#that means you guys get the polished edited version but ao3 gets stuff sooner

[missmichellebelle]

a heart of paper cranes

one.

In Japan, there is an ancient legend that promises a wish to anyone who folds a thousand paper cranes.

Yuuri has given Victor twenty-three. It seems a shame to stop now.

abc au challenge: “o" is for “origami”

for @literallylavender​

victuuri. [ ao3 ] 6.4k

In hindsight, tea was a Very Bad idea. Not so bad as coffee, of course, but Yuuri generally avoids coffee, mostly because it tends to aggravate his anxiety. Which is currently, infuriatingly active, making his bones vibrate in his skin, and what caffeine is in the half-cup of English Breakfast he’s had is making it worse. When he wraps his hands around the circumference of the paper cup, his fingers are trembling.

He takes a deep breath, and presses the home button on his phone, making the screen light up. 6:56pm.

Definitely should have done something herbal.

Definitely should have worn a different shirt.

His phone has barely dimmed when he taps it awake again, swallowing thickly. 6:57pm.

Definitely going to get stood up.

Definitely shouldn’t have let Phichit talk him into a blind date.

Definitely—

“Hello.”

Yuuri jerks so hard that some tea sloshes up and out onto the white plastic lid, and he pulls his hands away quickly before they can cause any further damage.

He looks at his phone. 6:58pm. He takes a settling breath, looks up, and is thankful for it. Apparently, that breath was his last.

“Are you Phichit’s friend?”

This is definitely a mistake.

*

“When was the last time you even went on a date?”

This bookstore is not big enough considering that no amount of artfully dodging between the shelves has allowed him to lose Phichit. Then again, Phichit is like a blood hound when he wants to be.

So Yuuri is deploying the only other tactic he knows—ignoring his best friend entirely. He pulls another book from the shelf, more to block Phichit’s evaluating stare than out of any kind of interest.

“You know what, you don’t even have to answer, because we have been friends for six years, and unless you really do have a secret fiancé, you’ve been on one date, and—”

“That wasn’t a date,” Yuuri argues, exasperated enough to finally break his silence. Even then, he keeps his voice down, despite the fact that this is a bookstore and not a library.

“Exactly. So you’ve been on no dates.” Phichit makes a zero shape with his hand, leveling Yuuri with a look that is simultaneously one of concern but also judgement. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came, wiping away as Phichit brings his hands together in front of his mouth, the gesture pleading despite the easy smile that graces his face. “Just give it a shot. He’s apparently a real catch, and he’s friends with Chris! You remember Chris, right?”

Yuuri has a vague memory of someone introduced to him in a too-crowded bar while he was halfway to an anxiety attack from being in said bar. Either way, being friends with someone whose face Yuuri can’t even recall isn’t exactly something he would consider a vote of confidence.

So he turns away and walks further down the shelf, eyes flicking lazily over the titles as Phichit scrambles after him.

“Yuuri.” His name comes out as a slight whine. “If you hate it, I’ll call you half an hour in and you can use me as a reason to leave.” Phichit crowds close, doing his best to take Yuuri’s attention away from the book spines. “We can go to Little Tokyo.”

“Racist.”

“You and I both know that’s the only reliable place to get authentic Japanese food.” Yuuri could counter that there are a few other places he could name outside of Little Tokyo, but… Well, he does like it there. Phichit frowns finally, closes his eyes, and when he sighs, it sounds like defeat. That’s enough to catch Yuuri’s interest—Phichit rarely lets on that he’s losing. “I’ll clean the bathroom for a week.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows raise, but he simply plucks another book from the shelf, flipping it over to read the back.

“Two weeks.” There’s a tinge to Phichit’s voice, and, wow, he must be getting desperate. Yuuri surveys the book with contemplation, reading absolutely nothing of the description before turning to his best friend.

“A month,” he counters, and Phichit gapes at him in surprise, although it isn’t long before it morphs into absolute delight. Yuuri has the sudden, sinking feeling that he gave in far, far too soon.

“You drive a hard bargain, Katsuki, but I accept.” He holds out his hand, and Yuuri reluctantly seals the deal with a shake, his resignation hung over his shoulders like a weighted shroud. Phichit whips his phone out of his back pocket. “I’ll let Chris know you’re down for Friday at seven.”

“What will my poor, secret fiancé think?” He grumbles monotonously, sliding the book back into its nook on the shelf. Phichit chuckles, fingers flying over his screen. “If you needed someone to go on this date so badly, why didn’t you ask someone who’d actually be willing? You know everyone. I’m sure you could have found a candidate without offering servitude.”

Phichit never cleans the bathroom. Yuuri isn’t even sure if he knows how. It’s always just been one of Yuuri’s chores, and it’s never bothered him. The thought of not having to do it for a month, though…

He’ll have to make sure Phichit actually cleans it.

“Ah.” Phichit smiles, unabashed and unashamed, finishing his text with a flourish. “I already told Chris that you were going weeks ago.”

“Phichit!”

He laughs. “It’s okay, Yuuri! You’ll be fine!”

*

Yuuri is absolutely, one hundred percent not fine.

He’s just consciously aware of the fact that his mouth is open. He’s probably gaping. He’s sure he would stop, but he’s forgotten nearly all of his motor functions suddenly and so the act of closing his mouth has gone from marginally difficult to basically impossible.

The silence is like another presence between them. Not just a single presence, but an entire crowd, huddled right there at the small round table that separates Yuuri from one of the most beautiful people he has ever been blessed enough to lay eyes on.

It stretches, and the look of charming confidence that adorns his blind date’s face (it has to be him, there’s no way it’s not him, but how how how is it him?) starts to slip, certainty turning to doubt.

Yuuri’s heart beats in his throat.

“Or—”

“Yes,” Yuuri blurts, the word so sudden it nearly comes out in Japanese. It feels like he’s answering a question that was posed hours ago. His breathing is too rapid, making his chest ache, and he bows his head, nearly bumping his chin against the table with how low he goes. “I-I’m Phichit’s friend.”

He winces. A normal person would have given their name. Introduced themselves.

But a normal person also wouldn’t be making themselves light headed with the pace of their breathing, and wouldn’t be bowing like they’re meeting the Emperor (…in a country where bowing isn’t even customary).

Maybe he’ll just leave. He’ll realize that this is some sort of mistake and will just walk away while Yuuri’s eyes are on the table, so he doesn’t have to watch.

Inadequacy swells like tar on the back of his tongue, thick and heavy as it drips down his throat and into the rest of his body.

Why would Phichit do this?

“Oh.”

He’s still there, and, what’s stranger, he sounds… Relieved?

“Thank goodness.” There’s a slight lilt to his words, like a childhood accent long since rounded and ground down by the California coastline and the lights of Sunset Boulevard. “I didn’t see anyone else who—how did Chris describe you?” Yuuri glances up just in time to see a long, slender finger tap contemplatively against perfectly shaped lips. “Ah, yes.” Those lips break into a triumphant smile that makes Yuuri’s stomach feel like it’s going to erupt, and he drops his eyes to the table again. “Very cute, very Japanese, glasses.”

Yuuri can feel flames ignite beneath his skin, no doubt painting his neck and ears a noticeable shade of red. He pushes self consciously at the bridge of his glasses. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn them. He could have worn contacts, instead. Never mind that he doesn’t own contacts, and kind of hates them, he would have acquired some if he’d known he was being set up with an actual male model.

(Well, maybe not actual, but it is a possibility. Yuuri is rapidly realizing that he knows absolutely nothing about this date other than the fact that it’s taking place in a café at seven on a Friday. Phichit hadn’t been forthcoming with any details, and Yuuri hadn’t thought to ask. Yuuri never thinks to ask.

So, really, this is all his own fault.)

Suddenly, there are fingers gentling caressing the tip of his chin, lifting until Yuuri’s eyes lock with a shade of blue that reminds him of the winter sky.

“True on all three accounts, really.”

The eye contact holds for one, two, three seconds, before Yuuri hears his brain screaming at him and his body responds, his back slamming so hard into the back of his chair it’s a miracle he doesn’t topple backwards. The look that follows him is one of utter surprise, but then that charming smile is back, looking almost playful as the hovering hand drops to splay against the tabletop.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Remember? Yuuri can feel the confusion skewing up his face. There is no way he has ever seen this person before in his life. He would have remembered. The man in front of him is not someone he would have been quick to forget, even if he’d just seen him at a glance.

He lifts his hand again, and Yuuri manages to embarrass himself further by flinching away from it this time, but… He isn’t touched again. Instead, the hand is extended between them as an offering.

“I’m Victor.” The smile, if possible, becomes more blinding. Yuuri is pretty certain no one’s smile is supposed to be that utterly perfect. He’s sure that people are starting to turn and stare because they have never seen anything like it before, and Yuuri honestly wouldn’t be able to blame them. “Victor Nikiforov.”

His hand is soft, and slightly cool to the touch, and that moment—when their hands clasp, Victor’s fingers curling ever so slightly around Yuuri’s, the pressure in the squeeze small yet significant—feels almost frozen in time, surprisingly more intimate than when those same fingers had been a determined touch against his face.

In the space of that moment, Yuuri forgets his manners, and that generally he should be introducing himself in kind.

“Ah.” Hand still held, Yuuri dips his head in a bow again, this time much more quickly and much less severe—an echo, a remnant, a reflex, even though he hasn’t lived in Japan for over half a decade. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

“Yuuri.” Victor hums his name, squeezing his hand. He draws the vowel out for far too long, and thank god he didn’t try to pronounce Yuuri’s last name, and yet… Yuuri finds it doesn’t bother him all that much. Victor says his name like it’s familiar, and Yuuri almost wants to replicate the situation, to see if Victor’s name sounds just as at home in his own mouth.

He doesn’t.

“A pleasure to formally meet you.”

Yuuri doesn’t realize what Victor is doing until he feels the brush of soft, dry lips against the ridge of his knuckles, like this is some sort of historically romantic meet-cute and not a cliché coffeeshop blind date.

His face is so hot he feels like he’s suffocating in it, and yet he still somehow manages to stammer through his own nice to meet you, jerking his hand back into his personal space, fingers closed in a fist like he can maybe hold onto whatever just happened.

“I see you already got something to drink.” Victor gestures to the cup of tea Yuuri had almost spilt all over himself, sounding slightly dismayed by its existence.

“Ah, yes, I was… Early.”

An hour early. Whatever is left of his tea, it’s no doubt tepid.

“Punctuality.” Victor’s face blooms with a smile. “An admirable quality.”

It’s potentially one of the strangest compliments Yuuri has ever received, and yet it still has him ducking his head and averting his gaze. He doesn’t dare say that it’s less punctuality and more anxiety. The thought alone already sours Victor’s words before they’ve fully settled in the air between them.

“Well, can I get you anything else? A pastry?”

“Oh, no. No. I, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Victor’s voice is like a coo, his fingers dancing against the table, precariously close to where Yuuri’s other hand is resting. He watches them as they move closer, like the fins of a shark circling their prey. “A cupcake, a cookie? Something… Sweet?” The back of his nail glides against the bone of Yuuri’s wrist, and Yuuri snaps his lips closed tight before he yelps, hand drawing in towards his body. He shakes his head, vehemently, and Victor chuckles quietly, slipping away with the promise of I’ll be right back.

When his shadow no longer falls across the surface of the table, some of the tension leaks out of Yuuri’s shoulders, and he looks up and watches Victor’s retreating back. There’s a part of him (a large part, the majority, even) that expects Victor to make a beeline for the door, but instead he meanders to the back of the line, eyes roving in contemplation over the menu boards above.

After a few seconds, he glances over, and Yuuri’s body goes still—he’s going to think Yuuri is so weird for staring, he’s definitely going to leave now—and Victor smiles. He even gives a little wave with it, and then his attention shifts to the bake case and the plethora of foods it offers.

And he doesn’t leave.

Why isn’t he leaving?

Yuuri quickly grabs his phone, looking up one more time to see that Victor is, indeed, still in line and not gone forever, before unlocking it.

Yuuri groans, digging his hand through his hair. It’s not like he can make it look any worse, especially when he’s going to look like a dumpster fire next to one Victor Nikiforov no matter what he does. In fact, he’s pretty sure everyone in this café is already silently weighing in on how unbalanced of a couple they make.

(Not that they’re a couple, just—people might be drawing that conclusion.

Actually, on second thought, they’re probably more confused as to why someone like Victor would ever even speak to someone like Yuuri. That’s a lot more likely.)

The urge to apologize is sudden, kicking in like an unavoidable gag reflex. He’s completely and wholly underwhelming in every possible way, and that’s just now. Soon they’ll probably start talking because Yuuri is pretty sure that’s what people do on dates, and… And Victor is going to realize how utterly disappointing Yuuri Katsuki actually is.

He wishes Phichit understood that Yuuri doesn’t go on dates for this reason (among a plethora of others). If he doesn’t date, he can’t disappoint someone. Because he always disappoints people. He always lets them down.

But Phichit is a good friend, and Yuuri knows he would brush aside all of those fears with a sweep of his hand. Yuuri wishes the action was permanent. That it wasn’t just a balm, but a cure.

Maybe, if Yuuri was better at explaining all of this, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

A date is one thing, but why had Phichit thought that this was a good idea? Why had Victor’s friend, Chris (who apparently had met Yuuri and knew at least a little bit of what he was about to get Victor into) subject him to this? Who looks at someone like Victor and thinks, “you know who would complete that devastatingly beautiful picture? Yuuri Katsuki”?

(No one, that’s who.)

The next time Yuuri has the presence of mind to remember where he physically is, to take actual stock of his body, he’s shredded two beverage napkins to ribbons and he feels light headed from how close to hyperventilating he suddenly is. How long has he been inside his own head? What time is it?

He checks his phone. 7:05pm.

Not long, not long, okay. He needs… He presses a hand to his chest, trying to focus on his breathing and not on how sharp the inside of his throat feels. He takes a sip of his cold tea, as if it might help, might ground him.

(It doesn’t.)

There’s two napkins left on the table. One is mostly damp, having caught the brunt of the spillage from his tea earlier, but the other… It’s just a plain, white, slightly textured napkin, but Yuuri reaches for it, focusing on it far too intently. It’s square, but is it perfectly square or—

He folds it in half on the diagonal. Not quite perfect, but… Close enough. Good enough. He breathes.

Unfolds it, presses the opposite corners together, creates a sharply creased X across the napkin. Lengthwise. Across. Presses in at the corners, folds those pieces in, pulls these ones up.

He breathes.

For a few moments, Yuuri loses himself in the familiar motions. It’s muscle memory, the dexterity instilled through constant practice as a young child, sitting in his mother’s lap as her hands curled over his, showing them how to move. His breathing slows, and his heart calms down, and Yuuri pulls a paper crane out of a napkin.

(“I’m going to make a thousand,” he’d told his mother, all those years ago where they sat at the family kotatsu. “And then I can make a wish.”)

He wonders, in all the years his hands have fallen into these same comforting gestures, if he’s gotten anywhere close.

What would he wish for?

“What’s that?”

Yuuri doesn’t startle nearly as badly the second time around, but he does manage to hit the table with his knee, hurting himself and spilling more of his tea in the process. A few drops land on the wing of his crane, soaking in and staining parts of it a weakly colored brown. He watches the stain travel, spider-webbing through the napkin’s texture and warping the material where the liquid weighs it down.

It would be easy to crush the crane with his palm, to brush it away with the rest of the napkin scraps and into the trash.

He probably has made a thousand paper cranes, but he’d never know.

Yuuri’s never kept any of them.

“Origami?” Victor’s voice is bright with interest around the word his foreign mouth butchers slightly, cut through only by the scratch of Victor’s chair sliding out. Yuuri stares at the crane, but before he can make up his mind to throw it away, Victor is plucking it from the napkin wreckage. Yuuri’s eyes follow it. “You made this?” Victor stares at him, eyes wide and curious in a way that would be more fitting on a child than a man of his ilk.

After a few moments of compulsory hesitance, Yuuri nods, eyes suddenly critical of his tiny bird. One of the wings is torn at the end rather than pointed. The napkin hadn’t been perfectly square, so none of his points are sharp. Some of the folds overlap. The beak is an absolute disaster, and then—

Victor’s fingers slide against the stained wing, fascinated.

“Out of a napkin?”

It’s not judgmental, like Yuuri had been expecting. If anything, he almost sounds… Surprised? Impressed? None of the words make sense where he’s trying to fit them, but he can’t think of anything else. It’s not even that good of a crane.

“Uh, yeah, the, uh, the napkins are almost perfectly square, so…” He fidgets, shifting his shoulders. Most of his friends have seen him fold a paper crane. A lot of them even kept the ones he made. But those had been like a performance. He’d been ready for them. He’d had the proper paper. Those cranes were made with the possibility that they could be kept, every crease, every point, every fold—perfect.

This crane is not one of those cranes. This is a garbage crane. This is a crane born from anxiety. The only reason it exists is that it kept Yuuri from collapsing his lungs with the strength of his oncoming anxiety attack.

It’s not perfect. It’s ugly. And it doesn’t deserve the awe with which Victor is looking at it.

“A paper crane out of a napkin.” Victor sounds quietly delighted. “A napkin crane.” His smile is giddy, like what he said is particularly clever. And all Yuuri can do is watch as the crane twists back and forth by its tail between Victor’s thumb and forefinger, biting down on the need to ask for it back.

This is how Victor will remember him: spilt tea and an imperfect crane.

Victor sets the crane down finally, resting it gently against his own paper cup so that it lays on its wing rather than balancing on the body. “Where did you learn to do this?”

It’s not a question Yuuri is expecting.

He doesn’t have many friends, but most of them are American. And they seem to think that people just come out of Asia knowing origami.

(Yuuri had learned to make other things just for fear of disappointing people with the fact that the only thing he did know how to make was a crane. He can do a frog, and a butterfly, and a rabbit, but cranes are still his favorite.)

So he’s expecting it even less when he answers.

He doesn’t tell Victor why he had his mother teach him. That seems a little too embarrassing. But he does tell him about the other animals he can make.

“You said that Chris described me as Very Japanese. Is that what he meant?” Yuuri skews his eyebrows together. Is that how people think of him? As Very Japanese?

Victor laughs, and the sound is like honey down Yuuri’s spine.

“I’m not sure exactly what he meant. It makes me wonder if he describes me to people as Very Russian.” He smiles, good-naturedly, clearly not at odds with his friends rather stereotypical descriptors.

“Ah, that’s it,” Yuuri says more to himself than to Victor, but Victor still hums inquisitively. Yuuri presses his lips together, averts his gaze, shrugs his shoulder. “I could tell you had a bit of an accent, I just… Couldn’t tell from where.”

“Really?” Victor’s face washes over with surprise. “You can tell? Most people can’t. I moved to the States when I was six, so most people are oblivious to it.”

“One foreigner to another.” Yuuri gives a small smile, and something passes over Victor’s expression like a wave. It’s gone before Yuuri can look at it too closely. “So… Are you?”

Victor rests his cheek against his knuckles. “Am I what?”

“Very Russian?” Yuuri speaks as if imitating someone. The laughter that comes out of Victor is softer and hardly there at all, and it steals all the breath out of Yuuri’s lungs.

“Well, I can speak full sentences with particles and everything, and I don’t eat borscht.” He smiles. “I do have matryoshka dolls, though, and I do love the cold.” Something sparks behind his eyes. “Oh, and I’m a communist.”

For the third time in less than twenty minutes, Yuuri almost spills his tea again.

“Really?”

“No.” Victor’s smile stretches wider, and then they both laugh. Quiet, private, and Yuuri can feel his tension easing—slow, and steady, like helium escaping an air balloon through a needle point. But… It’s easing.

It doesn’t take long for Victor to realize that any conversation to be had will be mostly by his lead. Yuuri’s answers feel forced at first, dragged across his tongue and through his teeth, but no matter how stilted his answers, Victor keeps asking questions. And with every question, the answers come easier.

Maybe because Victor’s questions are simple.

He asks about growing up in Japan. He asks about his family. He asks about coming to America, and about school. But he skirts the hard questions, the ones that Yuuri keeps anticipating. He’s sure he sees them sometimes, just behind Victor’s eyes, sitting right on the tip of his tongue, but then they’re gone and Victor is moving on to his next topic.

So Yuuri talks about Japan without talking about being homesick. He talks about his family without saying why he’s been gone for so long. He talks about coming to America without explaining why he moved so far away. Victor never asks if he’s running from something. He never asks if Yuuri feels regret. He never asks if he’s happy.

And Yuuri is grateful. Because those are the same questions that keep Yuuri up at night, that tumble through his head as he searches for sleep and can only find the darkness of his ceiling. Even then, he doesn’t know the answers.

In contrast, Victor seems more than willing to lay everything bare for Yuuri to look at. He answers questions that Yuuri doesn’t even ask, and the ones that he does manage to piece together are elaborated on until Yuuri forgets what his original question even was. It almost feels like Yuuri can press in any direction and find no resistance, no walls, but he also suspects that maybe Victor is just better at this than he is.

But Victor had left Yuuri’s walls in tact, so Yuuri doesn’t go searching for his.

He keeps the questions he does work up the courage to ask completely generic.

Victor is originally from St. Petersburg. He doesn’t visit as often as he’d like. His parents are divorced, and he has one step-sibling. He’s a freelance events coordinator, which doesn’t even sound like a real job, and Victor is quick to explain that it isn’t—he’s essentially an overpaid party planner.

He also has a full-sized poodle that, 45 minutes into their date, is being shown off to Yuuri via Victor’s phone. His name is Makkachin, and for every picture that Victor has, there is a story that endears the dog quickly and firmly in Yuuri’s heart.

He stops himself from saying I can’t wait to meet him more times than he’d like to admit.

“He likes the beach. I don’t know if he has a preference, but I think the one by the pier is his favorite, because—”

Yuuri’s phone starts to vibrate violently where it’s been sitting, forgotten, in the corner of the table, and both of them turn to look at it in surprise. No one ever calls Yuuri—he’s infamous for never answering.

“Sorry.” Yuuri shoots Victor an apologetic look, and then glances at his phone curiously. It’s Phichit. Which… Doesn’t make any sense, because Phichit is the one who sent Yuuri on this date, and—

Oh.

Right.

The escape clause.

Yuuri can feel his heartbeat through his stomach and down to his toes. He draws his bottom lip between his lip, hesitating.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

Yuuri looks at Victor, who doesn’t even seem vaguely irritated by the interruption. He’s smiling, eyebrows lifted curiously, fingers curled against the pale expanse of his cheek. The sight, frankly, makes Yuuri’s heart hurt slightly. His eyes flicker to his phone again. It won’t keep ringing for much longer. It will go to voicemail soon. If it does, will Phichit call again? Or will he assume it means that Yuuri has no intention of bailing on the date?

He looks at Victor again, watching as he tips Yuuri’s paper crane back and forth with the point of his finger, letting it rock from one wing to its center and then to the other wing, before the process reverses and repeats.

Yuuri’s heart is thundering so loudly that its all he can hear, and he’s hyperaware of the way blood pulses through his fingertips as he picks up his phone and… Turns it off completely. He expects his breath to rattle out of him, all broken pieces and nerves, but it comes out on a smooth exhale.

“No.” He sets his phone back on the table, face down. “It’s fine.” He glances at Victor, suddenly feeling shy, and drags his lips together. “It can wait.”

This is where Victor picks up their conversation, mid-sentence, like he never stopped, only he… Doesn’t. When Yuuri has scrounged together enough courage to look him in the eye again (it takes several Moments, nearly a dozen deep breaths, and a brief internal monologue of encouragement), he finds Victor staring at him like…

Yuuri’s not sure. His grasp of the English language fails him. No one has ever looked at him the way Victor is currently looking at him, and Yuuri has no idea how to describe it.

Whatever it is, it makes Yuuri’s heart hiccup in his throat.

“I, um.” He closes his eyes, centers himself. “You were saying before? About Makkachin and the beach?”

When he looks again, Victor is blinking back to himself. He looks about two seconds away from shaking himself into composure—if people like Victor did such obvious acts of recalibration. Instead, he smiles again, and this one is different still. Yuuri is sure he’s seen a hundred different smiles since Victor walked up to the table, up to him, and this one is… It’s not bad, or forced, or anything like that.

He thinks, maybe, it’s a little warmer.

“Right.” His voice curls around the word, fondly. “Makkachin.”

They sit in the café until one of the employees starts bussing the tables, flipping up chairs even though there are still customers in the lobby. Victor is laughing softly, telling Yuuri in vague details about his last client, when said employee drops a chair and it clatters against the tile flooring, drawing everyone’s attention and pulling Yuuri and Victor from whatever bubble they had come to exist in.

Yuuri’s eyes widen.

“Are they closing already? What time is it?” He picks up his phone, only to remember that he shut it off… He’s not sure how long ago now. He frowns at it, holding down the buttons to turn it back on.

“Ah… Nearly 10,” Victor muses, and Yuuri looks over at him, to see Victor’s own phone in his hand. “Seems like we’ve been here for quite awhile.”

Looking at their table now, Yuuri can tell. He’s had two more cups of tea (some fruity green blend this particular café offers, and then a peppermint herbal), and Victor had his own cups of chamomile. There’s a plate from the very large shortbread cookie they shared, covered in Yuuri’s napkin shards and bits of crystallized sugar that their fingers had left behind. The crane is still next to Victor, slightly perkier now that its wing has dried, and it’s hard to believe that Yuuri made it nearly three hours ago.

A surprised laugh escapes his throat, and he blinks rapidly.

“Yeah.” It comes out breathless, and it makes him want to laugh again. He can’t seem to fit the time he spent with Victor into three hours. There’s no possible way it’s been that long. It feels like they just started talking.

“What’s your phone number?” Victor asks without preamble, and Yuuri has become so used to answering questions—easier questions, and much harder ones—that he prattles off the number without thinking about it. It’s only a moment later that he realizes that Victor is typing it away into his phone.

Yuuri’s phone vibrates, signifying that it’s powered on once more, and then begins to vibrate furiously.

“Ah!” Yuuri grabs it off the table, trying to muffle the noise, but Victor is already chuckling.

“I promise those aren’t all me.” There’s a pause in the vibration, and then there’s a final one a few seconds later. “But that one was.”

Yuuri glances down at his phone. He has… Wow, a lot of messages from Phichit, but the most recent is from an unknown number, and simply has a purple heart emoji.

Yuuri isn’t sure what to say, pressing his phone to his chest and looking at Victor helplessly. If they truly have been talking for three hours, Yuuri’s words have finally dried up.

“Let me walk you out, before the staff starts glaring at us anymore than they already are.” He grins, already scooting his chair back, and an employee descends on their table to quickly start clearing away their cups and trash. “Oh, wait, not that.” Victor just manages to scoop up the crane before it gets taken away, cupping it carefully in one hand, and Yuuri feels embarrassed as he stands.

“You—” He swallows. Shrugs. “You don’t have to keep that. It’s not… It’s not very good.” The flare of discomfort feels foreign after it’s been absent for too long, and Yuuri twists his hands together in front of him.

“I know I don’t have to.” Victor’s voice is gentle. “I want to.” His smile floods Yuuri’s vision, and he realizes that he’s bent down in order to invade it. As much as they’ve been talking, the table had stayed firmly between them. Even when they’d been eating the cookie, and their fingers had casually brushed together, it had never seemed deliberate and invasive. This is the closest Victor has been since the beginning of their date, and Yuuri forgets how to breathe all over again.

His fingers are warmer now, as he pushes some hair up and away from Yuuri’s eyes.

“If you want, you could make me a better one tomorrow.”

“T-tomorrow?” Yuuri is astonished he’s able to speak at all, especially considering his brain is certainly short circuiting from Victor’s small, affectionate touch.

“Tomorrow.” Victor’s words are firm, serious. Yuuri swallows. “Will you have lunch with me tomorrow?”

His lips part, and his tongue is limp and useless in his mouth.

Something is telling him to say no.

Something bigger is making that impossible.

Yuuri gives a small nod, and Victor’s eyes crinkle warmly with his smile.

The closeness ends. Victor steps away, his hand falling away only to confidently take up Yuuri’s own and lead him from the café. There is a lightness to his gait that seems to match the erratic, giddy firework spectacular currently taking place inside Yuuri’s ribcage.

“Do you need a ride home?” Victor asks, once the door to the café has closed behind them. It’s early April, but the night still holds a bit of chill. It’s nice, especially considering the dry, hot nights that will inevitably follow as summer gets closer.

“Ah, no, I drove here.” His car is parked just around the corner, thankfully tucked from view. If Victor can afford to live downtown, chances are he probably drives something nice. No need for him to see Yuuri’s used Honda. “But thank you.”

They come to a stop at the curb, skirting the soft glow of light shining through the café’s storefront windows and onto the sidewalk. Yuuri’s eyes keep jumping to where Victor’s hand is still wrapped firmly around his, so it’s a little startling when he glances up and finds Victor facing him.

“I guess this is where we say goodnight, then.” He reaches up, brushing pieces of Yuuri’s hair from his eyes again, and Yuuri’s free hand curls against his chest, the bite of his nails into the meat of his palm the only grounding factor in what could so easily be a dream.

How did the night get here? Yuuri’s not even sure. The last several hours feel like a blur, the line between points hard to find and retrace. It just… Doesn’t seem possible. Not that he just went on a blind date and survived, but that he… Enjoyed it. That Victor enjoyed it.

(Yuuri assumes. Victor wouldn’t be inviting him out to lunch if he hadn’t enjoyed himself, right?)

That’s probably the hardest thing to justify.

Victor had stayed. Victor had, potentially, had a good time talking to and getting to know Yuuri. Victor wanted to see Yuuri again. Tomorrow.

There’s a voice in his head, that sounds annoyingly like Phichit, that says, See? That wasn’t so bad, right?

Ugh. Phichit. He’s going to want to know every detail of the night, and his smugness is going to be their third roommate for the foreseeable future.

But, well… Yuuri looks down at Victor’s hand in his again, and can’t help the blushing smile that dances from cheek to cheek. It’s very likely that it’s worth it.

“I guess so.”

“Yuuri.” Victor takes a step closer, his fingers pausing against the angle of Yuuri’s jaw. “This is a date.” There’s something sparkling in Victor’s eyes that makes Yuuri’s stomach roll over on itself. “Don’t I get a kiss goodnight?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen, and he knows he rocks back a step, even without consciously meaning to. The cacophony in his head leaves little room for the fear that he just insulted Victor, that he just ruined everything, the anxiety a mere prickle of spikes underneath the bells and whistles and the ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod’s.

But Victor just smiles, slightly softer, and his finger travels over Yuuri’s bottom lip before it falls away.

“Maybe not tonight.” But Victor’s face still hovers close, too close for Yuuri to be held responsible for basic bodily operations such as breathing, speaking, and keeping himself upright at the same time. He almost fails at all three when Victor’s lips press, chaste and sweet, against Yuuri’s cheek, his breath warm and tea scented when he whispers, “Goodnight, Yuuri.”

And then he’s gone. He steps away, his hands leaving Yuuri behind, gives one last devastating smile, and then turns and walks down the street. Yuuri watches him go, one hand pressed carefully to his recently kissed skin, and belatedly remembers to breathe.

Victor crosses the street, his figure cutting a striking silhouette under the streetlights, and Yuuri watches him as he does a spin, a gleeful laugh escaping him, and… Yeah.

Yuuri might not be doing spins in the middle of the street, but he can’t stop smiling, heart rabbit quick where it beats beneath his palm, every fiber of his being remembering that single point of contact and the way it still seems to to tingle and spark even now, like a star pressed permanently into his skin.

He lets out a quieter laugh of his own, pushing his hands into his pockets, and heads for his car.

[beauvoyr]

My Friend, Mr Noctgar | 3

EPISODE III | vendetta

Pairings: Noctis/Reader vs Ravus/Reader  Genre: Romance Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Alpha/Beta/Omega, no beta we die like men, Humour, Angst, Fluff, Size Kink, Size Difference, Short Reader, Self-Indulgent Characters: Older Noctis, Older Chocobros, 30-year-old Ravus Nox Fleuret, Ardyn Izunia, Aranea, Loqi Tummelt, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Homeless (?) Noctis Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: ao3 Summary: Transferring from Gralea to Insomnia’s already hard enough for an Omega like you. Luckily your new friend Mr Noctgar, a homeless Alpha who’s always skulking around Sagefire, is there to brighten your dreary days ahead. And he’s always there to teach you the best spots in Insomnia, among other things.

“—which is why Ghorovas’ Rift is what it is today,” Noctgar ends his tale, flattening the top half of his vanilla soft serve with an agile tongue. At your wide-eyed stare, he swipes a few more licks to the cone, blunt fingernails absently scratching his scruff. “Told you Ifrit was an ass.”

“B-b-but that’s not what the Cosmogonies say?” you sputter, well aware that you sound like an utter imbecile for believing in half the garbage printed. Noctgar regards you with sympathetic understanding how a parent breaks to a child that Shiva Claus isn’t real, and you could only cover your burning cheeks by blaming the dastardly cunning ways of the Insomnian sun. “I mean—they should totally fire their writer for coming up with that fanfic-level stuff and—“

“I don’t get why they tried to make it romantic too,” Noctgar offers his thought, hacking off another solid chunk of vanilla with that sinful muscle of his. “Ifrit’s ego is the size of Ravatogh; unless he apologises to Shiva for messing up Solheim, I don’t think she’s going to lift the curse on Ghorovas. Of course,” his side-glance comes with a playful twinkle, “they tried to tone it down for the kids, I guess. No evil curses, just straight-up romance. Easier for them to digest that stuff.”

Serves you right for being such a gullible child, now Noctgar’s going to think you’re such a baby for believing in that load of junk. When you get back to Gralea, you’re putting up your limited edition copies on nBay. You’re so selling them. Bitterly, too bitterly, you mutter, “Should’ve known Shiva and Ifrit weren’t just Astrals immortalizing their love in Ghorovas. Ice and fire, duh, polar opposites. And polar opposites just don’t get along with each other.”

“Really?” Noctgar bites out a stifled chuckle, now nibbling around the rim of his cone. “Why’d you say that?”

“My superior, Ravus, is what I’d call my polar opposite. The Ghorovas’ Rift to my Leide Desert, if I’m trying to be poetic,” you answer as your thoughts turn to the flaxen-haired prince charming fairing from Tenebrae, substituting black chocobo and polished armour for a Bentley too big in a six-digit suit daily. “He’s a Sonnet 18 kind of guy that could quote ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day’ right down to ‘So long lives this, and this gives life to thee’, and then there’s me, rapping Monster’s ‘You could be the King but watch the Queen conquer.’” You pause at the affable agreement from Noctgar, who’s taking it in with his cream-stained lips twisting into a smile. “See what I mean? We could totally work together but beyond that? Yeah, it’s the original version of Shiva and Ifrit right here, now that I stand corrected—”

The corners of Noctgar’s mouth twitch wider. “Your soft serve’s melting.”

—and you’re flailing at the way vanilla oozes down your flaccid cone, sticky fingers and a veiny trickle down the back of your hand. Any second later and it would’ve stained your cuff. “Oh sh—“ With no napkins left, you lapped at the mess in alternating waves of broad licks, the tip of your tongue erasing all whiteness. You transfer the soft serve to your free hand just so you could suck off all stickiness from your fingers, taking each digit into your mouth and releasing them with a salacious pop, glistening wet yet thankfully free from all stickiness. Thank Astrals for this good head on your shoulders. “There, saved.”

When you turn to Noctgar once more, proudly showing him your handiwork, it is indeed news to you that Noctgar is also susceptible to the ways of the Insomnian sun, despite having lived here for a while.

5.48 p.m. comes as a heady perfume of melancholy and lovesickness. It has Ravus jabbing the keyboard a bit too hard when the scent draws closer and closer, like the metaphorical smog wafting in those inane morning cartoons Luna enjoyed. He knows what this is. Clack, clack, clack goes his keyboard when click click click ends at his doorway, bringing forth a scent that corrupts all Alphas into beasts, a scent that has his jaw set taut, teeth clenched.

“Hey sir,” you chime, your handbag shouldered, eyes a starry concerto when you seek his. By the Gods, he hates that glassy sheen, especially the hint of your teeth hiding behind the pink of your lips. “I’m about to head back.”

So leave already, he wants to snarl.

Get out of my sight, he wants to growl.

“Very well, you may leave,” is what he says, ignoring your questing eyes in favour of the bulleted list he’s been typing since five. Seven pages in, charts and tables drawn, paragraphs elaborated and red-tabbed notes highlighting key points in the report, and yet it is still far from complete to him. From the looks of it, a few more hours will be a worthwhile investment in order to achieve the level of perfection he’s after.

Something must’ve crossed his face when he returned to his work, for your keen eyes are still riveted on him. “You’re…not going home?”

Fingers skating across the keys stop. Your innocent concern is a forgery most Omegas have mastered; a species designed to captivate and fascinate those around them, unhesitant to delve their fingers into the stickiest of pies, only to draw them back, licking and sucking off cherry-reddened digits one by one. Viciously coy to those they want to enrapture, cunningly demure to those they want to seduce, Omegas are disgusting creatures willingly spreading their legs for any and all Alphas to conquer. Once they’ve conquered the body, they will conquer the world. Such is the reality Ravus is acquainted with, considering the multitude of Omegas who have crossed his path and tried to make him theirs.

And you could be one of them.

Another one of them, seeking wealth and riches only a prince could satisfy.

Ravus skips over your gaze, knowing he’ll find nothing. Clack clack clack on his keyboard again, this time in a measured pace. “No.” By right, he could’ve left it at no and watch you leave his room with one of your feigned sympathy, but professionalism has a say over prejudice. Work is work, and you are but an Omega stationed under him. He keys in the last period and skims over the sentence twice more. “I am preparing an outline for tomorrow’s briefing, as we will be hosting a corporate event on C3 involving both CC and NT in the near future.”

“Ohhhh…” You’re nodding—which, in Ravus’ dictionary, is not a good sign. The moment you’re adjusting your shoulder strap absently, Ravus regrets every word leaving your mouth: “Anything I can do to help out?”

This is what he doesn’t need. Help. An excuse following an excuse, Omegas are good at conjuring a thousand and one more excuses to spend more time within the proximity of those they’re trying to capture; How low will they stoop? Low enough until they crawl, Ravus supposes. And crawling is what Omegas do best.

His words are clipped, underlined with brutal intent. “No. Leave.”

Unfortunately, you are dafter than most. Where others would scurry along and never look back at the sight of his darkening expression, your stupidity takes you places others wouldn’t dream of venturing. Now, you are waltzing into the territories of Ravus’ restraint with a quiet, “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, let me help you out.” Again, you are the obnoxious Omega pushing every button on the console as if to trigger his wrath, fond eyes juxtaposing narrowed ones. “The sooner we get this done, the faster you can go home, right? So let’s get to it.”

Foolish, selfish Omega.

Fingers lacing together, Ravus leans into his backrest, tipping his chin ever so slightly at the sight of the disobedient Omega toeing his doorway. What do you seek to gain from testing his patience? His affection? Hah, hardly. A one-night stand much like the cheap paperbacks Luna enjoyed? Never in his lifetime. Winning his attention? On the negative spectrum, you will. What about monetary expenses? Surely you’ll benefit from overtime, making the most of your meagre salary to support your luxurious lifestyle. Omegas and their petty needs of pretty collars for every outfit, polished nails done in salons, nauseating perfumes in crystal bottles—everything as an excuse to waste money. Ravus considers this train of thought twice more before he comes to a conclusion.

“You won’t be paid for your overtime,” he breathes his verdict.

It's a variable thrown into the mix for the sake of observing your reaction. If he’s right, he should be receiving the expected reaction right about—

You straighten up, nodding once. “Okay yep, bye.”

Click, click, click is the sound that follows, the very sound of victory proving his statement. Ravus smirks to himself, knowing he is not wrong and he will never be wrong. A typical Omega you are, lured by the lavish prospects of making more money through whatever means you could get. Laughable. Your desperation is disgusting and he detests your very presence. He should be very careful in deflecting any future advances from your end, knowing how adamant Omegas can be once they settle on a target to devour. You may have given up tonight, but you will return sooner or later. With that warning planted in his head, Ravus rests his fingers on his keyboard, gliding over them in ease.

Click, click, click is also the sound of defeat when you backtrack into his doorway again, flashing a cheeky grin that belongs only on primates in zoos. “Just kidding, sir, I’m not that heartless. Back in Gralea, Aranea used to stay back with the rest of the team when we worked on something. And because NTG was extra broke at one point because they keep siphoning the money to different politicians, I’m used to not getting paid by now.” You do a one-shoulder shrug, rattling about a paper bag. “As long as I can trade those OTs for credit leaves, I’m cool with that.”

Foolish, selfish, and annoying Omega.

If Ravus were a slighter man, his door would have answered your statement in seconds. However, he is the Prince of Tenebrae, and so he returns your imprudent gallantry with a frown. More minutes are wasted on entertaining your stupidity, minutes that Ravus could have spent on bettering his outline, minutes that Ravus would have clocked in at least two more pages to his text. Here you stand, awaiting his response, and here he sits, awaiting your departure.

No such luck.

Such trifling matters to be handled; yet it niggles his head all the same. He could only tear his eyes away from your unblinking stare, resuming his work once more. “…do whatever you want.” Yes, you could do whatever you want; after all, you may have won the fight, but you have yet to win the war. Ravus taps away at his keyboard, finding more satisfaction in punching in the alphabets than staring you down. “And while you’re at it, get me some coffee.”

“Great! I still have some bread from Sagefire this afternoon so we can totally share that.” You’re all but bouncing away as your voice drifts from a distance, filling in the click click click of your heels. “Gonna be in the pantry for a sec, ‘scuse me.”

He does not want any bread from Sagefire, not when Scientia owns it. But your return brings two mugs of coffee, setting them with noiseless experience of a waiter on his table. In a creamy caramel colour, Ravus glowers at the consistency of your coffee. “What’s this?”

“Coffee!” you cheer, rolling out a chair to make yourself comfortable as you unpack the paper bag to reveal an assortment of diabetes inducing treats on a ceramic platter. “And here’s some bread too—I totally recommend having their strawberry danish because it’s so good.”

With an upturned nose, Ravus angles his face away from your weak craft. “I only take mine black.”

Your head bobs rapidly like a storm-wrecked buoy, a certain light illuminating your face. “Well! More for me then!” The moment your offending hand begins its advance for his mug, he grits his teeth at your impudence and swats off the intruder. “Ow!” You rub the back of your reddening hand, pouting—Gods, the thing an Omega loves to do most, pouting. “Okay, okay, I get it, sheesh…I’ll make yours black next time.”

Ravus only hikes a brow at your impertinent words and merely answers your sulk with a sip.

It’s not black coffee, but at least you make a decent one for a screw-up.

2.39 a.m.

You could barely even control the yawn escaping your mouth, what more controlling your appearance in front of him. Two mugs, one rimmed in nude lip prints, both equally drained to the dregs. The back of your hand sports a smudge of brown and black, courtesy of an accidental rubbing of your eye to fight your sleep. Roughly thirty minutes earlier, you splashed cold water on your face, effectively erasing every last inch of powder on your haggard face. Only three days in and your superior is already treated to the sight of your bare face, no lipstick, no eyeliner, not even a cushion powder to fix up your appearance. That’s a record, considering how Aranea only saw your pillow face three months in when you first started; now Ravus has seen it all, and you think he’ll start seeing more the longer you work with him.

How could one thing escalate to another, a briefing outline on tomorrow’s meeting turning into an impromptu planning session for NTI’s charity event on C3 grounds anyway?

The answer?

Well, that’s work for you.

With another disgruntled yawn, you rub the bridge of your nose. Only, Ravus looks up from his copy of the document, pen paused. In his normal state, Ravus is considered crabby. Past midnight, stuck here for hours and hours on end with you, he’s the crabbiest ever. You could only manage an apologetic sigh, hoping you don’t add on to his irritation. “Sorry, Ravus…I’m just extra tired lately.”

“Aren’t we all?” is his acerbic response, utterly lacking sympathy.

You don’t expect him to properly channel human emotions since he appears to be a counterpart of Andronicus, but he least he could do is to understand where you’re coming from. You click your pen close, setting it parallel to your lipstick-ridden mug. “Emphasise on the extra tired, sir.” Your lips twitch at his merciless dour. “I didn’t even get to unpack my stuffs yet. So many boxes and so many things are missing in my new apartment. Hooks, locks, curtains, sheets, pillows, everything. I can’t use the stove because I haven’t bought induction pans yet, I haven’t hanged my clothes in the closet because I don’t have time to iron everything, I need to call the landlord to call the plumber to fix the heater because it’s already broken by the time I moved in—Shiva, the best I have is the bed because it’s the only thing I managed to set up. Just throw on my scarf and bundle my sweater and boom, that’s my bedsheet and pillow.”

Of course, you hadn’t intended to shoot him with your rant but it is what it is. While your problems are your own, and a prince wouldn’t necessarily come equipped with generous understanding of how hard moving from one place to another while being dead broke can be, your mild outburst is intended as a plea for him to remove his feet from his fancy, hard leather oxfords for once and slip on your ratty morning office slippers instead. If you had all the money in the world, hiring people to furbish your rented apartment would be as easy as waving your black card on the scanner, go to work in Louboutins while riding a Maserati, and come back to a five-star chef having prepared fresh fish air-flown from Altissia for your dinner. All of that is easily within Ravus’ command if he desires, but you? You’re just an Omega making a measly 3.8k a month and a good chunk of that money is going to your rent, meals, supporting your parents back in Gralea, and public transportation fees.

However, for the strangest moment, Ravus is silent.

When it comes to your sporadic verbal machine gun going rat-tat-tat-tat for a conversation, Ravus keeps to himself most of the time—or downright ignores it. Granted, he could’ve unloaded a scathing bazooka of, “Silence, vermin,” on you, or a derisive variant of, “You asinine whelp,” on your sorry ass just to keep you silenced once more. But this time, there is none of that. Ravus leans into his seat, briskly capping his fountain pen closed. Heterochromatic eyes are back on you again, appraising your paltry worth under fluorescent tubes. Being probed by a man like him, wholly, unabashedly, with lips set in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, everything just burns an uncomfortable bonfire in your tummy.

‘Oh gods, just stop staring already,’ you internally shake your hands skywards, begging the Astrals on your knees to spare you because Ravus can’t seriously be doing this now.

Your blouse is rumpled from all the active moving you’ve been doing throughout the day, you’re sure you’re shitfaced because your makeup is gone, nada, zilch—and the worst part is, he’s not even saying anything about it! Not even a degrading remark! Comparing your dishevelled self to him, his three-piece suit still remains impeccable even if it had been hours since his arrival at office, his face is a marble statue of cool composure an Alpha commands, and he does not look haggard (unlike you, you weak ass Omega). The longer he stares, the more you feel your cheeks burning with the intensity of a wildfire scorching Leiden desert.

Heck, anyone and everyone getting picked to pieces by a hot guy would probably feel the same way too, just that said hot guy happens to be the punishing Prince of Tenebrae.

And said Prince of Tenebrae so happens to be your superior.

Three seconds later, the Alpha comes to a decision. “Let us stop here for now.”

That’s so unexpected until you blink at the surprise. Did that sympathetic node in his brain finally function?

Apparently, Ravus isn’t finished with his train of thought. “I find that working when one is demotivated is akin to pushing a dead mule. Ineffective and inefficient.” And, for the slightest moment, the edges of his lips curl. “Like you.”

—so maybe you were too hasty in your conclusion.

If it were up to your fighting spirit, you would’ve spat fire in his face, fuelled by your fatigue and fury from his relentless barrage of insults. But, Gods above, this guy’s your superior and you’re going to be stuck with him for a long, long time. It’s only been three days, three days! Biggs and Wedge once tested your patience with repeated pranking in office and you only snapped after finding your car painted in Post-its after the second month. Just because this goddamn Prince of Tenebrae doesn’t understand the hardships a broke ass Omega needs to endure in a new environment, it doesn’t mean he should be getting under your skin this easily—and that doesn’t mean you should jeopardise your sole work source of income thanks to him.

Because, hey, this isn’t a girly manga where the main character quarrels with a filthy hot, fucking rich dude and winds up in a twisted relationship with the man, yeah?

Yeah, so let’s roll with that.

You stomach his insults in hopes you’d digest his assholery and turn it into diarrhoea by tomorrow morning. At least you made some progress into his work and you can’t say you shirked out your duty as a senior exec. The smile on your face is positively simpering. “Thanks, Ravus, I really appreciate it.”

Translation: Go fuck yourself.

Swiftly withdrawing all papers and clutter from his desk to be stuffed into a folder, taking off the mugs and dumping them in the sink for washing tomorrow morning, you return to his room to grab both your handbag and work bag, slinging them over your shoulder once more. In a couple more hours you’d be back in this dreaded place again, enduring yet another hellish torture from 8.00 a.m. to 7 p.m. and you can’t say you’re looking forward to it. A glance to your wristwatch tells you it’s 3.04 a.m. and you’ve got only four hours of sleep maximum if you’re looking to arrive at work on time, but the bigger problem here is this:

“What the fuck.” You blink at your wristwatch’s guiltless face. Then turned to Ravus’ cocked eyebrow at your uncharacteristic cuss. “Sorry about that. I missed the last train.”

If possible, Ravus’ eyebrow climbs higher. One day, you’ll ask him the secret to his condescending eyebrow ascension, but not today. Not when you’re stranded here with nary a cheap cab to haul your pathetic ass home. ‘Great job, (y/n), great job. You done fucked up now.’

The curled edges to Ravus’ lips are still there when he questions, “And where do you live?”

“Somewhere on the – uh,” you squint at the foggy memory of sienna walls and bricked roads, vivid playground and a kindergarten nearby, “I think it’s called Kore? Not sure where that is.” Considering it’s only been four days since you landed in Insomnia, it’s a miracle your overworked brain could recall a fragment of the location. “But it’s got a kindergarten and some swings and it’s a pretty cheap and quiet neighbourhood kind of thing—safe, hopefully.”

“That’s quite some distance from here,” he hums. “I suppose you walk to the train daily then?”

Chatty, isn’t he? You shift your weight on the other foot, rubbing your nape as your head sifts through possibilities of Moogling up a 24-Hour cab service and risk getting conned for thousands of Credits, or grab Uber instead and risk getting into a car with a potentially frisky Alpha. The choices are clearly endless. “Well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I stay close to NTI, I’m gonna be even more broke than I am now. Need to make the best of my pay.” Not that it changes anything in your current situation; you probably should start thinking of alternatives now. Cab it is. “Yeah, anyway, I gotta go now. Gonna call a cab, ‘nite.”

Granite and amethyst are sharply narrowed your way once again, this time with an ever-familiar scowl. “Don’t be asinine—“

You sigh. ‘Yep, there it is, he’s gonna chew me out again for my life decisions. Stay out of my life, dad, I’m an adult.’

“—I’ll send you home,” Ravus finishes, already striding past your stunned figure to switch off the lights to his office. “Come along now, we don’t have all day.”

Your head whips around so fast you could’ve risked cracking your neck.

Holy shit. Did you hear that right?

Is your life really starting to turn into that girly manga route where the cold bastard finally takes an interest in the protagonist and the protagonist falls helplessly in love with him and it culminates into—‘Okay, no, calm down, self, calm down. It’s just Ravus being a sensible guy—he’s a human being and he’s got to have some sort of kind bone in him somewhere. Don’t overthink this and don’t end up making it more awkward than it already is. Ifrit and Shiva, Ifrit and Shiva, gotta remember that.’

That’s your pep talk for the day, but your traitorous heart’s palpitating loud enough for your eardrums to beat along. Tugging your bags closer as you tailed Ravus on your way out, you crane your neck to look up at him in gratitude. Because, seriously, all girly manga clichés aside, he’s the real MVP for wanting to send you back home. “Thanks, Ravus, seriously. I really appreciate this.” And no, not a hint of sarcasm this time. For real. “Seriously seriously. Thanks man.”

Ravus allows himself a sidelong glance at your expectant gaze, almost haughty in his disdain. “If you were to be murdered, I will end up losing more manpower in this office. I simply cannot let that happen.”

Or so he says, yet as your shoulders sag at his incriminating statement, half-lidded eyes are lingering far too long on you.

It is rare occasion for one to find oneself riding his car. It is rarer occasion for one to ride with him twice in a single lifetime.

Strangely, you defy all norms with your brutish pig-headedness, barrelling past all barricades he’s strategically set up to deter those coming his way. Riding in his car twice, and having the gall to fall asleep at that. Foolhardy, insolent, never quick to rise to the baits he dangled right under your nose. There should be a specific category for people like you, those who teeter along the fine line dividing the charlatan and the frank, though he can’t quite find a box befitting your nature. At most, you rebuffed his mockery with a snide smile, knowing your place underneath him, playing by the unspoken political hierarchy in the office.

Chancing a glance at his side rewards him with a vexing view of your lolling head. Shoulders softly rising and falling in tune with your breathing, guiltless in your slumber. Never once stirring from your sleep, hands politely folded over your thighs, both bags sitting by your feet. Street lamps flashing over your skin hardly bothers you, though Ravus supposes sloths are heavy sleepers. While it is indeed a blessing that you are silent for once, it is also infuriating that you dared to sleep in his presence, rendering him akin to your personal driver. An incredibly incensing thought, one that almost makes him want to shake you awake just to see your disgruntled face upon being rudely woken up.

The sooner he deposits you, the better.

A finger to the blinker, he smoothly swerves left and exits the highway.

Stalagmite skyscrapers gradually disappear from the distance, consumed by the miles separating them from the heart of Insomnia as Ravus drives on. Kore, miles from the heart of Insomnia, is a suburb for the penniless. Unfortunately, it’s one of Luna’s favourite spots for her charity charades, or what Ravus thinks it is. Visiting orphanages with trolleys of toys and wheeling around gap-toothed children in wheelchairs, her actions earned the love of locals easily. A gentle beauty who is no stranger to TV shows and radio podcasts, his gentle sister preaches to the masses. What Ravus saw as cunningly crafted manipulation of the media to bolster Niflheim’s extensive efforts in positive politics, Luna would wage a war with words against him—or what she calls pessimistic derision.

Whatever it may be, Ravus isn’t keen on correcting her altruism at the expense of their familial ties; as long as she’s safe, their views may continue to differ, so long as it contributes to the same cause.

His foot eases off the gas pedal as the traffic lights transition from amber to red. The quiet outskirts of the city are obviously dead at this hour with no cars whirring across the road. Waiting for a full minute at the intersection when he’s all alone would’ve sounded ridiculous to many, but rules are not meant to be broken. At the inopportune moment presenting itself, Ravus chances another glimpse at your visage, catching your head still lolling softly as though you are headbanging in your dreams. The sight of your unashamed barefaced slumber whisks an irritation he deems it can be solved once he swats you awake.

Foolish, selfish, annoying, and audacious Omega.

As though the traffic lights sensed his malicious intent, they immediately popped green.

Thus, Ravus is thwarted for the night.

Much later on, miles and miles away from the junction, stopping by the cracked sidewalk leading up to a rundown two-storey apartment with an exposed stairwell and walls as thin as a single brick, he watches as you stumble out of his ride with half a heel worn and the other stuck somewhere underneath the seat. You yawn open-mouthed when you’ve fished the abominable needle-heeled shoe from ruining his ride, slurring a sleepy good night with that idiotic slant slacking your lips to reveal a hint of teeth in a coy smile.

Shutting his door, you totter off into the distance as darkness warps your body until you are no more.

Ravus stares at nothing.

And then he leaves.

8.35 a.m.

Oh shit.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

You’re speed-walking through the thronging crowd at four oh shits per second, in which an interspersed oh fuck gives you an extra boost when you glance at your wristwatch. You are so dead—oh, you wish you were already dead because at least you don’t have to step into office and get physically dismembered by your boss. While you would’ve preferred your phone to be pinging nonstop with a barrage of assaulting messages from Ravus, the eerie silence speaks volumes for your current situation. Nothing’s scarier when a boss says nothing about your tardiness—in which it’s already a code red for your life.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you chant to the crowded escalator as your heart goes oh shit, oh shit, oh shit in tandem, pushing past the slow-motion bystanders—or are you actually on fast-forward? No matter, same difference, just that you need to get the hell out of the station to run to your office.

Emerging from the subway, your heart’s pumping like you’re about to undergo a cardiac arrest as you reorientate yourself with your surroundings. In the distance, NTI gleams like a silver stake ready to be spiked through your body. Just imagining the things Ravus would do to you the moment you step past the office doors gets you doubting yourself for a second there longer—oh Astrals, would it be better if you just stop by a Starbucks somewhere and tender your resignation to HR via email just so you’d spare yourself? Or would it be better if you just hightail it back home and never show up until they just terminate you? Either way, anything sounds like a good choice—far better than going in there unarmed against your boss.

With a nervous twitch, you withdraw your phone to check the notifications.

Nothing.

Not even an insult?

Or even something vaguely derogatory?

Good gods, you’re really done for, aren’t you?

All because you decided to spend your OT in office with him until three in the morning.

‘If anything, he should be grateful to me because I helped him out,’ you huffily try to justify should ragnarok come hurling home. Stuffing your phone once more, it is with a heavy heart and heavier feet that you drag yourself to your office, slowing down to one and a half oh shit at a time. ‘But then again, it’s not like I was helping out much. He got his shit together while I was sitting there like a moron watching him work.’

As a senior executive, whatever your boss tasked you with, you were supposed to execute it with the aid of fellow execs under you. Growing into this new role of yours gets challenging without a guiding hand showing you the ropes—you suppose all you could do is to imitate whatever Aranea had done and replicate it in your own unique way. Just like yesterday, when experience poured from the tip of Ravus’ fountain pen whilst he scribbled ideas on a scrap of paper. Planning charity events requires budgeting; that much you knew from your years with Aranea. NTG had to ration their budget expenditure spread over a financial year and NTI isn’t any different—except, NTI had a wealth of money at their expense, apparently. Ravus had kindly set aside close to a hundred thousand for media buys pertaining to social media ads, and that’s not even including billboards and traditional media. You had dumbly stared at the 1.5 million Credits parked under production costs as you mentally contrasted it with NTG’s measly 30k—to which the prince haughtily declared, “Did you think this will be just like Gralea?”

As snotty as he sounded, you couldn’t admit yes.

The scale of the events NTI organized shouldn’t be a surprise to you; Ravus had shown you that whatever NTG did, NTI would execute it on a grander note. That’s because it’s not for Niflheim anymore; it’ll be the talk of the kingdom if NT scrimped out on their political campaign by delivering less than what is expected. None of them would like to lose face in front of the king, would they? From the guest lists to the caterers, he shared his thoughts and views on contracted vendors and agencies that would be setting up the event site. Coordinating their locations, standardizing the colours, ensuring all corporate identities are prominently displayed via buntings, it’s almost everything you’ve ever done in NTG amplified threefold. With every snip of his tongue lashing, you are forced to reorganize your bearings and fulfil his wishes according to his ideals.

It’s overwhelming. Exhausting. Demanding.

Yet, as you think about your boss’ solemn profile as he worked tirelessly through the night, it pops a funny little bubble in your tummy.

Ravus Nox Fleuret is a pain in the ass, sure, but at least he taught you something.

And how are you supposed to support him as a senior exec if you’re going to get fired today? Well, better get your feet moving faster than one oh shit at a time if you still want a job by tomorrow.

Picking up your speed, you allow the ocean of humans to suck you into waves. Everywhere you looked, the morning zombies of Insomnia were in the same state: Dragging their feet to their workplaces. You can’t say you’re proud to be one of them, especially when your body’s in a state of disarray. That lack of sleep manifests by way of a throbbing headache and tunnel vision as you weave through the crowd, making your way to the stab of silver in the distance. Except, along the way, you didn’t expect a familiarly antique scent to come sidling up your strides.

“Hey, morning,” Noctgar offers a rumbling greeting, scruff twitching along his words.

What could possibly improve your disastrous morning to be better? None other than your favourite homeless Alpha, that’s who.

In all honesty, you wanted to slow down and have a good chat with him before you head to your funeral—but it’s not easy being the star of your own beheading, so you can’t really show up late. Flashing him your most genuine smile, you keep an even pace. And it certainly helps when you’re short, for you would never wind up outpacing him.

“G’morning, Noctgar! So sorry I can’t stop and chat, I actually shouldn’t be alive right now!” you chirp. At his stunned silence welcoming your shocking statement, you laugh a little. “Just kidding—well,” you sober up at the reality of the situation, “half kidding. I’m just really late right now, so I’m trying to make the most of my last moments on Eos before my boss decides how he wants me done today. Grilled, charbroiled, steamed, everything on the menu is possible.”

Even with the bustling Insomnians talking in dissonant murmurs, Noctgar’s low whistle couldn't be missed. “Sounds rough, I’m sorry to hear that, old friend. Take care.”

“Take care!?” you squeak your disbelief, chortling at the way Noctgar’s ever-expressive eyes twinkle with mischief when he knows you hadn’t missed out on the joke. “Such support, much wow. Wait ‘til you receive my e-invite for my funeral today, free lunch provided.”

Noctgar chuckles at your dark humour, easily sidestepping a passing Beta before rejoining your side like velcro. “Yeah, wouldn’t miss out on free lunch. Hope he cooks you good.”

“Me too,” you lightly punch him in the bicep as he returns his revenge by messing up your hair, trading blows.

Somewhere down the street, Starbuck’s open doors wafted bitter notes of coffee among the herd of creamy Omegas, subtle Betas, and masculine Alphas. Cabbies and Ubers are honking at the building traffic, tyres screeching on asphalt. Just like this, it feels good to have someone with you. Walking together through the slow drift of chilly breeze, making jokes over your misfortune when the going gets tough.

Noctgar’s the same as ever, dressed in a humble jacket, hands pocketed in drab jeans. Still looking like he hadn’t a decent night’s sleep, always in need for a good shaver and mirror. Who knows what he’s doing out here anyway? Insomnia’s probably his turf, so it makes sense why he’d just pop up near the subway by accident if he had been napping nearby—and boy, it’s an excellent accident to happen first thing in the morning. Alas, all good things have to come to an end, marked by the way NTI’s glass lobby looms all too soon into view with lively Techies swarming in by the second.

You instinctively slow down, turning to your Alpha friend with a grimace. “Well, we’ve come to the end of the line.”

“Any last words?” Noctgar teases, leaning back with his head tilted aside.

It takes you a moment to search the Merriam-Webster Dictionary preinstalled in your brain when the image just assaults you like this. With creamy light spilling over pale skin, the wild arrangement of tousled hair, sharp Alpha characteristics of a defined jawline following a cocky, self-assured smirk; yeah, this homeless friend of yours is definitely something, why didn’t you realize it earlier? With a little snip of his scruff, a tidying of his locks, and some fitting garment, Astrals, you could’ve transformed him into a model! Or at least you could do a joint venture where you could pitch his existence to modelling agencies as his self-appointed manager and rake in thousands by the end of the month—

—yeah, too bad you have to die today.

“Eh, well,” you do an unenthused shrug, already accepting your inevitable death at the hands of your boss because no amount of active imagination could spare you from Ravus, “thanks for being a pal, Noctgar. You made my short stay in Insomnia a luxury vacation, really. Five stars on TripAdvisor as best tour guide.”

At this, Noctgar’s lips twist oddly—like absent fondness and Something More™, but who knows what Something More™ could mean when you obviously won’t live long enough to find out. “I’ll make sure they bury you with your phone so that you can still text me an invite in the coffin. Can’t miss out free lunch and five stars on TripAdvisor.”

How morbidly charming. You really like this guy. Holding out a fist, you flash him the kind of smile when Brave Legends Go Off To Meet Their Impending Demise. “See you on the other side, pal.”

Noctgar only returns your brofist with unwavering confidence. “Yeah, see you.”

As you heroically march right up the entrance sans epic background music, too lost in the moment where the highlight reel of your life is on playback before your eyes, you’ve most certainly missed out a blurry reflection of Noctgar withdrawing a cellphone from his back pocket, snapping a picture of you.

“Ah, Your Highness, to what do I owe this pleasure of a phone call while I’m in the middle of a meeting with my board members, who are coincidentally very peeved at this ongoing interruption?”

“Sorry, not sorry. Do you wanna owe me something real quick?”

“An intriguing offer! Go on, I’m listening.”

“Great. There’s this girl, (y/n), coming up from NTI’s lobby now. She’s new, Omega, black collar, and reports to Ravus—I’ll send you her pic in a sec. Think you can see that bastard and make up some excuse on why she’s late?”

“Pray tell, what benefits will I reap from this ad hoc liaison?”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Debt is the slavery of the free, after all.”

“…fine, I’ll go to that damn charity event on C3.”

“What an intriguing offer indeed.”

NOTES:

Thanks for all the support during my absence! Going through a bit of a rough patch in life at the moment, but I'll try my darnest best to keep writing and keep updating! ❤ Stay safe everyone, stay hydrated, and may 2019 go well for all of you!

THE TRAGEDY CONTINUES: Great. Great, great, great, great great great, just great. The way you punched in the fullstop a bit too hard resounds like a bullet through metal before you rise to your feet, already feeling cold sweat collecting under your boobs. Because fuck sweating profusely through your armpits when that’s too mainstream, since the way you’ll get fired is already premium with how Ravus stands before his room like a headmaster catching his students sniffing glue in the school’s backyard. As if things can’t get any worse, everyone within vicinity are pretending they’re focused on their work—but you catch their sneaky eyes hovering above iMacs, ears subtly angled Ravus’ way. Absolutely fabulous, it’s barely your first week here and you’ve already fucked up ten ways up Ravus’ ass, and judging from how hairy things are getting, you suspect he hasn’t shaved his crack for a long, long time.

(Or maybe he’s never shaved at all.)

(But you haven’t considered if he’s naturally hairless, did you?)