Chapter Text
ARC ONE
*
May 2017
It’s raining again, quiet drops that dampen the London streets and chill the air. On the roof, the tiles grow wet, puddles forming with idle persistence.
Yuuri absently cracks his knuckles, shifts his fingers to keep them from going stiff, and replaces his forefinger on the trigger. A brief check at his wristwatch. 8.14pm.
He fits himself back to the scope, begins to regulate his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
He listens for his heartbeat, follows the ba-dump, ba-dump, and settles into the sensation.
Two buildings over, his target walks into view.
The wind blows hard, and the rain pelts down.
A creature awakens in the depths of his chest, a whisper across his skin that slides to his trigger finger. Here, before the scales of life and death, man in the crosshairs of his rifle, Yuuri’s gift hovers.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
He lines up the shot.
This man will die, he thinks, and he believes it.
Time shivers, and Yuuri places his finger on the scales. Tips it.
Fires.
A bullet shoots straight, an unforgiving, unnatural line.
Two buildings over, a man falls over, clutching his leg.
Yuuri swears, low and ugly, and lines up a second shot.
This man will die, he thinks again, and pushes himself harder into the belief.
Fires.
The man stops moving.
The CheyTac Intervention is disassembled in efficient, quick movements. Barrel, stock, silencer, parts all tucked into a gym bag. Yuuri shucks his black clothing, pulling on a Mizuno track hoodie, donning a pair of glasses and a face mask.
Three minutes and forty-seven seconds after he kills a man, Yuuri disappears into the throng of the London masses, all outward appearance the consummate international student on his way back from the gym.
It’s done, he types into his phone, a battered black-and-white Nokia.
Good, comes the near-instantaneous reply. But two shots?
Yuuri grimaces. Won’t happen again, he sends back.
See that it doesn’t.
He stares down at the message, then snaps the phone in half and tosses it in a bin.
Tugging his collar up, he joins the crowd descending into Piccadilly Circus station.
_____
September 2014
They’re on holiday, a carved-out fortnight on an airy beach house in Mauritius, courtesy of one of Victor’s friends.
Yuuri didn’t ask. Victor has many friends, not that he’s met any of them.
The night is still, the sort of hushed quiet that’s peppered with the stringing of cicadas and the crashing of waves to shore. The silence of civilisation, if you will.
Yuuri blinks groggily awake, gradually aware of the cool sheets beside him. Victor’s nowhere to be found, and the robe he’d left on the chair by the bed is gone with its owner.
In the gentle calm of the twilight hours, Yuuri can make out the murmur of music coming from the direction of the lounge, and he slips from their bed, stretching languidly.
As he rounds the bed to the door, he slips the coin lying on the bureau into his hand, thumb brushing familiarly, assuredly, over the stamped dog on the coin’s surface. He tucks the coin into the pocket of his pyjama pants, before nudging the door open, padding towards the lounge.
He yawns into the back of his hand, mind still bleary from sleep. The hum of music shifts then, a static hissing sharp and frantic, then switching to the flat, pre-recorded tone of a female voice. Startled, body slow to catch up to his brain, he rounds the corner to the lounge as the radio cuts to the high voice of children reciting snippets of some sort of nursery rhyme, then fades to muted static.
Victor’s sitting at the dining table, shortwave AM radio set in front of him, pen and paper - with words undecipherable at this distance - to his side, by his hand. His gaze is watchful. Wary.
Yuuri’s mind is snapped to wakefulness, a tense, taut disbelief running down his spine. He grapples for words, blurts the first thought that comes to him. “Where did you get that radio?”
The static is still humming in the background, and with a slow, deliberate movement, eyes still trained on Yuuri’s, Victor reaches to flick the radio off.
“It was in the storage cupboard,” Victor replies, folding the sheet of paper on the table into a precise square, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.
Yuuri swallows. His hand clenches at his side, an involuntary action. He forces it to relax.
Victor watches, eyes shadowed in the dim of the room.
“This is why,” Yuuri says, trying for levity, “I told you we should’ve gone somewhere with wifi. Radios, honestly.” His smile is fragile, wholly unconvincing.
Victor’s answering grin is light. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You were the one who said he wanted to know what actual sex on a beach was like.”
Yuuri makes himself move, slow steps that bring him closer to where Victor remains seated at the head of the dining table.
“Well,” he says, coming to a stop before Victor, who turns to face him, head tilted up to meet his gaze. “I’d say we thoroughly accomplished that mission, then.”
Victor inclines his head in silent agreement, and his mouth slides into a softer curve, a smaller, pensive smile. Taking Yuuri’s hands in his own, he tugs him down to press their lips together, hands leaving to twine in Yuuri’s sleep-mussed hair.
Yuuri parts his mouth, deepens the kiss, and runs his fingers down the bare skin of Victor’s neck, soaking in his warmth.
Standing, Victor nudges them backwards to the sofa, and Yuuri’s knees catch on an arm and he buckles, landing on plush cushions. Victor chases after, lips and tongue and hands insistent and demanding, pushing, stripping, touching, a one-man force of nature.
Victor produces a bottle of lube, coats his fingers liberally, and there’s nothing else but the burn of the stretch, the delicious friction of skin on skin.
There are no more words beyond yes, more, please, moans that shatter the glass-sharp silence of the night, shadows that fall from moonlight-shaded bodies pressed close in desperate, brittle passion that culminates in gasping pleasure that hides the prick of needle.
When Yuuri wakes, his mouth is cottony, his head is pounding, and his ass is sore. The blare of a horn shocks him to full alertness, diving for cover by stained curtains that frame a paint-flaking window.
He’s been dressed in a simple blue shirt and jeans, the hem fraying. The former is Victor’s, the latter his.
A deep breath in, and a short breath out.
Yuuri shifts to peer out the window.
He bites at his lower lip, rips off a hangnail. He slams a fist into the wall next to him, rattling the frame.
Welcome to Nevada.
By the time he makes it back to their flat in St. Petersburg, just under seventy hours later, Makkachin is gone, and Victor’s side of the wardrobe is empty, his books and paraphernalia missing.
Yuuri combs every inch of their flat. Calls in a contact, ex-FSB.
There’s nothing left, not even stray strands of hair.
It’s as if Victor never existed at all.
_____
June 2017
“There’s someone I want you to meet.” Celestino Cialdini may be nominally retired, but you’d be a fool to think he was out of the game.
Yuuri’s no fool.
“Yeah?” he replies, stripping the comm device from his ear and tossing it onto the table, the metal contraption landing squarely amidst the scatter of blueprints, dossier papers, and notes. Eyeing the disarray of his workspace, Yuuri mentally shrugs, turning to leave the planning room to meet Celestino and whoever it is he thinks is important enough to bring onto the job.
He cocks his head from side to side, pulling at the tense muscles of his neck, working out the kinks that’ve built up. In his right hand, he dances a weathered silver coin with a dog stamped onto either face idly across his fingers, just as he hits the button for the door that leads to the mess and rec room in Celestino’s private bunker.
“Great, you’re here,” Celestino calls over his shoulder, angling to face Yuuri from where he’d been bent over some schematics on the mess table. “Listen,” Celestino begins, and the edges of Yuuri’s gift prickle, a wisping oh, something’s happening you won’t like.
Crooking a cautious smile, Yuuri settles himself into one of the chairs around the mess, thumb and forefinger worrying loosely at the coin in his fingers, obscured from general view by the table surface. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says, aiming for lightheartedness.
A glance at Celestino’s expression confirms his suspicions.
Yuuri sits upright, faint frown marring his brow. “What is it?”
“You know this is a big job,” Celestino hedges, gesturing at the detritus of planning materials littered around them. “We’re being paid a lot of money by very important people.”
“Right,” Yuuri says slowly, not sure where the conversation is headed. “I’m aware of that. You wrangle everything together, I kill - I know how this works, Celestino.”
Celestino nods, fingers tapping a rapid tattoo on the table. The edges of sheets of paper within a couple of feet from them flutter loosely, an unnatural movement in the regulated climate of the bunker, stirred by Celestino’s gift. “So you’ll know I mean it when I say I tried to talk our employers out of it, but that they had the final say.”
Wary, something verging on dread building low in his gut, Yuuri halts the movement of his fingers, the coin falling still. “The final say in what?”
Sighing, Celestino sits himself down on one of the other chairs to Yuuri’s left. “They heard the rumours about your - ” he sends a pointed glance at Yuuri’s hand, half-hidden under the table, and wiggles his fingers, “ - gift not working so well lately, and they got jumpy. Said they were going to send an independent contractor to make sure the job went off smoothly, one that would make sure you didn’t choke on the trigger.”
“What, with their gift?” Yuuri’s jaw is clenched, the plaguing feeling of inadequacy dogging his heels. “And my gift works fine. I get all my jobs done.”
Celestino raises his hands, palms up, the universal gesture for don’t shoot the messenger. “I know, I know. I told them that, but they brought up London. Your double shots.”
Yuuri jolts. “London? How?”
“Like I said, our employer is powerful. I don’t know who his sources are. I’m keeping feelers out, but they’ve turned nothing up so far.”
Yuuri’s gift churns under his skin, unsettled and spooked, his fingers almost twitching of their own volition. He has to fight to keep them still.
“As for their contractor…” Celestino trails off, expression immensely uncomfortable. “Hell, I don’t know how else to blunt the news. I’m sorry, Yuuri. It’s Victor. He’s meeting us here at noon to go over the plans.”
Two heartbeats.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
A quiet hum, a muted swing.
Somewhere, a pendulum arcs low, the force of fate driving its metal fist.
Yuuri’s veins harden to ice, scraping raw through his body.
A glance to the clock on the wall by the pantry. It’s 11.54am.
Yuuri shoves abruptly back from the table, chair scraping in a harsh screech. He tucks his coin into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m making tea,” he declares.
Celestino nods, watching with pitying eyes. Yuuri avoids his gaze, pretends not to see it.
The pantry is well-stocked with necessities, not luxuries, so all he manages to scrounge up are some tea bags, languishing in their box. Jerky movements have him setting the kettle to boil and yanking down a mug, dropping a lone teabag into it.
Behind him, Celestino clears his throat, awkward. “If there’s anything - ”
“I’m fine.” Yuuri cuts him off.
Back kept to the room, Yuuri shuts his eyes. Takes a steadying breath. His pulse roars loud in his ears. His gift throbs under his skin, threads itself through the disbelief he feels at Victor’s impending arrival.
I can’t believe Victor’s -
He shuts the thought down with a mental slap, sends his gift scurrying back, a recalcitrant child chastised.
The kettle clicks off, and Yuuri picks it up to add the steaming, frothing water to his mug, settling it back in its stand when he’s done.
A dart of his eyes to the clock. 11.58am.
“His gift,” Celestino adds. “You’re sure you can manage it?”
Yuuri nods once, ignores the anxiety fluttering in his gut to bare his teeth in the sharp semblance of a smile. “I’ll handle him.” Bitter threads of memory coil tight around his heart, catches at his throat and threatens to steal his breath. “I know what it feels like.”
He sips at his tea, the Lapsung Souchong heavy on his tongue, smoke and gunpowder-heady. He ignores the way his hands shake, the liquid in his mug shivering like a subtly spun spider’s web trembling with the barest touch.
If he closes his eyes, he can feel long fingers digging purple shadows on his hips, hear whispers of quiet things between entwined lovers breathed to life under the sheltering cloak of night.
If. If. If.
The ghosts of memory are poor companions, but most of the time they’re the only company he has.
His finger catches on a chip on the handle of the mug, a sharp, pricking pain. There’s no blood drawn, and the hurt fades.
At noon exactly, Victor arrives, stepping through the doors of the bunker after being let through Celestino’s exhaustive security measures.
Yuuri sets the mug down. Draws the coin from his pocket, spins it between his fingers.
“Victor,” he hears Celestino greet from behind him.
The coin stops, and Yuuri flicks it up and it soars high upwards in a long line. His gift stirs, an anticipation shaking loose, and the pendulum swings. Back. Forth.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
This coin is not going to hit the ground, he thinks.
Gravity catches up, and the coin slips down, straight into Yuuri’s open palm, landing dead centre.
His power rushes out of him in a breath, a gust that leaves him hollow.
Yuuri turns, looks away from his silver coin, and meets the glacier blue of Victor’s eyes for the first time in three years.
“Hello, Yuuri,” Victor says, his tone unaffected, expression carefully genial. “I’ve told Celestino we’re acquainted.”
“Acquainted,” Yuuri repeats, tongue feeling around the syllables, mouth quirking at the corners in a mirthless shift. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Oh?” Victor asks, head tilting slowly to the side, lone finger coming to rest on the edge of his bottom lip. There’s challenge in his eyes, a dare in the language of the wound lines of his body. “How would you put it, then?”
The provocation in his stance stiffens Yuuri’s spine, makes him set his jaw. “Friendly, at the very least,” he ripostes, keeping his tone deliberately light, acerbically tart.
Victor takes a half-step forward. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
Celestino sighs, forcing an end to their terse standoff, hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Enough. Is this going to be a problem?”
Yuuri shakes his head, holds his gaze to Victor’s. “No,” he says. “I’m a professional.” He realises his fists have clenched, and he relaxes them with effort.
Victor nods once, a sweeping incline of his head. “So am I,” he echoes. “And after all,” he says, hand gesturing expansively at Yuuri, “We’re friendly, aren’t we?” His smile is biting, a white slash that cuts across his face.
Yuuri grins back, caustic. “Very.”
_____
(The ghosts of memory are poor companions, but they keep your secrets and tell no lies.)
_____
January 2015
Their line of work begets few real human connections, fewer still true friendships.There’s no understating how grateful Yuuri is to count Phichit amongst that latter paltry number.
Ueno Park is empty at this time of night, snow eddying around them in gentle swirls. Nature is blanketed in white, the colours pressed and faded.
Yuuri sighs, his breath fogged before him.
“I should’ve known,” he says, and every word is curled into mist, admittance and recrimination set slowly free to the twilight air.
“He’s one of their best,” Phichit replies. “How could you have?”
The photo clipped to the front of the slim manila folder doesn’t do him justice, Yuuri thinks. Victor’s face is in profile, mouth stern, jaw set, eyes hard.
“Maybe,” Yuuri concedes. He clears his throat, drives a thumbnail into the yielding flesh of his forefinger. The pain grounds him. “But I believed it.”
Phichit’s expression softens, though there is consideration in his gaze.
“Someone like him would never just run into someone like me,” Yuuri adds.
Phichit knows that words of placation and sympathy are hollow comfort, so he holds them back.
Yuuri cocks his head, and the movement throws half his face into shadow, the angles of wan streetlight rendering his expression a monochromatic chiaroscuro, contrast that pronounces him severe and brittle. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Pursing his lips, Phichit nods, knows that there is always harsh solace to be found in truth.
Yuuri studies him for a long moment, then glances away. “He has a gift, doesn’t he?”
Reaching out, Phichit taps a finger on the manila folder clutched in Yuuri’s hands, a wordless entreaty to read it.
After a hesitant, wavering second, Yuuri slides his finger until it catches on the cover of the file, and with a bracing breath, flips it open.
He reads the agent profile.
Shuts his eyes.
When he can find his words again, his voice trembles, and Phichit is kind enough not to draw attention to it.
“Emotional manipulation,” Yuuri breathes.
He inhales, and his breath shakes. Something inside of him splinters, a final string of hope pulling taut and snapping.
In the low lamplight, a killer looks like any other man, and a man who cradles his sniper rifle can just as easily cradle his face in his hands, pads of fingers pressed to damp eyes.
Under the rustling boughs of the trees, tremulous sobs are fainter. Between the whistling rushes of the wind, unsteady inhales are conceded.
In the twilight hours, the fallibility of man - of a man - is more easily forgiven, more readily allowed.
_____
(“Back then,” Yuuri asks. “Did you love me?”
The cigarette hangs low, tucked between Victor’s lips. The end glows steadily orange, devil eyes on a coal-black night.
“Did you believe I did?” Victor replies. Fingers come up to bracket the cigarette. A slow, smooth inhale. A wisping, twining spiral of smoke.
Yuuri looks away. “I think so.”
“Well,” Victor says, and the edges of his smile burn bitter, ashes ground to dust. “Then I must have, mustn’t I?”)
TBC
