Chapter Text
Standing at gunpoint in his own bathroom, of all places, with hands still under the lukewarm stream of tap water, Yuuri imagined there were worse ways to start the day. In fact, as his gaze met with cold, hard eyes of the man pressing the steel to the back of his head, Yuuri tried to make a bad situation worse because what was life without a little fun?
"I just started a pot of tea," he said conversationally, washing the soap off his hands. "Want to join me for a cuppa?"
He didn't need to look into the mirror to know the guy behind him was sneering. The mouth of the gun pressed more firmly into the dip between his skull and spine, and Yuuri sighed. No tea, then.
With practiced ease, he shifted his centre of balance to his toes and, pretending to shake off his wet hands, Yuuri moved. Methodically, careful care in each shift of muscle, but fast enough to be unpredictable.
Duck, step to the side, twirl.
Almost like dancing.
His arm snapped up to block the first shot, like he was trying to catch his invisible partner in a lift. The bullet shattered the tiles behind his shoulder with a quiet zit from the silencer attached to the gun. Broken pieces of the ceramic crashed down onto the floor, making far more noise than the actual shot, but Yuuri paid it no mind. It was part of the aria they were dancing to: only white noise that put the rhythm into their bodies, fast, but tender, like a passionate lover.
Yuuri grinned to himself, clenching his fist tight. A quick punch to the face made the hitman loosen his grip – amateur, Yuuri thought – and before he could recover, Yuuri's hand was already there, guiding the tip of the barrel right into the guy's gut.
The gun fired twice more, and that was that. A perfect ending of another act. Curtain down. Applause!
The body slipped to the floor when Yuuri released his grip. A large pool of blood already began to form underneath and, barefoot, Yuuri stepped over it to avoid the mess. He padded over to his bag and brought out a spare cleaning cloth to wipe the fingerprints off the gun, which he then threw back into the bathroom.
Once he returned back to the bedroom, Yuuri hid the cloth in a side pocket of his bag and dressed properly. He checked his flight info again and smirked to himself as he hefted up his bag onto his shoulder.
It was time. Finally.
"Can you do it?" Celestino asked.
His eyes never left Yuuri's face as if he was trying to gauge his reaction through the blank mask Yuuri had put on. He should've known better.
"It'll be hard," Yuuri gave easily.
It was a non-response: every mission was hard. They both knew it. Celestino measured him with a look and said nothing, though. Yuuri's gaze returned to the folders in his lap.
He brought a finger against his lips. Absently, he traced the plush of his cupid's bow, eyes never leaving the picture he'd found inside the first folder Celestino had handed to him over the big mahogany desk only five minutes ago. Cold, blue gaze was the first thing Yuuri was drawn to when he glanced under the cover, but that quickly got forgotten as Yuuri took in the entire face of his next target: he was a thing of beauty.
Frankly, Yuuri could honestly say he had never seen a person more attractive than–
"Victor Nikiforov," he said, tasting the way it rolled off his tongue.
Sharp, dangerous... lovely. Yuuri dug his nail into his bottom lip. Ah, this was exciting.
He scanned the information on the front page once again. The blood that calmly flowed through his veins until now was buzzing. Pound after pound, his heart answered the call that read "49 solo kills". Below was the standard recon info – age, height, weight, blood type – that Yuuri only skipped past in order to get to the good stuff: the code name that made Yuuri's head spin with delirious exhilaration.
A master of his art, a true connoisseur of genius, a virtuoso of the craft that they both shared. A legend, inspiration, the one and only... Grand Prix.
"How much time do I have?" he asked, looking up at Celestino.
He knew his excitement was barely concealed, but it didn't worry him in the least. Everyone already knew that Yuuri was a bit of a fan of Grand Prix' body of work.
"How much do you need?" Celestino lifted an eyebrow at him. "We could give you Minami to help with–"
Yuuri made a small noise of annoyance. This was his. Grand Prix was his. He didn't need help. Not for this, not for anything.
"I don't want Minami. I don't want anyone." He waved a hand. "If something goes wrong, you shouldn't lose more than one of us. It'll be trouble to recruit again, right?"
Celestino's gaze was disapproving. "You've been talking to Phichit, haven't you?"
"More like he's been talking to me," Yuuri shrugged. "Can you blame him? He's always cooped up in that lab of his. He's bored. He needs friends."
Celestino's face clearly said "So do you," and Yuuri purposefully chose not to comment on it. He glanced down at the file again. It was thick. Going through it would take some time, prepping for the mission would take even more, and completing it... well, that would take the longest, proven that he actually can bring it to closure. No matter how excited he was, he couldn't skip past this.
How did that song go? Wise men say, only fools rush in... or something.
Yuuri hummed.
"I'll need at least two months for prep," he finally said.
He closed the file, hiding Grand Prix' pretty face from view. The second folder remained unopened underneath, but Yuuri knew enough about Grand Prix to know what the label meant. The mission wasn't as simple as a quick elimination of the competition. There was more to it and before Yuuri set out to make his move, he needed to make sure he knew how to make the most of it.
"After that, probably a year to crack him open. Maybe more," he added.
It was a safe timeline. Possibly too safe, but somehow Yuuri had no doubt that Grand Prix will take up all his willingly given time anyway.
"What are you thinking?" Celestino asked. He must have seen through a small crack the giddiness made in Yuuri's mask.
Yuuri's lips stretched in a smile, cold and greedy.
"We'll give Mr. Grand Prix a taste of his own medicine."
"Another?"
Yakov's face was hardly amused. It generally was never any kind of happy, but now it was so much easier to see the deep wrinkles on his forehead, which suggested that his mood was below the average bad. He spoke on the phone a moment more, giving the person on the other end the directions to the safehouse in China, before he hung up and sat down hard in his leather chair.
The file Victor had been looking through was roughly plucked from his fingers.
"Change of plans," Yakov said. "You're going after Eros."
What?
"Wasn't Anatoli on that?" Victor asked, surprised. Did he need backup or...?
"Anatoli is dead," Yakov announced with little to no indication that it bothered him at all. Except Victor knew him too well and he could see the angry twitch of Yakov's eye. "His body was found in a bathroom of a small apartment building in Guangzhou. The entire room was swiped clean, no traces of anything left."
Victor chewed on his lower lip. It was the fourth guy that went after the elusive Eros, and the fourth corpse they had to retrieve. Somehow, be it by sheer skill or by superior intel gathering, crème de la crème of Russian hitmen were being offed by a single man. Victor could see how the situation would've served to anger Yakov enough to give him the mission.
"Okay," he said, smiling a little. "I could use some vacation."
"Don't get distracted, Vitya," Yakov chided, his face serious. "I don't want to find your corpse next."
Victor pressed a hand to his heart in shock, a hurt expression on his face, "Yakov, you wound me. The only corpse you'll be finding will be marked with letter E."
"It better," Yakov threatened, but it was a weak threat and they both knew it.
Anatoli's place was a mess.
Stacks upon stacks of unbound newspapers in the hallway, unwashed dishes in the sink (which smelled like old, dirty socks) and the mold covering all the walls of the fridge in a thick forest; it made Victor gag, but he politely didn't comment except for his wrinkled in disgust nose.
Victor looked through the tables and drawers, searching for any clues that might lead him to what exactly Eros would've been in China for. Or his identity. Or his previous IDs. Anything about Eros, actually.
There was nothing.
So with little else to do, Victor booked a flight to the other side of the world in hopes Anatoli's lair in China would bring more fruit. And it did. Oh, it did.
Twenty-four hours later Victor had found himself sitting on Anatoli's unmade bed with a folder in his hands.
Yuuri Katsuki.
Brown eyes looked at him from behind heavy glasses. The man had a small, kindly shaped face, framed with black, slightly messy hair. There was a smile playing on his lips as if he was trying to smile for whoever was taking the picture, but he wasn't feeling entirely comfortable with the attention.
Yuuri.
Born at the end of November, in Japan. 23. Mother, father, older sister. Finished high school and then went to college in Detroit on a scholarship. Economics major. Not many friends, but the ones he has are devoted. Generally, a good kid with good grades, who everyone loves because he doesn't act up.
Now, wasn't that just the perfect cover? Victor grinned to himself.
"Who would've thought that Eros was someone like you," he murmured to himself, caressing the picture with a finger.
It was time to work.
"When are you coming back?"
Phichit was tinkering with Yuuri's watch under the microscope's magnifying glass, checking on the tiny needles with sedatives that were implanted there in case of an emergency. Yuuri had never used them before, but it was better to have all of his equipment battle approved than bother with figuring it out on the go. Well, that, and Phichit was a thousand times better at this than Yuuri. It wouldn't hurt to have him do it instead of wasting hours on it himself.
"I honestly have no idea," Yuuri said, slumped behind Phichit's absent colleague's desk. He played with the abandoned Rubik's cube while waiting. "This could take a while. If I succeed... it could be the most important assignment in my entire career."
Phichit's back straightened and he looked over at Yuuri.
"And you still won't tell me who it is?" he asked, pouting.
Yuuri smiled and shrugged. "Nope."
"Fine, fine, keep your secrets," Phichit grumbled.
He tinkered with the watch for a little longer before he finally gave a huff that in Phichitongue meant "Good enough." He threw it at Yuuri and Yuuri caught it with ease. He put it around his wrist.
"So what else do you want?" Phichit asked. "We have this new freezing spray that freezes the particles on the molecular level so it only–"
"None of that, please," Yuuri laughs. "Keep the spray for another time. I just want the usual for now. It's a recon mission before the real deal starts."
Phichit hums. "Will you want the spray then?"
Yuuri can't help his grin. "Who knows, maybe? If things go well. Do you have an anti-freeze for that spray, too?"
"Better," Phichit shared his grin, looking at Yuuri over his shoulder while he was going through rows on rows of tech to pick Yuuri's stellar choices. "We have a portable flamethrower in dev. I'll push to have it ready for you when you come back."
"Sure."
It wasn't the thoughts of what he could he even do with a flamethrower that made Yuuri giggle in his hand like a teen. It was the fact that he already had a dozen different ideas. And he could hardly wait.
"I'll take it," he agreed.
Tracking Eros - Yuuri - down was fairly easy.
He was in Boston, renting out a small flat above a flower shop. Victor set up in a flat in the building right across the street, turning it into his lair in minutes. He could've just gone in for the kill, but... where was the fun in that? The four corpses of his former comrades had clear opinions on where the fun was, but Victor pretended that his consciousness had no voice on the matter.
He'd meticulously prepared for a long stakeout to figure out every nook and cranny of Yuuri's style, so he could come up with the best and most effective way to approach the mission. He really didn't need Yakov's tears on his grave, no thank you.
And so, the most boring part of the job began. Victor could feel himself growing roots into his observation chair and slowly becoming one with the room's furniture – he was so done.
Day 1: Victor spotted Yuuri talking to the lady working in the flower shop.
Day 2: Yuuri bought a single flower, a yellow rose. Victor checked the meaning of the flower, out of simple boredom, nothing else – joy, friendship, the promise of a new beginning. Could this be it?
Day 3: Yuuri bought another rose, and now Victor was convinced: this was it.
Day 4: Another yellow rose had Victor shift on the edge of his seat. Come on, he thought, pressing his binoculars more firmly into his face as if it could make him see better. Come on.
Day 5: Victor was bored. So bored. Yuuri bought another yellow rose and nothing else happened.
On day 6, however, a man in a suit that looked far too expensive to be from around these parts came by the shop and left with a bud of a single yellow rose tucked into the lapel of his suit. Victor's fingers tingled with excitement, because finally, finally, the contact has been made.
It was only natural that on day 7 Victor expected something big. He didn't know what, but something, anything, that would pull off Yuuri's innocent mask. Victor couldn't wait to meet Eros and the sheer prospect of being able to see the transformation made him giddy.
Bringing his usual morning coffee and a sour cream bagel up the stairs to his place, Victor felt his blood hum in a sweet tune of anticipation. He was ready, so ready. He didn't enjoy killing per se, but meeting the killers, oh, that was always fascinating. Watching them crumble even more so.
He wondered in what ways someone like Eros would fall apart.
Would he cry? Would he beg for his life?
Or maybe, maybe he'd laugh in the face of death, daring Victor to pull the trigger?
Victor finished his bagel and took his spot on the chair by the window, hidden from view by the thick curtain. It was a great observing nook, since he had an eye on Yuuri's windows, the door of the building and the street below, and the door to his own room in case his position was compromised.
Satisfied, he took a sip of his coffee. Warmth spilled over his chest and he sighed happily, taking another long sip. He hummed and sitting back in his chair. Nothing out of the ordinary was going on, so he allowed himself the little pleasure of enjoying the coffee. Before he was halfway through the cup though, he felt it: the slight drowsiness that curled around his limbs like restraints. He frowned, but only after he lifted the cup back to his lips did he realize the full extent of what was happening.
Incredulously, he looked at the paper cup.
It couldn't be. He watched the guy at the shop make it. He watched him the whole time.
But it was too late for this now – the drug inside the coffee was working full time and the drowsiness was harder and harder to fight. His last thought before falling asleep was quite odd and Victor couldn't help the ridiculous smile that tugged the corners of his mouth up.
Ah. You got me, Eros...
God, but he was pretty.
Yuuri turned Grand Prix' face up.
His eyelashes were long and pale, almost silver in the overhead lights. His big forehead was actually quite adorable and his slightly upturned nose was cute, too. And his lips... Yuuri couldn't help but rub his thumb on the soft, preciously pink lower lip that gave under his touch with no resistance. It reddened fast, a stunning contrast against Grand Prix' pale skin. For a brief moment Yuuri wondered how the best hitman in the world would look like debauched and begging on the verge of orgasm, and the possessiveness that awoke within him at the thought surprised even him.
"You're too much," Yuuri told the unconscious man, letting go of his chin.
He turned away from the tempting sight before him and glanced at the time. There was still another ten to fifteen minutes before Grand Prix would wake up, so to pass the boredom, Yuuri pulled out gloves from the back pocket of his pants and began going through the drawers.
There wasn't much of importance here, really, but it changed when he got to the laptop. It was still on, a rookie mistake that only made Yuuri grin – he truly must have surprised Grand Prix if he'd let his guard down this much. Or–
Yuuri looked back at the slumped head of silver hair. Would the greatest hitman in the world just leave everything out in the open, even if he didn't expect an attack?
Blood rushed faster through Yuuri's body, heady and addictive, and he chuckled.
It was a trap.
Victor woke up in a chair: a wooden one, of course. His wrists were locked behind his back. A rope was tied to the handcuffs and then wound around Victor's shoulders. His ankles were cuffed to the legs of his chair as well and the metal bit into his skin even despite his socks. The worst, however, was the mouth gag made of Victor's own pillowcase.
Diligent, Victor thought.
Before he had the time to look around the room, there were footsteps behind him. Eros – Eros, not Yuuri – Eros, came around the chair to sit casually on the edge of the bed. He was... Victor couldn't have found words even if his tongue wasn't being pressed down by the wet linen.
The days he'd spent observing Yuuri and what he'd found in Anatoli's files now all made sense.
Eros wasn't Yuuri.
Yuuri wasn't Eros.
The man sitting before Victor was strong, confident, and fully aware of the way people worked. His hair was gelled back, not even a strand out of place. The glasses were gone. His face was far sharper than the soft one Victor remembered from Anatoli's picture, than the one he'd watched for almost a week. And his eyes, oh, that was probably the biggest change. The same eyes that were previously so shy and withdrawn were now burning into Victor as if they could see straight into his soul, and hell, they probably could.
Victor wanted to ask if Eros was going to kill him. He wouldn't mind dying like this. Maybe not exactly like this, tied to a chair and all, but by Eros' hand? Hmm...
"I was wondering, you know," Eros said without a preamble, and immediately Victor's attention was on him again. His voice was quiet, low. A sound that run over your skin like a caress. "Isn't your boss tired of losing his pawns? I swear I thought he'd get it by now, but... here you are." He flicked one gloved hand in Victor's direction. "I don't know if I should be honoured or not. The infamous Grand Prix."
He looked at Victor with sharp eyes, which then widened a bit in fake consternation.
"Ah, where are my manners. I forgot the gag."
He stood up and walked over. A hand reached out towards Victor's face and Victor expected a sharp tug at the piece of rag that held the gag inside his mouth. Instead, Eros' fingers were gentle as they untied the knot behind his head, plucking out the disgusting fabric from between his lips. To Victor's shock and growing confusion, Eros then slowly rubbed Victor's sore jaw with his thumb – a gesture so caring and soft that Victor felt like he still was gagged even though his mouth was empty now.
Frowning, because what was he playing at, Victor looked up into brown eyes.
"Don't bite off your tongue," Eros told him, fingers cradling Victor's jaw. The touch was electric with danger, but tender, and all Victor could do was swallow through his own confusion. "I can always kill you if you're desperate to die."
"Wasn't really on my schedule for today," Victor managed to say, even if his tongue felt wobbly in his mouth. "But if someone as pretty as you insists, how can I say no?"
Eros looked at him for a moment, and then a corner of his mouth quirked. He returned to the bed, sitting down again and regarding Victor with far more interest than before.
And it was more than mutual.
"So," Eros started. "Tell me, why are the Russians after me? I don't think I ever did anything to your boss to warrant this kind of treatment. And here I am, catching another one of you Russians following me wherever I go with guns and threats on my life. Aren't you tired of getting killed?"
"Ah, us, Russians," Victor smiled a little coldly. "We're prideful creatures. You must have stepped on far too many toes while dancing, I'm afraid. Someone wants you dead. Badly."
He would've shrugged if he could, but the binds around his wrists and shoulders held on strong. Damn it.
"We're only hired to do the dirty work. Isn't that the same for you, sweet Eros?"
Eros said nothing, clearly thinking of something or someone he might have made an enemy out of. There was a slight frown around his mouth that was honestly far too adorable, and Victor had to do something to distract himself.
"So," Victor mimicked Eros' previous conversation starter. He shifted in his binds casually, as much as they allowed. Which wasn't much at all. "What is a gorgeous man like you doing all alone in a town like this? You know who I am. Does that mean you're a fan?"
"You could say that. I believe we're both here for the same reason – business," Eros told him absently, before he focused his gaze back on Victor. "Why did Yakov Feltsman sent you to kill me? Who wants me dead? And why you? Feltsman's bound to have more of those disposable underlings to take care of little old me."
"I'd love to spill all my secrets on your pretty head, Eros, but I'm afraid my lips are sealed," Victor said, smiling apologetically as if it was all out of his hands. Then, he smirked. "Unless you want to unseal them? Perhaps with your own?"
The smirk that appeared on Eros' face in response was a pleasant surprise.
"You wouldn't survive my kiss, dearie."
Victor's heart skipped a beat, jumping straight into a wild pace of excitement. He was playing with fire, he knew. He was tied up and handcuffed, but he was already working on loosening the ropes. The handcuffs would be an easy feat if he got rid of that first. A dislocated thumb was something he could live with for a few seconds. And if he got a deathly kiss from the beauty before him? Count him a winner.
"I'll take my chances," he grinned.
Eros' eyes brightened for a moment with true amusement. "Tell me what I need to know and I'll consider it. Maybe I could even be convinced to offer you a small reward for all your troubles."
Eros run a finger down the line of Victor's throat, light, teasing, tempting. The shiver of arousal was hard to suppress when Eros grabbed Victor's throat in hand a second later, leaned down over him and, squeezing just a fair amount to make Victor's breathing come faster, more desperate, he whispered in a voice dark with promise:
"I know how to make it worth your while. Trust me."
Truly, Victor could see why he was worthy of his code name.
"Ah..."
Victor licked his lips under the hot gaze of Eros' gorgeous brown eyes. He was getting an itch under his skin, Eros' gaze was so intense. If he wasn't tied he would very much want to take this conversation further, but as it was, he could only offer a little smirk.
"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, love," he gave.
"Shame," Eros said.
The hand on Victor's throat disappeared, just as the heat did from Eros' eyes. His entire demeanour changed almost as if before it was only a mirage. With a roll of a shoulder, Eros shifted into something far colder than the playful teasing they'd done until now. He produced a syringe, a needle and a small vial from a pocket of his jacket. Without glancing back at Victor or wasting any time, he bared the needle, dosed in the sickly orange substance and pushed out the excess air. Only then did he turn back.
"I had hopes for you," he said in a voice that breathed disappointment.
Victor struggled to keep his mask. His pulse jumped at both the tone and the needle coming close to his tied back arm. All previous thoughts of winning were gone from his head. Still tied, defenceless, he was no winner. Getting drugged again now would complicate things for him. Quite a lot, actually.
He tensed up unconsciously.
"What is that?" he tried to gain as much intel as he could. If anything, it might prove helpful in finding an antidote. At this point anything would do, Victor thought. "A love potion? Darling, you didn't have to. I'm plenty charmed already."
"If you say so," Eros murmured at the same time as the needle pierced the skin on the inside of Victor's elbow.
The uncomfortable feeling of liquid entering his bloodstream was over in a second and a small trail of blood run down his forearm. The drug worked fast and barely a few blinks later Victor could feel his vision swim. He was losing consciousness fast, and damn, this day was a crappy one from start to finish, but just as he was slipping away Victor felt a soft brush of fingers in his hair – a soothing touch, accompanied by something that felt far too similar to a kiss to his temple... but that just couldn't be, could it?
He was out before he could decide.
It wasn't a trap.
Yuuri was honestly quite disappointed.
Sure, Grand Prix was charming. He was a flirt. Yuuri wouldn't mind dancing around with him some more and, frankly, touching him had been what Yuuri always imagined: thrilling, addictive, delightful. Yuuri wanted to touch him more. To squeeze his throat so hard, Grand Prix' breath would wheeze past his sweet lips. To pinch his skin, scratch it, bruise it, until it was all marked and pink from abuse. To tighten up the ropes that were holding him back, just so Yuuri could put his mouth all over the dents in his flesh that were undoubtedly already there...
He wanted.
There were moments when he was almost certain that Grand Prix would give in to him, too. It was in his eyes, in his smirk. He was playful, yes, but he was also needy and it was easy to see even beneath the mask of the charming flirt Grand Prix put up.
And that, that was disappointing.
Yuuri wanted more, needed more. More of a challenge, more of a game – an adversary that could outwit him and make him ache every step of the way as they chased each other into their graves. Sadly, that wasn't what he found in Grand Prix.
But... the potential was there. The potential for the bad, and the good, and it made Yuuri reconsider his plans for the assignment.
Yuuri took a deep breath, taking in the smell of Grand Prix' shampoo. He nuzzled his cheek against the side of the unconscious man's head. The hair was silky and soft, and Yuuri closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the peaceful sensation.
"I'll shape you into something beautiful," he whispered into Grand Prix' ear. "Just you wait, dearie."
Hours later, Victor woke up with a headache the size of St. Petersburg and an itch in his arm that he couldn't scratch because of the binds still keeping him chained to the uncomfortable, wooden chair. Eros was nowhere in sight so, sluggishly, Victor got himself out of the rope, out of the handcuffs, out of that blasted chair. He slumped on his bed, exhausted.
He was alive, which was good.
He knew for a fact who Eros was, which was also good.
But now Eros knew who he was as well. And that... that was not good.
He plucked his phone out of his pocket and dialled Yakov, dreading each and every one of the long beeps as he waited for the boss to pick up. When he did, his gruff voice somehow didn't help to settle Victor's nerves as much as Victor hoped.
"What is it?"
For a beat of silence Victor debated the option of just hanging up, but that would leave him alone and with no resources. And more than anything, he now wanted to find Eros again. So he swallowed his pride and said:
"I may or may not have been compromised."
Yakov's silence didn't bode well.
"Yes," Yuuri said.
He was pressing the phone to his ear while his eyes kept shifting between the monitors. Four different ones, sixteen different cameras, all different angles. In the upper left, Victor Nikiforov was looking through his scattered documents and laptop files in utter frustration only to notice that all the carefully gathered information about Eros was wiped clean.
"No, he doesn't suspect a thing," he said to his handler, slightly amused that Celestino could've thought otherwise. "Don't worry, it'll be done."
He dropped the call, leaning back in his chair. The folder file that lied on his desk and now served as a pad for his mug of tea had a name written in neat Cyrillic on the front lapel and Yuuri read it with a careless glance as he smiled to himself: Виктор Никифоров, aka Grand Prix.
He took the mug and leaned back in his chair with a little sigh, reaching for another folder – this one open and titled Яков Фельцман. Because his work was just getting started.