#yura might be a stupid little bastard but he's MY stupid little bastard

[sunflower-bnuuy]

yura beletsky really means so much to me. he's a rat bastard and manipulative and an asshole sure but... something about just being a teenager trying to get by in a town you hate. the only choices you have don't matter. your future isn't really in your hands and it looks like it's going downhill pretty fast, which is funny considering you already thought you were at the bottom. so why worry about it? let's have fun and party instead. let's not worry about waking up in the morning. let's hope we don't wake up in the morning.

but then-- then you meet a girl. it sounds so cliche, but it's not in that romantic teen movie way. god, it's not in a romantic way. she needs help. and you make the choice to help her. and god, is that choice so freeing! and it may be the bad choice-- something about her, it makes your stomach turn, and you figure it out pretty quick-- but it's a choice you get to make and it's helping. it's helping someone. you're actually doing something.

then of course, it's all ripped away. and it's your fault, really.

but you're not going to let it stay your fault forever.

you're breaking her out of the facility no matter what. no matter what sacrifices you have to make, you got her back there, you're getting her out. and sure, it's horrible, you're horrible, but it's freeing. finally, you've weaponized your helpless spite.

anyway i hate yura beletsky. he ruined my life and also probably saved it. im normal btw

[lavenderprose]

could you do 4.2 for the fic thing?

[Some of the Mob AU for you, because it fits]

Half of the city attends Viktor’s funeral. At least, it seems that way. The streets of Petrogorod must be empty for how many people are gathered into the cathedral where Viktor Nikiforov is being laid to rest. Yuuri sits in the second-to-last pew, all by himself, and doesn’t recognize a single person in the front row. They are all blue-eyed and silver-haired and Yuuri couldn’t name one of them if his life depended on it. 

Many of the people in this church are career criminals. The amount of blood on the hands in the nave of this cathedral could fill the place to the brim.

And yet, most of them seem genuinely distressed by Viktor’s death. 

Yuuri attends the funeral in the same suit he wore to his first meeting with Viktor, because there’s a sort of appropriate irony there. He doesn’t want to wear any of the suits Viktor bought for him. He doesn’t even want to look at them. It defines his complicated relationship with the man, that he’s sentimental enough to wear something Viktor hated, but not to wear something he actually liked.

Yuuri foregoes the procession, mostly because the idea of adding his beaten-up compact to the long line of sleek sports cars and SUVs making their way through Petrogorod’s main streets is a depressing one. He drives to Viktor’s building, instead, and is only mildly surprised when Anatoly still lets him in the door.

“How was the funeral, sir?” Anatoly asks gently, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to explain a loneliness so profound that it feels like he’s the one who’s died, and so he just shrugs and offers a sad smile. Anatoly says, “I thought so. I’m sure you’re very tired, but could I have a moment of your time?”

All Yuuri really wants to do is retrieve Makkachin and leave this building, go back to his own apartment in Shoboro and pretend that the last eight months of his life never happened. He can’t even remember the last time he spent the night in that apartment. He’s forgotten which way it is you jiggle the tap in the shower to make it run warm for more than twenty seconds at a time.

“It’s important,” Anatoly says, like he can see Yuuri’s hesitation.

Yuuri sighs and nods, and follows Anatoly into the door behind the desk and through into what must be his personal office. It’s a nice place, with two plush chairs opposite the desk and a set of pictures featuring an attractive young family. A woman, three little children, a dog.

“Are those real?” Yuuri mumbles, knowing full well at this point that Anatoly is much more than just a doorman. He doesn’t know if Anatoly would take the risk of displaying his real family photos in an office that acts as a glorified doorway to the underworld.

“Some of them,” Anatoly says, and it seems like an honest answer, so Yuuri accepts it. He sits down in one of the chairs, letting himself go mildly boneless against it. Anatoly hands him a finger of something expensively amber, and Yuuri doesn’t even taste it before it goes down.

“Viktor did not have many people he trusted,” Anatoly says, perching on the edge of his desk. He splays his fingers over a thick file folder.

“I thought his whole business model was based in trust,” Yuuri scoffs. For all it did for him. Trust in his people, an eye for an eye, a bullet between the eyes.

Anatoly tilts his head to the side. “This is also true. But he had checks and balances. Viktor never gave anyone the full picture. Everybody had just a small piece of the puzzle, and he kept the whole solution inside his own mind. But, as you know, men are mortal.”

“Yes,” Yuuri rasps, harsh. “I do know that, Anatoly.”

“I was the only other person Viktor trusted with the...delicate details, shall we say,” Anatoly says, and unfolds the file. 

“Why you?” Yuuri mumbles, brows furrowed. “Why not Yura? Or Georgi?”

“Yura is still a child,” Anatoly says. “Had Viktor died after he turned eighteen, then this job would have fallen to him. Georgi is and always has been a flight risk. Viktor couldn’t entrust someone so unstable with information like this.”

Yuuri thinks about all the things Viktor whispered to him in the night, knowing full well how flighty Yuuri himself could be, and wonders.

“Okay,” Yuuri says after a moment. “Is there a point to this?”

“Until Yura comes of age,” Anatoly says, straightening himself up, “I’m the acting head of Nikiforov Enterprises and all of its...extracurricular business. This means that it’s my job to carry out all standing orders from before Viktor died.”

“And what are those?” Yuuri mumbles, limbs slowly going heavy. The drink must have been stronger than he thought. “He told me that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to take care of his dog. And make sure Yura...that Yura grew up well. That’s--that’s the only thing he said.”

“Ah,” Anatoly says, clearing his throat. “And was that before or after you shot him in the head?”

Yuuri’s head snaps up, despite the oppressive drowsiness weighting him down like there are rocks on his hands and feet. “What?”

“You were the only person in the room with him when he died,” Anatoly says, flipping through the folder with complete nonchalance. “You are the only person who could have killed him.”

“No,” Yuuri says. “No, it wasn’t me--I’d never--I...I lo--”

“You loved him, yes,” Anatoly says, and holds up a picture that makes Yuuri’s head spin. It’s him and Viktor in the window of Viktor’s bedroom, and Yuuri can see his own sweaty hands flat on the glass, Viktor’s face buried in his neck, the tight connection of their hips. Yuuri feels a hot shot of shame go through him, at the sight of his own erect penis pressing against the window, the gape of his own mouth. 

Nobody can see us this high up, Viktor had murmured into his ear, and Yuuri had believed him. His hand had gone over Yuuri’s navel and between his legs and his touch had been so tender and Yuuri had believed him.

“It seems he loved you too,” Anatoly says dryly. Yuuri is almost sliding out of his chair. “Which may be why you succeeded where so many others failed. It’s understandable, that Viktor allowed himself to be so distracted. He always did have a soft spot for men like you. How many times did you have to suck his cock before he told you everything you wanted to know?”

“Fuck you,” Yuuri spits, even as his tongue gets heavier. “It wasn’t--wasn’t like that--”

“The drug in your drink was Ketamine,” Anatoly tells him, “in case you were wondering. In a few minutes, you won’t be able to move. The amount in your drink wasn’t enough to kill you, but the amount in this--” he reaches behind him and holds up a syringe, “is enough to kill several full-grown men. Once you’re nice and complacent from your first dose, it won’t be hard for me to administer this one.” Anatoly taps the syringe with the back of his finger, idle. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, Yuuri, but we just couldn’t let you live.”

“No, you’re wrong.” Yuuri feels about twice his own weight. Holding his head up is becoming a challenge. “I wasn’t--please, ask--ask Yakov, or Georgi, they know--they’ll believe me, it wasn’t--please, God, please don’t do this!”

“Relax, Yuuri.” Anatoly rises from the desk and kneels beside him, rolls up his sleeve. Yuuri tries to jerk his arm away, but it’s like his muscles aren’t even listening to his brain. His mind clouds, his thoughts go in ten thousand different directions at once. He’s thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. Anatoly wraps a rubber hose unpleasantly tight around Yuuri’s upper arm. A tourniquet.

“You’ll never--” Yuuri’s eyes flutter, head tilting back as his neck loses its battle with gravity. “You’re making a--huge mistake--Yura--”

“Will die too,” Anatoly says slowly. “And then Georgi. And then that blundering old bastard Feltsman. Anyone in my way...will die.” Anatoly twists Yuuri’s arm, looking for a vein. “Just like you. And just like Viktor.”

“You--”

Several things happen all at once. Yuuri’s foot, which was the only thing keeping him from sliding straight out of his chair, slips and he tilts sideways, out of Anatoly’s grasp. Anatoly swears and rises to wrestle him back into his chair. Before his hands reach Yuuri, an ear-splitting crack rends the stony atmosphere. Yuuri feels stickly warmth bloom across his own face and for a moment thinks it’s himself that has been shot.

When Anatoly slumps over, and Yuuri sees his unseeing eyes and his missing ear, Yuuri knows it isn’t.

Viktor Nikiforov rushes into the room and kneels beside Yuuri.

“Yuuri,” whispers Viktor, or maybe a ghost. Maybe Yuuri is dead after all. “Oh, Yuuri, what did he do to you?”

Then, finally, Yuuri passes out.

--

He almost doesn’t realize his own apartment, in the low light. Mostly because he hasn’t been here in months save for short visits to grab clothes, but also because Makkachin is at the end of the bed and large poodles are not a standard feature of Yuuri’s bedroom. 

His muscles ache, his thoughts are foggy. It takes him a moment to remember that Viktor might not be dead. When he does, he springs out of bed with something that’s half-alarm and half-rage, and almost slams right into Viktor as he comes in the room.

“Whoa,” Viktor says, steadying him by the shoulders. “Relax, Yuuri, you shouldn’t--”

“Viktor,” Yuuri breathes, and has to tilt his head back because he’s barefoot and Viktor is wearing those stupid boots. “You’re--Oh, oh my God--”

“I know,” Viktor says, “I know, shh, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m alright.”

“You stu--you fucking--” Yuuri raises a palm and wants so badly to hit him. Viktor even waits for it, unflinching, like it’s his due. He hits Viktor’s chest, instead, and then again and again. Over and over until Viktor finally takes him by the shoulders, and they sink back onto the floor together.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, wheezing, cheek on Yuuri’s head even as he continues trying to hit him. “Yuuri, please darling. Yuuri--”

“FUCK YOU!” Yuuri screams at last, and finally does slap Viktor in the face. His head whips to the side, and Yuuri feels an odd sort of satisfaction settle over him. 

“Okay, I deserved that,” Viktor mutters, touching his bloodied lip.

“Fuck you, Viktor!” Yuuri screeches, completely aware of his voice getting away from him and utterly unable to stop it. “What the--how in the he--I’m so--what the fuck! I watched you die, I--fuck you, fuck you, I should--you--” He takes in a shuddering breath and tries to convince himself that the lump is his throat is one of rage, and not one of tears. He will not cry. “I went to your fucking funeral, Viktor. I saw you--in a coffin--dead. You were--pale, and you weren’t moving, and your hair--” Yuuri presses his fingertips to Viktor’s fringe, heart wreaked. “It wasn’t--they didn’t do it right, and I--your hands were so cold. Vitya. Vitya.” Yuuri feels his lips wobble, his cheeks bulge. He’s definitely crying now. “I buried you, Vitya.”

“I know,” Viktor whispers. “I can’t imagine how horrible it was, Yuuri, and I’m so sorry. You have to believe me when i say I thought I was keeping you safe. You have to. The only reason I did any of it was to--to protect you.”

“Well that worked like a charm,” Yuuri scoffs, huddling back against the bed and frantically wiping his face.

“I never thought Anatoly would go after you,” Viktor says, and now he’s on his knees, like he’s groveling, and Yuuri is just going to fucking let him do that. “At least not at first. I had no idea that he knew the extent of our--”

“He had pictures, Viktor,” Yuuri hisses. “I’ve never felt so violated in my fucking life. Where did he get them from?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor says. “My hand to God, Yuuri, I do not know. I don’t know where he was getting any of his information from. I was convinced he would go after Yakov first--that’s where I’ve been the last few days, waiting, but then the tail I had on you--”

“You had a tail on me?” Yuuri snarls. 

“Of course I did,” Viktor snaps. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way I would have left the man I love unprotected, do you think I’m stupid?”

“Sometimes,” Yuuri snaps back, but it’s with less venom. He huffs and runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and lets the words the man I love revolve around his head for a moment. He wants to be in Viktor’s arms so badly. His pride and his anger war with the part of him that is still shrieking this man’s name in a dark room, waiting for him to wake up. “Do you know...what you’ve put me through?”

“Not exactly,” Viktor whispers. “Nobody I’ve ever lost has come back to life.”

Yuuri sighs and finally crosses the space between them and allows himself to be held. 

“I’m still angry with you,” Yuuri whispers, as Viktor rubs gentle circles into his back. “And you still have...so much explaining to do. But I’m--God, I’m so relieved.”

“Shh,” Viktor whispers, as Yuuri sobs into his shoulder. “Shh.”

Later, Yuuri stands up and shuffles into the bathroom, taking off his bloodied clothes as he goes. Viktor follows him, and Yuuri still isn’t sure he can stand to have him out of his sight, so he waits for him to strip too before getting in the shower. Viktor washes his back and his hair, and then they lay down in the bath tub together and let the water wash over them like rain.

“It’s nothing like yours,” Yuuri murmurs, a little bit of self-consciousness creeping in. Viktor’s bathroom is worth several hundred thousand dollars. Yuuri’s is worth less than the caulk slowly peeling up from the tiles.

“Shh,” Viktor whispers, and Yuuri shivers as his nose brushes behind his ear. “Yuuri...let me make you feel good.” Viktor slides down his body, takes him in his mouth, and Yuuri’s hand clenches in the shower curtain. The other one tangles in Viktor’s sopping hair.

“Oh...oh...” Yuuri’s back bows off the tub floor. 

Viktor Nikiforov gives pretty damn good head for a dead man.

“You said you loved me,” Yuuri whispers into Viktor’s mouth, when he crawls back up and thrusts their hips together, and Yuuri feels like crying all over again. “Did you mean that?”

“I’ve never lied to you,” Viktor says against his neck. “Not even when it might have been easier to.”

“You let me think you were dead,” Yuuri chokes, as Viktor’s cock slides next to his, hot and almost unbearable. 

“I died for you,” Viktor says. “Yuuri, the world thinks I’m dead. We can’t go back. Going back means someone’s life. Yuuri, I’m a dead man. All I have left is my body.”

“That’s all,” Yuuri whimpers. “That’s all I need. You, you’re all I--” He cries out in sharp, shrill bursts. He feels Viktor throb.

“My body and you, Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor whispers against his neck, settling against him as the water cools. “That’s all I have left.”

Yuuri presses a long, hard kiss to his forehead.

He doesn’t know what it means, that he’d kill someone for this man.