Chapter Text
Viktor Nikiforov, handsome, clever, and rich, with a more-than-comfortable home and a happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and he’d lived nearly twenty-eight years in the world with very little to distress or vex him.
No, it had not been a hard life for Viktor. His parents divorced when he was a toddler, meaning he couldn’t remember the details well enough to be scarred. His father promptly died a year later and left him a sizable fortune maintained by a team of accountants and brokers. The word billionaire was frequently thrown around in reference to Viktor, but he would neither confirm nor deny the excess of his inheritance. He’d reached the tier of wealth where it was in poor taste to talk about one’s finances, and everything he did was (of course) in impeccable taste.
His mother remarried and moved to Italy, leaving him to be raised by his father’s half-brother, who was also raising a granddaughter of his own. At the age of seven, Uncle Yakov took Viktor and Mila from the grandeur of the two-hundred-year-old family estate outside St. Petersburg to the grandeur of a gated luxury complex in Kensington, Bedfords Walk. Here they grew up, attending international schools and flawlessly negotiating their way into the inner circles of London’s elite.
Then Mila met the ballerina.
“But you’re happy for them, right?”
Yuuri Katsuki’s dark eyes bore down on him. Viktor rolled over, burying his face in the settee pillow. “No! I don’t know!”
“It’s not like you’ll never see her again, Viktor,” said Yuuri, twiddling his thumbs.
“Who let you in here, anyway?”
“You texted me to come over.”
“Oh.” Yuuri’s father—called Katsuki-san around Bedfords Walk—was a Japanese businessman who owned something like fifty luxury hotels worldwide. Yuuri had come to London as a teenager and attended the same international school as Viktor a few years behind him, but more importantly, Katsuki-san owned the other penthouse in Bedfords Walk. Yuuri’s apartment sat opposite Viktor’s, across the garden. They could wave at one another from their parlors.
Since they both lacked normal family units—Yuuri’s father was away constantly and the rest of his relatives lived in Japan—Yuuri had become a fixture in the Nikiforov-Feltsman-Babicheva household. After all, there weren’t so many people on par with Viktor in terms of wealth and influence, even in London, but Katsuki was one. He wasn’t exactly fashionable or charming, and he had gone soft around his midsection, yet he made an incredible drunk at parties and had a good heart and thus was pretty well-liked.
And now their families were intertwined. It was through the Katsukis that Mila had met her ballerina, Minako Okukawa.
Viktor flopped on to his back. Yuuri was still standing over him, and his frown smacked of disapproval. Viktor kicked in his direction, accidentally disturbing Makkachin, who’d curled up on the settee with him. “I want to whine about this a little. Don’t make that face at me,” Viktor said, without actually looking up at said face. He let the dog lick his nose instead.
“I thought you were proud that you’d set them up.”
“Genius comes at a price.”
“Uh-huh,” said Yuuri, finally sinking into an armchair. He pulled a magazine off the coffee table and began to flip through it, only half paying attention to Viktor’s plight. “Or maybe it’s time to stop claiming responsibility for their relationship.”
“Why should I do that when I’m the reason they’re together?”
Yuuri stared at him as if waiting for an admission of wrongness, but Viktor wouldn’t budge, because he had been the one to introduce Mila and Minako, knowing from beginning what would happen. Mila had been through a slew of boy- and girlfriends since her teenage years and had matured beyond her age. Minako was older by eight or nine years but maintained the energy of her early twenties. They were both classically trained dancers with good senses of humor. Perfect fit, Viktor had said to himself, the first time he saw them interacting across a room.
Of course, it never occurred to Viktor that if Mila and Minako fell in love, Mila might move to Japan to be with her new partner. Otherwise he would’ve never set the whole thing up.
“All you did was invite them both to a party,” said Yuuri. “Actually, you didn’t—I brought Minako as my plus-one.”
Clearly Yuuri did not understand the intricacies of party planning. “You want to share the credit?”
Yuuri bit his lip, like he sometimes did when he wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t want to offend. “No. No credit necessary.”
“So what’s your complaint!”
“I don’t have one.”
“Good.” Viktor sniffed, and quiet fell between them. Yuuri stared into his lap, making a sad sort of picture, so Viktor resolved not to look at him.
“Okay,” came Mila’s voice from the hall. She swept by the parlor, popping her head in to say, “Viktor, Yuuri, come see me off! Move a little faster.” Makkachin leapt off the settee and chased after her; perhaps the dog could read Viktor’s mind.
In the entrance hall she oversaw the doorman taking her luggage downstairs. When she turned to Viktor to say goodbye, she tutted.
“Oh, don’t look so severe. It makes you ugly. You can come see me in Japan, it’s not as if you have anything else to do. Yuuri will take you and be your guide. Won’t you, Yuuri?”
“Of course,” said Yuuri, bowing his head politely.
Viktor had trouble resisting the urge to stomp his feet and say, but I don’t want you to go, and I don’t want to visit you in Japan. I want you to stay here and be young and gay with me forever!
But he didn’t say that. It would have been in poor taste, and everything Viktor did was (of course) in impeccable taste.
Instead, he smiled broadly. “Travel safe. Eat well. Drink sake.”
“I will,” said Mila, craning her neck. “Where is my grandfather?”
“I’m here.”
Viktor winced at the sight of Yakov entering the hall in his chair. “I would’ve come to get you.” It was better for Yakov to be wheeled than to expend the strength on wheeling himself, according to his doctors, but he frequently and flagrantly disobeyed that rule. Most of the time that Viktor didn’t spend partying, working out, or lazying around in true hedonistic fashion, he spent caring for his elderly uncle and trying to prevent infractions against the medical advice they’d received.
“You’re too slow, Vitya.”
Viktor glared, and saw Yuuri hiding a smile, and glared harder.
“Goodbye, grandfather,” said Mila. She bent down to kiss each of his cheeks.
“Visit soon. Vitya may become depressed without you.”
“I won’t,” Viktor snorted, though he could hear that his scoffing wasn’t particularly believable. God, this process made him feel pathetic—he felt his friends and family watching him closer than they did Mila, though it was her who was leaving. Everyone expected him to take it hard and for that reason alone, he insisted on keeping his dignity. He was the most dignified bachelor in London. That would never change. He would never change.
Mila hugged Yuuri goodbye, then moved onto Viktor, kissing his cheek. “Dasvidaniya,” she said, warmth leaking into her voice. She wasn’t a particularly emotional person but in this moment of parting he saw a crack in that exterior. “I’ll message you from Tokyo.”
She bent down to stroke Makkachin a final time, then slipped out the door. With her went all the noise and life of the apartment, Viktor sensed—there would be something hollow about it now.
He felt a touch at his arm, and Yuuri smiled sympathetically at him. “Hey. I’ve got to go to work for a while.” Since finishing university, Yuuri had been working at the London offices of his father’s company. He didn’t go everyday, but often enough that he couldn’t be Viktor’s 24/7 playmate. It was… depressing. “I’ll be back and we can get dinner somewhere. Okay?”
“Okay.” Yuuri gave his arm another squeeze and left. Alone in the entryway, Viktor exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair. Makkachin pawed his leg. “Oh, I know. I haven’t forgotten you.”
“You’ve forgotten me, it seems,” Yakov grunted, and Viktor flinched, because he had forgotten his uncle for a moment. “I need a nap, Vitya. Help me.”
Viktor did, wheeling him down the hall to his room, lifting him into the bed, removing his shoes. “I want you to hire me a new nurse,” Yakov told him confidentially.
“Why are you whispering? The last one quit, there’s no one around to hear you.”
“So hire me a new one. I’m sick of you caring for me.”
“I don’t mind it,” Viktor said quietly. He didn’t think much of having to look after his uncle—Yakov had done the same for him as a child, so it only seemed fair.
“Of course you mind it. You brag about being the world’s richest bachelor. Naturally you resent looking after your old, sick uncle, so hire another nurse.” Yakov reached for the novel on his bedside table and fumbled it; Viktor recovered it for him smoothly. “I want a Russian nurse. I am sick of speaking English.”
“Okay, uncle.”
“When I’m awake I’d like dinner. Send the chef to me.”
“Yes, uncle.”
Viktor shut the door behind him, and leaned back against it briefly, collecting himself. With Yakov asleep, the only sound in the penthouse was Makkachin’s shallow breathing, and the gush of the sigh that escaped Viktor. When they’d bought this place years ago, it only seemed logical to get the biggest, nicest property they could afford: five bedrooms, a lap pool and gymnasium, a game room, high ceilings throughout, located in prime London real estate just a stone’s throw from Hyde Park. Since then they’d updated it with electronic controls for the lights, temperature, and electronics—Viktor liked to have the nicest things, the newest things, the best things. His closet was nearly as large as his bedroom, a fact that Yuuri would often lament, because Yuuri didn’t know how to spend money like Viktor did. Viktor had a gift for luxury.
And he liked to share that gift with his friends. The penthouse had seen many a fabulous party, with he and Mila as the charming hosts; fashion editorials were shot there—once they’d asked Viktor to model; interior design magazines photographed the apartment’s decor. Once he’d surprised Yuuri by inviting him to brunch and then having a personal stylist redo his entire wardrobe over mimosas. Yuuri never accepted a brunch invitation from him again, and the changes had only half-stuck, but it felt like charity.
Now Mila was gone, and Yakov was sick, and Viktor was alone in his perfect apartment.
He had always insisted—bachelor for life! Never settle down for more than a couple of nights! But to him, the lifestyle never meant that he would be alone. His days were full of laughter. He wanted for nothing.
“Come on, Makkachin.” The dog met him with rapt attention. That was something, at least. “Enough wallowing. Let’s go for a walk.”
Viktor got immeasurable pleasure from the way heads turned when he entered a party.
Mila had been gone for two days, and he came down with the sickest urge to experience this feeling, so he’d sent one inquiring text to the right person and bam, invitations rained down on him. He selected the bash thrown by the heir to a fleet of Southeast Asian airlines, Phichit Chulanont. Phichit and Yuuri were good friends, meaning Yuuri would likely be at this party and could break up some of the monotony for Viktor if things got dull. Yuuri didn’t frequently indulge in nightlife, but he would be there for Phichit any time of day. Just like he would for Viktor. (And so Viktor wasn’t jealous of Phichit, not even a little—he had no reason to be. None!)
Phichit had rented out a barge for the evening; the party would float down the Thames as the night went on, offering remarkable views of the city at night. Viktor planned to arrive an hour late, just before the boat left the dock, and make his entrance a grand one.
And so he did, smirking at the looks on the faces of Phichit’s guests lining the deck of the ship. He’d donned one of his handsomest suits—hand-tailored, Italian, the price tag unmentionable—and he was nothing short of gorgeous. But beyond his looks they knew who he was. If they hadn’t glimpsed him at another one of these parties, they knew his face from magazines and the financial section of the papers. He felt himself bloating with the attention, absorbing it like a sponge, losing some of his grace to his fullness. Which meant he needed a drink—he plucked a flute of champagne from the nearest waiter’s tray.
“Viktor!”
He fumbled the flute and champagne dribbled down his hand. Damn. And to make matters worse, he recognized that voice. Viktor didn’t even fake a smile for Jean-Jacques Leroy, who was charging toward him with open arms.
“Viktor Nikiforov graces us with his presence!” Leroy threw an unwelcome arm around Viktor’s shoulder, and Viktor shrugged out from under it.
“Yes. Well.”
“That is one hell of a suit. Where do I get one of those?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Beautiful night, right?” It was a beautiful night: the boat had begun to move along the Thames, and the lights of London’s most marvelous architecture glittered along the riverbanks. The temperature was comfortably cool for a summer evening, and the sound of a live band drifted up from the hull of the ship, mingling with the musical laughter and conversation on the deck. Phichit had always been good at organizing events, but this evening had a special glow to it.
But Viktor didn’t want to agree with Leroy, so he just shrugged.
Leroy clapped him on the arm, again disturbing his champagne. Leroy had Canadian oil money—Viktor had often wondered, both privately and aloud, what had brought him to London a few months prior from the boonies of Canada, where surely his fortune went further. But everyone knew the answer: he liked parties and people, even when neither welcomed him. “Hey,” said Leroy. “I heard there’s a flat opening up in Bedfords Walk. I was going to take a look—I’d be neighbors with you and Katsuki. How about that?”
“Yuuri,” Viktor said, suddenly. He began to call for Yuuri as loud as he could, drawing stares from other guests. “Yuuri! Katsuki! Where are you?”
Puzzled, Leroy hesitated and then joined in: “Yuuri Katsuki!”
The double wails worked—Viktor caught the flash of blue-framed glasses appearing at the end of the deck. Yuuri wore one of his better suits and tie combinations, one of the ones Viktor had selected for him, thank god. You could never tell if he was going to show up in an unfortunate ensemble—black suit and brown shoes, etc. “Is everything okay?”
“Yuuri,” said Viktor, grabbing his elbow. “J.J. is talking about getting an apartment in Bedfords Walk.” Viktor felt his eyes bulge when he said it—and Yuuri looked him straight in the eye, and giggled. “You’re awful,” Viktor whispered harshly.
Yuuri turned to Leroy with a genuine smile. “That’d be great.”
Leory lit up. “Then I’ll look into it! I’m sick of living in a hotel…” He glanced at Viktor and his smile went a little sly. Viktor didn’t want to parse what that meant, so he turned to Yuuri.
“Take me to Phichit. I have to congratulate him on the party.” Yuuri nodded and guided him away from Leroy, who was intercepted by the arrival of a petite brunette woman. He peeked over her head like he wanted to follow Yuuri and Viktor, but didn’t. Thankfully.
“You’re mean to him,” Yuuri murmured, as they wove through the clumps of guests toward the other end of the barge.
“Not outright.”
“Subtly mean is still mean, Viktor. He likes you.”
Viktor didn’t like the emphasis Yuuri put on that word, likes. “Whatever. If he moves into Bedfords, I’ll never be rid of him.”
Yuuri didn’t have an answer to that. He kept his eyes in front of him. “Phichit’s right over here. I think he said there was someone he wanted you to meet.”
“Don’t you mean someone who wanted to meet me?”
The corner of Yuuri’s mouth turned up, which satisfied Viktor deeply. Yuuri didn’t like to laugh at the expense of others, even when they deserved it, and getting him to play along with Viktor’s (gentle, private) teasing was a complex operation. Viktor considered himself successful if he earned a smile from Yuuri, and a chuckle was like winning the lottery. Unless, of course, Viktor was the butt of the joke, in which case Yuuri’s sense of humor shone bright and unimpeded by his conscience.
Phichit stood out in the sea of his guests—he wore white linen from head to ankle—his shoes were green velvet slippers. That was just like him, never too serious, and Viktor knew of not one person in London’s upper circle who held any ill-will against Phichit. Even his exes seemed to adore him, which was something about him that Viktor did envy—as opposed to his friendship with Yuuri. Viktor watched with a pained smile while the two men exchanged a hug.
“Viktor,” said Phichit, shaking his hand about three or four times more than necessary. “Thank you for coming! I didn’t know if you would—you’re so popular and busy, it means so much to me…” Viktor saw Yuuri trying not to laugh. Undoubtedly he was thinking about all the things that made Viktor “busy”: long baths, abrupt trips to the south of France, personal training appointments.
“I’m happy to be here,” Viktor told Phichit. “It’s a wonderful party. The boat was an excellent idea.”
Phichit seemed to grow two inches with the compliment. “Thank you! A friend of mine, his father owns the boat company—Otabek Altin? You must know him.”
“I do,” said Viktor, with an easy smile. Otabek had been in Viktor’s circle for years, since lower school, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man in person. Something about him having a real hand in his family’s business and traveling all the time—when he was in London, it was for a day at a time.
“I just saw him in Milan,” said Phichit, excited. “He took me as a guest to his other friend’s apartment for dinner… his name was, um—” Phichit strained to remember. “He’s Russian! I think Otabek said you knew him…”
“Yuri Plisetsky?”
Phichit snapped his fingers. “Yes!”
“My step-brother,” said Viktor smoothly. Phichit’s eyes widened.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine!” Yuuri interrupted, inserting himself between Viktor and Phichit. “Not very many people know that about Yuri and Viktor…”
“I haven’t seen him in years,” Viktor said, trying not to sound too chilly. It wasn’t Phichit’s fault in the slightest. “Last I heard he was modeling?”
“Uh, yes… he’d just had his photograph in Italian Vogue. They were beautiful pictures.” Phichit smiled nervously. “You must be proud.”
“Oh, something like that, yes.”
Yuuri gave Phichit a nudge. “Didn’t you want to introduce Viktor…?”
“Introduce? Oh—” Phichit spun around, looking for someone. Viktor looked forward to the change of pace, and tossed Yuuri a wink for thinking to get him out of that conversation. He didn’t like people to see the flaws in his gem-like life. “Chris! Chris, come here!”
Chris, Viktor mouthed at Yuuri—he hadn’t heard of a Chris, and he had heard of most people who were worth hearing of. Usually introductions came with baggage: before you shook someone’s hand, you knew who they had slept with, or which of their investments went rotten, or what substance had sent them to rehab. But his mind went blank at the sight of the part-blond, doe-eyed man Phichit was dragging toward them. And that begged the question—who the hell was this?
“Christophe Giacometti,” Phichit announced, presenting Chris as though he were the prize on some gameshow. Viktor threw Yuuri a puzzled look, hoping to get some kind of quiet explanation, but Yuuri only offered him an reassuring smile. Damn him.
“How do you do,” said Chris. He extended a hand to Viktor, and when they shook, Viktor learned a good few things about him. First of all, he was about as gay as they come. Second, he had no manners whatsoever—one could tell by a handshake—so he hadn’t grown up rich. Third, however, was that he did have some kind of fortune. The watch he wore ran for nothing less than twenty thousand pounds.
Mannerless new money. The Leroy-types were multiplying, apparently.
“You’re Swiss?” Viktor asked. International school in London made for a killer sense of accents.
“Yes! Good ear…” Chris’s eyelashes were a smidgen too long. It was weird.
Phichit poked his head between them. “Chris has just come to London from Paris—we went to school together there! Yuuri and I were trying to think of how he could get to know the city, and we figured, who better to guide him than Viktor.”
“Are you from London?” Chris asked happily. He didn’t wilt at all under Viktor’s gaze, though it was an obviously judgmental look. That gave him some points for confidence.
“St. Petersburg, originally. But I’ve lived here since I was a boy.”
“Viktor can show you a good time around London better than anybody,” Phichit said.
Chris quirked a brow. His eyes flickered up and down Viktor. Hm. “Well. I love a good time anywhere. Just point me toward the vodka.”
“Fantastic,” Viktor muttered. A plan had sprung to mind, and already his initial judgment of Chris was fading into distant memory. All he could see now was a project. “Yuuri.” He turned to his friend, who’d been quiet all this time. “Could you hunt down a waiter and order us vodkas?”
Yuuri stared blankly at him for a second before he answered, “I’ll get them myself.” An apology stalled in Viktor’s mouth, because he didn’t understand what exactly it was he wanted to apologize for, and by then Yuuri was long gone.
Viktor shrugged it off, and looped his arm through Chris’s. “Come with me. We have so much to talk about.”
“You can’t make a project of a person, Viktor.”
“Why not?”
“Because… he’s a person, not a project?”
Viktor gave Yuuri a sour look over the kitchen island. They were sharing a lunch prepared by Viktor’s chef—lemon-pepper salmon. Calorie-counting food. Viktor predicted he would find himself ordering Chinese donuts at one o’clock, driven to self-destruction after too much self-deprivation. “So he’s a person-project. It’s not a problem. I’m attempting to help him.”
Yuuri shook his head. “Why do you think he needs help?”
“Because he has money and no idea what to do with it, and he’s in a new city with very few friends, and—and—” Yuuri regarded him quizzically. “And he admires me greatly,” Viktor finished, sticking his nose in the air.
“I don’t know if ‘admires’ is the right word,” Yuuri said under his breath, but Viktor caught it. He knew the reactions he tended to elicit from both men and women. It was some combination of looks, money, and what he liked to think of as swagger—the je-ne-sais-quoi that catapulted him from rich bachelor to society royalty. Over the years, he’d had countless suitors, and even more secret admirers. Someone had sent him a thousand red roses on Valentine’s Day for the past three years. Kind of creepy, but he knew it was only his mythos. He drew people in.
Rarely had he ever indulged in the offers; if one made oneself too available, one’s desirability would vanish. The privilege of being with Viktor Nikiforov, even for a night, went to few. In fact, in the past year or two, it had gone to no one at all. Christophe Giacometti was no exception to the rule.
“Well, he isn’t getting that, and I want to give him something,” said Viktor, swirling his wine in his glass.
“I just don’t see what’s so bad about him that he needs to be a… project.” Viktor gave Yuuri a stern look across the counter. “What!”
“It’s just all so obvious? His wardrobe, and his flirting, and his manners. You’d be mad not to see it.”
“He seemed perfectly polite to me…”
“You don’t understand because you’re a project too. A project I’ve been banned from working on.”
Yuuri’s mouth hung open for a second as he tried to work through this statement. Then he said, “So this is about me not wanting you to burn half my clothes?”
“Yes—no.” Viktor let out the most exasperated of sighs, throwing his head back. “I’m bored! I did such a good job on Mila’s life that she’s run off with the woman I found for her.”
“You didn’t find—”
“I did, and I’m going to set up Chris too! I’ve already invited him over today. He’s going to be here soon.”
Yuuri put down his fork and sat back, his face going all stony and serious in a way that made Viktor’s heart sink. “Why does a project have to involve setting someone up? Why do you think…” Viktor stared him down, hoping for some eye contact, but Yuuri’s attention was glued to his half-eaten salmon. “If pairing all these people together is supposed to make them happy, then why are you still alone?”
Predictably, Yuuri’s question iced over the conversation. Viktor half expected his mind to race with answers, as it usually did when he was asked a question that called up such a complex web of thoughts and feelings—but instead it went blank. “I…” He pushed his plate away. His appetite had vanished. “I’m not alone, not really.”
“But, you’re not…”
“I have you.” Yuuri winced. What a strange reaction. Viktor added, “And my uncle. And Makkachin.” The dog lifted his head from the kitchen floor at the sound of his name. “And besides, I’m not Mila, or Chris… everyone has different needs.” He threw Yuuri one of his better grins. Hopefully it could convince him. “I’m very happy. Don’t worry.”
Yuuri looked him in the eye, finally, and… sighed. Viktor’s pulse quickened, afraid for a moment he’d start an argument and Viktor would have to defend that last statement. But Yuuri knew to pick his battles with Viktor. He only asked, “How do you know Chris’s needs if you just met him?”
“Intuition, of course. I’ll figure him out as I go.”
“Uh-huh.” Yuuri climbed down from his stool, collecting his and Viktor’s plates.
“The maid will—”
“I’ve got it.”
Viktor watched him carry the dishes to the sink. He turned on the faucet and started rolling up his sleeves, getting ready to wash the plates by hand. Viktor found himself grinning at the picture he made there, standing over the sink, making kissy faces at the dog—like he lived here, and had for a long time, and there was no better place for him to be.
“So who’s Chris’s mystery man?” Yuuri asked, conversational, like a peace offering.
“Oh, I don’t know… someone desperate, who needs to get laid.”
“So J.J.,” said Yuuri, laughing—he’d made a joke, and that was brilliant, but even more brilliant was that he was absolutely right.
Viktor slapped the counter. “Yuuri, you’re a genius.” Yuuri squinted at him, up to his elbows in suds, and squeaked when Viktor swept over to hug him from behind. “Chris and J.J.—think of all they have in common! Like—like they both want to sleep with me.”
“Wanting to sleep with you is not something for two people to have in common—”
“Nonsense, of course it is. They can take turns pretending to be me in bed.” Viktor let go of him, and bounced around the kitchen, fumbling his way through a text message. “And if J.J. gets a boyfriend, he’ll leave me alone. It’s just brilliant.”
“You’re pawning Chris off on J.J.? That’s your plan?”
“Oh, you make it sound so much worse than it is—”
“VITYA.” They both started at the sound from the wall intercom. “VITYA, COME TO MY ROOM.”
Viktor hit the button to respond to his uncle’s apparently insane yelling. “As I’ve explained, you can speak normally into the speaker, Uncle. I’ll be right there.”
Viktor left Yuuri in the kitchen and went to check on Yakov, who was sitting up in bed, mercilessly smashing the keys of his ancient cellphone. “Vitya.”
“What is it?”
“My student is coming to visit us soon.” He indicated the phone. “He called me. Otabek Altin.”
“Otabek Altin is your student? When did you ever—”
“Insolent Vitya!”
“All right, fine. I’ll have the maid prepare a room. When is he arriving?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know how long he’ll be staying?”
“No.”
Viktor bit back a scream. “Fantastic. An indefinite visit from an old friend. Just what I need right now.”
Yakov dismissed him harshly, and Viktor returned to the kitchen, where Yuuri had finished up the dishes and moved on to wiping down the counters. He did this on occasion to combat his nerves, and had long ignored Viktor’s reminders that they had staff who were paid to keep the flat spotless. Yuuri saw himself as making their jobs a little easier while making himself feel a little better, and Viktor couldn’t argue with that logic. But he could wonder what it was that had Yuuri cleaning on this particular day.
“Well, my uncle apparently knows Otabek Altin, and he’s coming to visit us at some point. Indefinitely, it seems.”
“Oh, that sounds… fun?”
“Does it? Do you remember anything about Otabek Altin?”
Yuuri scratched his head. “Um… he was a little…”
“Severe?”
“… yeah.”
“Well,” Viktor said, with a shrug. “I can fix that. No one is beyond the help of my master match-making skills, Yuuri.”
Yuuri scratched a spot off the counter. “I can think of one person.” The doorbell rang with Chris’s arrival, denying Yuuri the chance to elaborate; Viktor scuttled off to answer it, breathing a sigh of relief.