feels delight when we feel delight,” he decides, finally; Vasily nods and they spend the rest of the time engaging in what just feels like small-talk.He changes his program for the Moscow show. It all but writes itself.I was born sick, but I love it. Command me to be well. Amen, amen, amen.