( he and Makkachin both go where they're led; and he can only nod to the first. yes, it had been on purpose. yes. don't let the true innocents be taken. not even the dirty innocents. not when tracking something rotten down.
he doesn't like that sound in Yuri's voice. doesn't know what to do with it, or about it; fingers clutching Makkachin's lead and Victor opening his mouth to make a small noise of protest, one that doesn't become words. he breathes in, closing his eyes. shakes his head. )
That... would be giving me a little too much credit.
( it's a softer statement only by volume. it pulls at the ache in him that knows this could have, should have gone better. and it pulls at the part of him that knows (believes, thinks he understands) why distance has been so useful for the majority of his life. it's been five minutes, and he's already feeling. feeling an edge of a different distress, wanting to apologise again and again, wanting to say he has never seen anything so brave as what Yuri, that idiot did, how it makes it next to impossible to breathe remembering that moment where the bindings at his wrist had started going slack. just like hearing he'd gone down. hearing Phichit's plead across the mutual airwaves.
it makes him remember the tinge of red his world had taken, and just as starkly, how the rage had turned into a monotone sort of clarity. the efficiency of a cruelty only born out of a single minded focus. one he's used before, but never like this. never because he felt like — his heart pounds too hard, his vision narrowing. Victor swallows, locking his legs. any light there had been in his eyes dwindles slowly; dies off, trembling before the face of a series of memories he doesn't know how to process. )
There was never a detailed plan. There wasn't anyone else. There was only me.
( and how inadequate that had proven to be. Silverstar: Sleeper Villain? maybe. he sure feels like one if he allows his thoughts to stray toward dark places. )
This last time, the drugs...
( Makkachin sidles closer, leaning against Victor's leg as his knuckles turn white, he's holding on to the lead so tight. he doesn't step toward Yuri. frankly, the wisest thing is for Yuri to get the hell away from him.
it's safer for Yuri that way. may even be what the silent watchers in the shadows will interfere to ensure if Victor doesn't... he swallows, looking up. looking to Yuri and feeling as pale as he looks, a point of light quietly being overtaken by the shadows. )
Oh, ( Yuri nods, smooth and understanding like this is a perfectly normal conversation they're having, not the blunt and systemic undermining of the better part of his last year's work. his tone is so dead with disbelief that it's almost sympathetic. ) You just went in and thought, 'It'll be fine, there are people paid to fix this,' and it all worked out.
( more or less.
he's so angry, suddenly, that it's probably just as well Frostflower exists in name only now, all power tapped out. save for desperation, perhaps. that's not what he feels here. sick and hollow and stupid and angry, but not desperate. desperation would require more impetus.
Yuri's ice only exists in his voice right now, sharp crystals of it coalescing along the brittle edges of every word. )
Do you know how many people I left - or put - in danger when I came to you instead? ( he doesn't wait for a reply; he'd made Phichit do the math for him, needing to have the whole picture in each aftermath. ) Eighty-seven. That's the conservative estimate. Robberies and muggings and brawls. Domestics. Car crashes. A kid in a tree. That damn mess at the bank.
( he looks at his hands idly, irreversibly scarred by the last of his own power, then closes them into painful fists. )
That's what I weighed against you, because something was up, and you were doing it on purpose without a plan.
( there's a long moment where he wants to explain. Where his heart pounds in his chest, his head throbs, and he wants to fill in all the blanks he's leaving, even knowing it'll sound like excuses. But he doesn't, clamping hands down on his dog's lead and finding it in his years of public persona to fix Yuri with a distancing stare.
Let me be the focus of everything that's gone wrong. Let me be the source of everything that's failed and disappointed you. Let it be me. Don't let it be this city. Don't let it be the politics that have made me what i am.
So he nods, once. Finds words he thinks may make it better, by making it worse. )
Yeah. Something like that.
( not much like that at all with context; not much like that at all when what they'd stopped was considered for what it did. Not like that at all when he'd spent weeks in drug trials that couldn't make him less of a weapon. That didn't stop him caring, and didn't stop the desire.
Hate me, he thinks, If that means you're safe. If it gives you more than just yourself to blame.
So he smiles. Tight, no humour in his eyes, his dog whining in audible reflected distress. )
( watching Victor go from honest and earnest and fragile to this brittle creature with a lying face would be mildly shocking if Yuri wasn't actively trying to dissociate himself from the whole mess. he stares, eyes hard, not really listening to the words. they're lies; he knows that. Twice he's died for Victor, and Victor's still lying to him.
powerless to help. too powerless to even deserve the full and proper truth. no, he's not surprised. now he's barely even hurt. )
I don't believe that, ( Yuri states baldly, but it's unimportant. his eyes flicker to the dog at Victor's side and there's thawing of the coldness in his eyes, just a little. ) Makkachin's better than a lie detector.
( and it's for his sake that Yuri steps forward, fingers curling around Victor's on the lead in an attempt to prise that grip a little looser, staring him flatly in those dishonest eyes. )
Lie to me all you want, but give the dog a little breathing room, Victor. C'mon. Slacken off.
( there is a large part of him that wants to twitch back, to pull away. there's an equally large part of him that wants to lean in, to press back. not as a challenge, though he's done plenty of challenging before. as a plead.
he doesn't move, caught between those two impulses. he shivers, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to listen. not to Yuri, but to Makkachin, whose whining is a plead that Victor can't ignore.
his fingers relax. Makkachin doesn't leave, presses closer. Victor's eyes slide away from Yuri's face to look down at his dog. he's always loved him; and that's been okay. the logical part of him knows that what had happened wasn't something he would fall victim to again, because he learns too fast, too well. but he remembers that distance, the apathy that had set in as a protection, the distance. he doesn't necessarily feel things so deeply all the time that he's worried about being even keeled; it's the depth that had been too much. it had been the depth of his rage, his fear, his frustration, his own helplessness. the fruitless, lovely ache in his heart that had always been beyond him, really.
he looks up, into Frostflower's cold eyes, and the smile fades away. the tiredness he's been doing so much better with settles like a weight dragging down on all his bones, pulling him under. Makkachin is the most real thing in his world; Makkachin, and Frostflower's fingers on his.
Victor drops his hands down, steeling his arms to not tremble. they still do, but not so badly as they would have before. Lie to me all you want.
the truth isn't any prettier. he drops a hand down for Makkachin, fingers spasming as his dog shoves his nose into his palm, licks at his wrist, tries to offer comfort in the ways he knows how. )
Silverstar hit the room with an empathy bomb, for lack of a better term, within seconds of you passing out. Anger, fear, hurt... everyone was brought to their knees. I hear the heroes close enough that they were en route felt it; the closest ones to the arena were incapacitated. It was that overwhelming. I don't know how long that lasted. It felt like hours. It was probably seconds. Then everything went red.
( there is a distance in his voice when he first speaks; one that wavers, because he hasn't processed everything he'd done to find peace. not yet. not for some time later. it's never pleasant being confronted by the extent of his own capacity for violence; or the part of himself that had felt it was so deserved. deserved, and at the same time, felt from a distance. numb to himself. burnt out now in memory by the intensity that haunts his dream. )
No one left that arena uninjured. No one. A whole wing of Providence General had to be cordoned off to handle the influx of criminal patients needing care. That doesn't account for the fatalities. One heart attack, one stroke, several from traumatic injury. Friendly fire, those ones.
( he looks back to Yuri's face, pain hidden somewhere deep in his darkened eyes. he repeats himself from earlier. unlike then, he believes this. he believes this entirely, and it exhausts him, admitting it to the one person he'll never regret saving, even if it'd been in desperation both times. Makkachin whacks his tail once against the ground, trying to jump up, half climb Victor's side in his reaching for his face. Victor moves his arm, inviting his dog to balance his paws off Victor's hip. )
( this time Yuri stays silent, listening, watching. there's truth here, as much as Victor has or believes, things that fit so neatly into the gaps Yuri's been left with that he doesn't question the rawness of the honesty. doesn't question within seconds of you passing out, because of course Silverstar had a hero's timing. doesn't question, right now, how Victor has all these stats to begin with.
he looks at the dog trying desperately to console its master. he looks at Victor's hands where they shake, ever so slightly, barely enough to see unless someone was specifically looking for the signs. Yuri is. despite himself he knows he can't give up his duty of care just yet. not for Victor, after all their ludicrous run-ins. not to a a shellshocked victim too wrapped up in the aftermath to see his horror for what it is.
no one left that arena uninjured.
well, that's more than true enough. with half a sigh Yuri meets Victor's gaze and steps in again. barely a step. not enough for their feet to entirely crowd each other. not enough that Victor doesn't have room to move. just enough to be in anchoring distance. he faces him squarely, a quelling, reassuring hand brief against Makkachin's poll where the dog whines anxiously, the other hand reaching gently for Victor's chin, wanting them to be more or less at eye level. balance. equilibrium. give and take. )
You're an idiot, ( he tells Victor softly, solidly, ) but that doesn't make it your fault. You didn't force people to kidnap you. You didn't force an unholy criminal alliance. You didn't force me to come in, every time. I don't care who you are, Victor; there's only so many things in life you can control. The actions of other people isn't always one of them.
( and Yuri gives him a little shake, fierce but careful. )
( logically, he knows Yuri is right. has delivered those words in different iterations to heroes over the years. even internalised them for himself: there are a series of interactions that you can control, and those you cannot. learn to recognise the difference. learn how to forgive yourself.
that'd been before. when he thought he understood about his own control; before he'd learned in the most dramatic fashion he was vulnerable, and he was capable of being truly, deeply cruel. one arm has made way for Makkachin, his hand finding familiar, curly fur, fingers entangling in it. he still finds himself caught by Yuri. caught and shaken, firm enough to feel, if not to dislodge the thoughts he's not sure how to say. shaken deeper, in a way he doesn't know how to quantify. he's never learned.
no, he forced no one to kidnap him. he rigged it, keeping others out of the way. hell, the first time he'd literally shoved the initial victim back so they got out and he went right on in to negligible danger. that's not on record.
the criminal alliance was what he'd brought up to deaf ears; how he'd learned what his value was, as long as he was useful in politically viable ways. how it was considered his ghost hunt. now it's become his haunting grounds.
Frostflower, and how Victor had been pleased when it'd been him, even against the stacked odds within a given region. Yuri isn't wrong. Victor's always know the variables he couldn't control, as well as guessed at those he could. keep casualties down. calculate risks. walk the edge of the razor that is this lifestyle and accept the bleeding that inevitably comes along with it.
but Yuri's said it. Victor lifts his free hand, resting the tips of his fingers against Yuri's wrist. )
I am the one I couldn't control.
( it's the deepest, rawest confession yet, and for Yuri, it has no real context. if he couldn't control himself, then he is a danger. and maybe, just maybe, it's better to not feel anything at all. (he doesn't believe that. he hurts, and he sorts through it, and he knows he prefers the aching to the numbness, but it isn't always a choice.)
it's a softer confession that follows. the one that really breaks through to what little light he's seen in all this particular horrific darkness. )
The only good thing to come out of that night was you surviving, and I don't even know your name.
( Makkachin rests their head against his side, reassurance by warmth and contact. Victor, who clings to that warmth, swallows past a lump in his throat. he's sorry. he's well and truly sorry to both of them. for not being good enough when he was supposed to have been the best. when he'd arrogantly even believed he was the best. )
( again Yuri's still and silent, watching Victor work through his own internal process, a close and piercing eye watching for anything...untoward. what, exactly, he's not sure. he doesn't know Victor well enough to tell, and yet there's an undeniable connection here. they've been through a lot together. sure, it's a sort of perverse cat-and-mouse game, but it's a connection all the same.
he softens his grip at Victor's chin but doesn't drop the contact. Victor doesn't seem to mind it, after all; he's reaching back out without batting Yuri away. Yuri wouldn't have blamed him. his frown deepens at this new iteration of Victor's repeated theme, not sure what he's getting at. Yuri's not good with people. in honesty, he's never really tried to be. right now he wishes that was different, because reaching out a hand to save Victor is second nature at this point and no matter what he says he gets the feeling that it won't be right.
but he has to try, and try, and try, because otherwise it makes all the rest of it so pointless. )
You survived, too, ( he points out softly, ) That's another good thing. I'd be pretty pissed off with myself if I made it out and you didn't, after all that. I'm sure Makkachin's grateful, too.
( there's a sigh that's been sitting heavily at the back of Yuri's throat; he releases it now to one side, letting his fingertips drop from Victor's face finally without shaking off the other man's own light touch. )
And you do know my name, Victor. The only one that means anything, at least.
( maybe now it's a name with no power behind it, but that's fine. five times it had the power to save this man's life. that makes it worth something. )
( but you wouldn't have had to make it out of anything if I'd just been in control. if I'd been more careful. if I had somehow made everyone understand. they're impossible thoughts, and he lets them go. lets them go just as he starts letting go of the embers he's tucked in close to his heart, stamping them out one by one. pausing only as he's about to let his hand fall away from Yuri's wrist. he circle his fingers around Yuri's wrist instead, for a brief, passing moment. there is a pulse there he imagines he can feel. there is a cold there he can remember, too well. there was a stillness he'd pushed back twice now, and would, again, to save him.
Victor's not even sure if pissed would have been the right word to describe how he'd have felt with himself if Yuri hadn't made it out alive; but it isn't that which made him change his grip for a span of several heartbeats. it's the earnestness behind his words, leaping off his tongue uncensored. )
Every name we have matters. They all mean something.
( but he lets go, right then. tucks his chin in and lets his lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile. lets his eyes close, so he doesn't have to see Frostflower, knowing he won't want to look away. knowing this is goodbye. sayonara. he holds on to Makkachin all the more tightly.
it's tiring. it's exhausting, and he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed now with a bottle of alcohol and see if he can't numb everything all over again. self medication at its finest. )
No matter if it's a name we chose for ourselves or not. They still matter.
( Silverstar. Victor. Failure, for the moment, in the shadowed sanctuary of his mind. his eyes open again, and there is a brightness in the intensity of his look. something that almost seems to glow, but of course, of course, that couldn't be the case. )
You matter, whatever name you go by. Frostflower or anything else.
( this is an odd conversation they're having, Yuri thinks not for the first time, but that's sort of what he'd expected. any conversation with Victor tends to be at least a little odd, if only via circumstance. he stays still, regarding him with a quizzical half-frown even when Victor's eyes close like they're holding in a secret Yuri almost has the password to. )
And you? Are you happy with the name you chose, Victor?
( he's not really sure why he asks, except that there's still so much that's puzzling about Victor. mysteriously wealthy, despite the lack of clear family connection. certainly a kind a power about him, even if Yuri can't put his finger on it. names are secrets, too.
Yuri's kind of looking forward to burying his. )
Well, remember Frostflower fondly for me. ( he sighs, gaze dropping to the gloves covering his scars. ) I think it's high time he retired and let me get on with the rest of my life.
( as far as jokes go this one probably falls a little flat, but Yuri's always been slightly awkward with humour. )
( he's all but spelled out what it is he most wants to say; the apology he wants to give, for being Silverstar, the imperfect. being human is a universal failing. most the time it's easy to accept, but not after this. not after he'd driven people insane and couldn't bring them back again.
Frostflower said not to blame himself. and there's enough that he can't take responsibility for; there are things simply beyond him. Frostflower is correct as far as that goes. then there are the ones he's directly responsible for. the things he can't do again. the things he can't escape. he finally allows Makkachin down, his dog sitting at his feet and leaning heavily against his legs. he smiles, in response to that question. it's a soft smile; one that remembers a time gone hazy with the passing of years. )
They said Starlight was too much like a lullaby.
( in the end, Silverstar had not been the name he chose for himself. it'd been a partial allowance, keeping star in his name, but it had become something of an illusion in and of itself. approved when he was meant to be a star in more than one way.
so he answers Yuri's question, and it doesn't sound like an answer at all. the only name he'd ever chosen for himself was the name he never used. but that fades; its an old memory, and an older hurt. one that had healed clean. one that hadn't left a scar, he thought, until he looked back on it now and wondered why it had been such a stringent demand that a teenager not be allowed to pick his own name. how Starlight hadn't been considered firm enough. too common. too sweet. Frostflower's jest does fall flat, in part because Victor takes it seriously. takes Frostflower serious, eyes brought up to look at his face. he starts forward, catching himself at the last second, hands twitching forward, fingers splayed, as if he'd been about to latch on. he had. it's why he held back, cut himself off.
let it go. )
You're retiring? Right now. In all this? You can't, I mean, you can, I — you're leaving?
( there's another piece that doesn't fit; Yuri has such a collection of odds and ends about Victor now that he's fairly sure he's actually trying to complete several puzzles at once. the best he can do is accept what he gets given. he doesn't want to upset Victor into that distressingly obvious, so-pitiable downward spiral once again.
it seems he has a talent for it despite his best efforts, however. )
That's how it is, ( Yuri announces, baldly honest, and delivers another heavy sigh. it hadn't been an easy thing to brace himself for, but there's only so far he can go. ) Unofficially, Frostflower's been dead since the bank. I tapped myself out and there's nothing left, Victor.
( he hadn't been much of a hero before that; now he's got not even power to his name. luckily that's a name he can shed and continue the quiet, uninteresting life of Yuri. )
( people have to learn how to accept a hand reaching out while they're struggling to keep their head above water. it's nothing Victor's good at, let alone recognising. he's better than he was. Yuri just cracks the fragile shell he'd been building for himself. it's not a shell that would have held up under much pressure at all.
better to learn that sooner than later.
he shelves all that; there's both a sense of deep horror and deep sympathy with what Frostflower is telling him. there's nothing left. part of Victor desperately wishes he could switch their positions, relative to powers; another part of him is removed enough to do mental calculations, weigh considerations. )
You near killed yourself at the bank. No one comes back from that and is back at capacity in under six months. Hell, most of us would shut down entirely from a mental block at the very least — wait. You came into that mess completely tapped out?!
( his eyes flash, and for a moment, that almost seems literal. can't be, can it? because as suddenly as it happens, his voice is dropping into a deep incredulity, and he reaches up and fists his hands instead of reaching out to grab hold of Frostflower, to call him an idiot, knowing that it's no different than what he would have done... but he'd been dying for a second time. and not for a good cause: not to save innocents. to save Victor from his oversights, and save their thankless community from its own arrogant mistakes.
he closes his eyes, breathing in deep. calm falls over him by an effort of shutting down his emotional processing. repression, most would say. survival mechanism in recent months, he'd say. when his eyes open, they're a little too bright, but they're calmer. too calm. the distress, the anger, everything is dampened. distant. part of the very effective mask he wore as Silverstar. not processing, but categorizing, tucking away. considering information.
it takes time to recover. but if he'd been entirely tapped out, then what Victor knows had happened would have been impossible. )
It wasn't your hands that cut mine free. ( he turns his wrists over, exposing both to Yuri. ) Recoveries take different time for each person. Coming close to dying twice in however many months isn't speeding yours along at all. We don't even know if what — if that kind of healing isn't part of what's holding you back. Silverstar never was a healer. That power could be suppressing yours until you're as healed as he was wishing — demanding you to be.
( these aren't rushed statements, but ones delivered as a series of quiet, musing statements. he stops, breathing in long. breathing out soft and quiet. )
You deserve the right to live your life the way you want. It's... it's good, if you're brave enough to take that chance, Frostflower. I... I wish you well, in everything you do. But please don't tell yourself it's what you want if it isn't. Justifying a fear to yourself only gives that fear strength.
( words that should be making more of an impact on Victor himself. he seems to realise that much, at least; his calm cracks for a moment, brow furrowing, lips parting with a soft: ah. only he doesn't know how to take that strength away from his own fears. )
At the cost of taking it away from the rest of you, I suppose.
( if he's feeding his own fear of himself, how does he get past that? )
I did kill myself at the bank, ( Yuri mutters, not really meaning to give proper vocalisation to the thought. but it sits there, heavy in its truth and inescapable. he had died at the bank; his ice wouldn't have left him scarred otherwise. he had died during Victor's last kidnapping, though that was from simple trauma. twice now Yuri owes his life to Silverstar; twice now Victor owes his life to Yuri.
though he supposes that doesn't really count: Yuri had always run in guns blazing for his sake, of his own free will. more or less.
he wishes he knew why Silverstar kept saving him.
he takes a long, slow breath as Victor's little rant winds down, feeling ice-cold in a way he associates now with death. with control-loss. with grim, determined despair. )
I've run myself dry before, you know. The bank wasn't the first time I found my limit. ( when he was trying to work up to the properly active service he'd craved Yuri had pushed that boundary time and time again. ) But I have never felt like that. Like this. It's, I don't know.
( he really doesn't know how to describe it. Yuri turns his hands over, frowning at them in concentration as he attempts to find words. )
...It's like being off-balance all the time. Like your equilibrium just isn't there any more. ( Yuri looks up, staring into Victor's startlingly blue eyes, trying to convey how serious he is. ) Whatever I managed to find to cut you free was the last of it, Victor. My reserves aren't low; they're just not there. There's nothing left.
( all the years he'd spent building it up out of sheer piqued bloodymindedness, and it's all gone. Yuri's not sure whether to laugh or cry. he twists a bitter little smile instead; it softens slightly for his next statement. )
But I don't regret spending that last of it on you. So don't go doing anything stupid, like blaming yourself. ( reaching out slowly, Yuri takes Victor's hands and turns them palm-down, resting over his own in opposition. a benediction of sorts, though slightly in reverse. ) Do me that favour. Okay?
( he sounds equally certain. he can't defy death. not true death. Victor doesn't have that arrogance in him, only the will and determination to half kill himself in bringing the other man back from the brink.
for the rest, he listens. catalogues. notates that he may have pushed himself past his limits before, but not to this level. it's not the same. and it doesn't invalidate Victor's own concerns, about that level of crossover, over what his own powers could do, in another powered being. Makkachin wasn't the same.
it's what he says that breaks through again, Victor's expression falling, eyes dropping away, then coming back up. pressing his hands into Frostflowers.
I don't regret spending that last of it on you. )
Frostflower, I... why?
( he can't do that for him. he can't promise the blame tied up in all this won't linger, because it has, and it will. it's not about his powers going dormant, or empty, or whatever Frostflower believed they'd done. it was the rest. Frostflower had used his powers to help people. there'd been backlash. he'd tried his damnedest to die. Victor saved him.
that's nothing for blame. even if he'd taken Frostflower's powers in earnest, even if he had, he wouldn't allow blame for that to hold the way the rest does. because it means Frostflower lives.
and a life without powers is still a life. the alternative had not been Victor's decision to make, but he'd stepped in regardless. stepped in and demanded that Frostflower live, whatever the consequences, he supposes.
and now he's retired, and Frostflower is retiring. and if he were not who he was right now; if he trusted himself, then maybe he'd follow that song in his heart that says wheedle and beg and chase after the man who is stepping away from masked crusades. Victor's never needed a hero in his life; just someone with a drive and passion of their own. screwed up as it probably was, from an outside perspective. Frostflower had worked hard to be what he was. he'd work hard to be whatever he became. Victor wants to applaud that. he wants to hold that close.
he's been taught too much about self denial. as he is now, he figures the best thing he can offer is to follow through on letting go. to let Frostflower walk away and find his life without Victor's... well, without Victor. even if he'd thought, for a while, and thinks now, in a better world, he'd prefer otherwise.
this is the world he has. and he doesn't know what to say; doesn't really want to hear Frostflower say why. instead he moves, sliding his hands up, and he leans in, pulling Frostflower into a hug with his arms over his shoulders that his dog grumbles over, pulling a head clear of knees and legs. knows Frostflower can handle himself just fine without powers; doesn't care. it's a final liberty. one way of saying a long goodbye. )
Live. ( he says by Yuri's ear. ) And be happy, sooner or later. That will make all of this worth it.
( saving Frostflower; learning his limits and his own cruelty. it makes the letting go worth it too, and so he lets go, steps back, steps away. sidles toward the mouth of the alleyway.
he needs to get away, or the next thing he knows, he'll be begging. and he has no right, no right at all. no positive reception to expect. just a thin smile and a smart wave as he's framed by the sunlight from behind, a warmer halo than the one he wore in costume. )
( there's no point in correcting Victor; he hadn't been there. and really, it's not an experience he wants to share with anyone.
it's a funny thing: he knows Victor only in fits and starts, in the oddly-coincidental overlap of their lives that has led them ultimately here. he doesn't know Victor's favourite colour, or what his favourite food is, or why he lives the way he does. he doesn't know if Victor's a native to the city or if he moved here from somewhere else. he doesn't know what Victor does on his days off, or how old his dog is, or whether he has to wear contact lenses to get his eyes that shade of blue - though Yuri rather suspects that he doesn't.
what he does know is that this is Victor's Lying Face. he can feel it right in his chest, a deep and visceral understanding of the man. there is nothing, ostensibly, for Victor to be specifically lying about but there's dishonesty there all the same. or -- maybe it's not dishonesty, per se. maybe it's just a grim kind of uncertainty. Yuri finds he can sort of related to that.
he's too confused and stunned to do anything but accept the embrace, hands awkward and belated as they pat at his back, as they try to grab Victor's shoulders in turn. he's too late for that much but follows after, a step behind. always chasing Victor's shadow, it would seem. usually Victor's much more happy to see him. )
--Victor, who are you?
( there's no good reason for Victor answer him truthfully. Yuri knows enough about the world to recognise that Victor's not some ordinary golden-hearted trust-fund baby with a head for tracking down organised crime. it's the puzzles again, so many of them mixed together and Yuri without so much as the drawing on the box. he takes another step, wanting to say something more, once again running out of words to convey what he means. )
You're not going to do anything stupid, are you? ( what a silly question to pose to the Five-Time World Kidnapping Champion. Yuri nearly bites his tongue in frustration with himself. ) Anything else stupid, I mean. I'm not going to be much use saving you again, you know.
( there's a pause as he wishes he could answer with an affirmative: yes, he won't do anything knowingly stupid. and for the most part, he doesn't plan to; but he doesn't know what he will or won't be doing. making promises over that is as fruitless and as impossible as what else he's held silent on. Victor only wants to mean his promises.
when he can't make them, then he won't allow himself to mouth the empty words.
so he can answer, instead, what Frostflower asked. who are you? )
I've never really been sure who Victor is. ( he lifts his shoulders, a faint sort of shrug. it's an honest statement, and the shadows soften the quiet sort of uncertainty on his face. Victor is who he has to grow into being. Victor is what he has left, and that's right and rightful, probably. but even lingering like this, the temptation to answer Frostflower's questions, to be drawn in when he needs to get out. to spare them both whatever nonsense he'll start saying. perhaps most to spare himself; to keep his fragile shell from falling completely away. he needs time to shore it up and wear it properly as a guard around his heart. as a conduit for his fear, when he finds a way to handle it.
or finds a way to drown it out. )
But since I've retired, I guess I get to start figuring that out. As for who else?
( and he's been saying it in a thousand ways since they started talking, but he can see it hasn't broken through. his fingers twitch, and his eyes look so tired while he smiles. smiles honestly; not out of any pleasure, but a wry, exhausted humour. he brings his hand to his opposite shoulder, tracing a slow arc up, in front of his face, then down, reaching for the ground. it's a gentle motion, smooth and unhurried. as gentle as the expression that flits across his face when he pulls on his powers to create his oldest, most well known illusion. for a few seconds, it's Silverstar standing there, eyes closed, hand extended toward the ground, reaching for something and finding he wants too much. it's the perfection of his features, his skin, his softened, refined self. it's the posterchild of their city, lovely even here, in the mouth of an alleyway, with his silver, sparkling light. and it all disappears, winks out, that inner lit beauty going abruptly dark, as he says: )
I was a fallen star.
( his illusion drops completely, leaving only Victor standing there, dark circles under his eyes, hair mussy, clothing fitting but not so formtight as Silverstar always appears. his lips are still pulled up in that wry, humourless grin. he'll be hearing about this later. not from Frostflower, though if anyone deserves to upbraid Victor, it's the man he's still standing before. he's so close.
( the turn in the conversation brings an unpleasantly familiar feeling along Yuri's spine: low-level alarm, just the barest thread of it, a well-honed instinct not even his current powerlessness can deny. the puzzle pieces he has shift again, forming new clusters as he subconsciously rearranges the information in them according to each word out of Victor's mouth, his posture, his tone.
he wants to ask what do you mean, retired, but Victor's already moving and, oh. the unfinished edges suddenly align. Yuri's left with a picture of the moonlit sky when he'd been expecting something much, much darker. his eyes go wide with shock, unable to believe what's before them; then horror, realising everything he's said and done in front Victor Nikiforov while being unaware of his true nature; to finally narrowing with a simmering anger that's undaunted even by the barely-hidden sorrow in Victor's dimmed eyes.
Yuri spends enough time feeling like the butt of some cosmic joke. and now here's the punchline, after all. he finds himself laughing, bitter and incredulous, as he steps back and shakes his head. how long has he spent chasing this exact falling star? how much of his hard work has been for the dream of maybe, just maybe he'd one day be able to thank Silverstar for just existing at the right time for Yuri to find his inspiration? well, they've certainly met. Yuri's probably left a definite lasting impression, with his rather unprofessional attitude in their last few meetings and the whole 'I just died in your arms' thing, twice.
this isn't how he wanted it to go at all. then again, what in Yuri's life ever has been?
taking another step back Yuri feels his laughter die off, strangled by frustration and disappointment and wave of utter self-loathing that catches even him unprepared. he shakes his head again, denial and disbelief in one. the urge to flee is overwhelming, stronger even than his urge to spit at Victor's feet or punch him in the face. running from his problems is one thing Yuri is very good at it. )
Well, have a good life. Whoever you decide to be.
( it's been a hard few months for Yuri. this is the proverbial straw across the camel's back: he can feel his vision tunnelling, knows he needs to get out of here before he does anything more incredibly stupid than he already has, wishes desperately that he still had the cold comfort of his ice on command. but he doesn't. all he has is an escape route that he's not familiar with, whirling to tread hastily and off-balance through the narrowing twist of the alley. )
( the anger is better, part of him reasons. the bitter laughter, the backing up. a parting statement as he heads out, met with silence. Victor has already said his apologies. he could make them felt, he supposes, but even the thought leaves his stomach unsettled, Victor breathing in through his mouth and holding on to Makkachin's lead for the anchor it provides.
and he leaves, turning and walking down the sidewalk. he doesn't hold hope in that moment. doesn't really want to think about feeling at all, and so he doesn't, not past wishing that if anything, of anything, at least let Frostflower hate him. hate Victor, hate Silverstar, and not himself.
Victor makes it home without comment. without seeing much of his surroundings beyond evaluations for threats, so ingrained he doesn't even think about it. walks up the stairs like he's bowing under the weight of gravity, a moving mountain instead of a man. Makkachin stays at his side, matching stride for stride. whines once or twice, then smiles a canine smile. love is easier for Makkachin to give. love and worry, and it's too good in that moment; Victor reaches out and reassures Makkachin in the ways he doesn't know how to reassure himself. blinks away dry eyes that won't cry, and locks the door behind them. activates the alarms. walks like he's half awake to his kitchen, staring at the fridge, knowing he should take out one of the veggie shakes. anything better for him, really.
turns away, reaching for the cupboard with the alcohol, pulling out whatever his hand finds first. he doesn't bother with a glass. doesn't read the label, because it doesn't matter what it is. carries the bottle by its neck, fisted in one hand as he awkwardly feeds Makkachin, measuring out dry food, adding wet. laying out the dental chew, and topping off his dog's water. turning away at last to half shrug out of whatever layers he can strip down, switching the bottle to his other hand when he's left half dressed. shaking off what had been lingering, temporarily piquing his irritation, until that, too, dulls. he uncaps the bottle as he starts to drink, wanting to not remember, wanting not to dream. the sleeping pills didn't work as well as they used to. and the headaches, the morning after, the fact he never forgot, but he never really dreamed; all that felt earned. like a self flagellation that gives him a measure of what he's earned.
it's escape of a different kind, and he swallows it down with the happy burn of alcohol over his tongue and down his throat and swirling in his stomach. turns on his music, listening to Beethoven by the Sea, and hears nothing but gulls and waves and orchestras until he passes out, surrendered to a blissfully unconsciousness. not restful, but dreamless.
it's a pattern he maintains every night for the next week. he drags himself out of bed, showers, heads to the soup kitchen because even if he looks like hell, he manages to help. manages to learn how to better manage his binge nights, regaining his veneer of sociable cheer, though he listens more than he speaks. it's fine that way. people enjoy being heard. when he has so little worth saying, he can at least listen.
and listening is what helps. how much he hears is a matter he doesn't fully know, but listening is what leads him to agreeing, eventually, to help with another community production. where his eccentricities are explained away as being a trust-fund baby, sweet and not all there. where people talk about the daily problems they face, the upswing in gang related activities, as the city fights its way through its criminal inequilibrium, looking for a balance. he listens, and in spite of himself and what he wants to do, he's learning. piecing things together because he can't kill that part of himself; if anything, it's the one constant companion, louder than the ache of the heart he's shut away.
he learns to laugh again. not because he ever forgot, but he forgets more than passing reason; he slides back into that social space that gives him the cues even if the humour is only skin deep. ends up helping with a burlesque competition running at the end of that month, which is a distraction for the time it takes up; a mixture of strangers and people he knows from the soup kitchen and the community. half how are itinerant gossips, but cunning ones; while Victor allows the people from his old life to drift through when they can bring themselves to, he also drifts on, pulled along by the patterns he starts seeing all over again. caught up in smaller lives and how they connect back to the larger picture. it gets him out to clubs he's only visited for information before, accepting company might be better sometimes than drinking alone. choosing not to acknowledge that he drinks more, flirts more, and takes a certain caustic pleasure in buying the rounds for everyone. it makes him very popular, for a certain demographic.
he's tipsy, pleasantly so, the first time he accepts a soft challenge to dance the pole. which he asks roundaboutly if it isn't really just another flirtation, smile easy and lazy and utterly insincere. still, there's little cost in that early afternoon to standing up and seeing how the strength he still trains himself for (another habit he'd been unable to really break; he keeps in shape, somehow, in spite of the fact he's apparently trying to embalm himself while still alive) lets him handle what these people do, some for part-time work, some for expression. and he's not so bad, though he's making a joke by copying back what his challenger is providing, adding in the ridiculous, sliding and catching himself and falling with practiced ease. and they're all laughing, laughing by the end, Victor sprawled out on the stage with his knees bent and an arm tossed over his eyes.
not so bad, sugar, one of the guys tells him as he's hauled back up to his feet. you should come by classes sometime.
imagining the look on anyone's face if they really knew the fallen posterchild for the city's heroes was taking pole dancing for exercise curls his lips up. he buys a round, considering, and drapes an arm around friendly shoulders.
if I can bring my dog, why not?
Makkachin likes the new routine. there are more hands and more attention, and the sweat of cleaner, social exercise, where for a while Victor is drinking more water and electrolytes than he's drinking alcohol. it's a mood lift, he knows it; exercise always is. it doesn't solve much, but he feels a little, little bit better. )
( the anxiety catches Yuri before he makes it out of the alleyway; he crams himself between two over-full dumpsters and their odour doesn't help as he hyperventilates through the ensuing panic attack. it amplifies his paranoia, always at healthily-vigilant even on a good day. right now leaves his skin crawling under the gaze of a thousand imagined eyes. it takes him back to that dark amphitheatre, to pain and the knowledge that the people watching it all happen didn't care for anything other than Frostflower's suffering.
by the time he finishes throwing up and finds his way out onto the street proper the skies are darkening. a quick check of his phone reveals a few texts, mostly from his sister. those Yuri responds to, apologising for being so late and assuring her that he's on his way home. there's a ping on his map app and when he opens it Yuri can see that Phichit's been watching, too, finding his way out for him without saying so much. in one breath he's grateful for the concern and assistance.
in the next he's resentful, hating being under surveillance even so benign, hating that even now - when he's worthless, when he ought to be left by the wayside - he's still being kept track of. it makes him feel like some kind of commodity. well, that's what he is, essentially; more accurate to say it's what he was. now, he supposes, they're keeping tabs on him to make sure he doesn't do anything that hurts the Association.
Yuri comes home exhausted, upset, confused, and more than a little desperate.
though he manages to pull down a shift helping out at the bath, his family know him more than well enough to tell something's horribly wrong. they don't press him; Yuri isn't entirely sure that he's grateful for this consideration, this time around. he manages to eat dinner. he lays awake half the night, stewing in his own welter of unhappiness.
he'd spent more than half his life trying to be good enough to back the city's top hero up, and what has he got left of that dream? it's all scar tissue and broken bones and someone else's heartbeat forcing him to continue when Yuri doesn't think he wants to. he hadn't chosen to live and continue to suffer. his aching hands clench into fists beneath his sheets, tears of frustration and a kind of mourning rolling unchecked down his cheeks to soak the pillow below. what's he supposed to do now?
the answer he comes to pleases nobody, which Yuri finds oddly fitting: after all, he's choosing to rebel. he's getting out. he's getting out. sitting around moping amidst his own personal destruction won't bring him anything but more hurt, he knows. his gut tells him that he needs to move, needs to change, and he can't do that here. it's too full of memories. Yuri doesn't want to remember himself. he wants to be himself.
it takes him almost five days to find where he wants to be and by that time his feet are blisters. hiking through forest and hill is far, far different to physical training in an controlled urban environment; even his parkour exercises aren't much help here. he stumbles and trips and scares away the wildlife with his city-slicker clumsiness. that'll have to change, if Yuri wants to survive: Yuri's brought only brought the most limited of survival basics with him. no long-term store of food. no real weapons. a phone, yes, but not his phone; he hasn't even turned it on to activate since he bought it. paid cash, of course. harder to track. Yuri doesn't want to be found, not until he's dead or ready to face the world.
it's his dog he misses the most. solitude Yuri craves; loneliness is a different beast, and he'd underestimated how much an animal's companionship could salve him. but bringing Kenta with him wouldn't have been a kindness to either of them. Yuri's not sure how he'll survive out here himself, let alone support another life, and Ken-chan's a spoiled city boy, even moreso than his owner. he'll be better off back home.
the months pass. Yuri barely keeps track of them, save to note the changing temperatures and the difference it brings to his new world. he learns how to walk through the undergrowth silently; learns to set lures and traps; learns to kill, even, though he never takes any pleasure in it. he learns where the nearest town is and what he can trade there. he learns many, many things; about the world, and the forest, and himself. )
( the year is winding towards winter - which Yuri is perversely looking forward to, anticipating a challenge and a chance to prove himself to himself - when he gets a visitor. he doesn't bother to ask how Chris had found him, though Yuri's physical description has surely changed even if Chris had even known his true face. he doesn't bother with smalltalk or niceties; autumn means longer shadows and less time to do more tasks. he puts down his axe and mops his face of sweat, leaning hipshot against the stump he chops his kindling on, arms crossed as Chris saunters in like he owns the place. Yuri's a little surprised to realise he can still spot the signs of metabolic exhaustion on someone's face, but he waits instead of offering him anything to eat. this is a calculated disturbance to the centring peace Yuri's built around himself. he doesn't have to be polite in the face of that, he thinks.
shockingly, Chris doesn't flirt around the point for long. it's a sign of his exhaustion, Yuri thinks then corrects himself: no, desperation. Chris is desperate. and if Chris is desperate, he's not sharing that alone. something is Heavily Afoot.
what do they think Yuri will be able to do about it?
he's tight-lipped and hard-eyed as he listens to Chris' drawl about what he refers to as The Situation. "my, Frostflower, this certainly is an interesting look for you. i'm a little jealous in all honesty. my beard never grows quite that lush." that's the extent of the pleasantries Chris allows himself before sighing and sobering. Yuri wonders why he'd never before noticed the little red glow that comes into the older hero's eyes when he really focuses. "as wonderful as the foothill air is, when are you coming back to us? you're greatly missed, you know."
Yuri allows himself one sardonic upcurve of an eyebrow.
"don't give me that look. it's the truth." and he feels that Chris isn't lying, even if he's hiding meanings behind his words. a political game, even out here. "fine. i don't have time to waste and neither do you. The Situation is as follows: crime in the city, blah blah blah, everyone's overworked, blah blah blah. that's not news. but there's something simmering under our beloved little city, dear Frostflower, and the hole left by yourself and Silverstar's not been totally filled. it was big news, after all. the little hero that could, taking down the bigwigs; the hero's king, pulling out power never even heard of and retiring right after it.")
So you want my autograph, is that it?
( Chris doesn't hide a roll of his eyes. "please. I have enough money, even though that'd be worth a fair bit these days." at Yuri's disbelieving snort he laughs. "oh yes. you're more popular than you know.")
I've head sayings about this, ( Yuri muses, ) Something about absences and fondness?
("maybe something like that," and there's an edge to Chris' tone now that Yuri wonders at. he thinks about probing it but senses that this is going to be a long conversation no matter what Chris says about his time being precious. Yuri sighs, rolling back to his feet, and gives Chris a little wave to follow him as he heads over to his little handbuilt cabin. there's bread and savoury jam and some cold meat; he makes a couple of sandwiches as Chris continues, and Chris doesn't comment on the rusticity of the food as he accepts it with a certain relief. "but crime's always been the problem. even when it changes and tries to find new shadows to expand, we're used to that. I'm not here to call you back for that line of work.")
Good, because I distinctly remember retiring.
( Chris tuts at him, wagging a finger before daintily licking caramelised onion off the end of it. "technically you're not supposed to just walk away from the city and get your handler to put together a puzzle with your resignation in it, but I'll let that slide," he says, having done exactly the opposite of that. "no: I'm here on a more...personal mission. and it galls me like hell, I'll have you know, but I honestly think you're the only one with a chance of pulling it off."
there's a definite dissatisfaction to Chris' small frown. maybe Yuri's a sadist at heart, but he has to admit that he sort of likes the look of it. or maybe that's just the sound of his carefully-constructed peace beginning to splinter all around him... )
Fine. Spit it out, Chris. I have a lot to do, and I don't know if you've noticed, but winter is coming.
( the petulance takes on an edge of withering disdain as Yuri hides a small smirk, but both of them are soon serious enough again. "it's Silverstar," Chris states bluntly. Yuri physically recoils before he checks himself. "he's...off the rails, totally. I thought I'd been getting through to him but it just gets worse and worse, and I'm at a total loss, Frostflower. he's going to kill himself in the most pathetic, cliched way if it keeps going on like this." the distress he's been keeping in check is revealed now, a hand raking through his bleached hair, not quite making eye contact. "I've tried everything.")
What makes you think I'll have any better luck?
("I don't." he sounds almost waspish. "I'm just clutching at straws here. besides, he saved your life. twice. isn't it time you returned the favour?")
To be fair, I sort of saved his. It's not my fault he was playing at being a normal idiot instead of a superpowered one.
("Frostflower, I'm serious. we're going to lose him, even more than we have, and nothing I've been doing will stop it. I am begging you," and Yuri's startled when Chris does bow his head, hands palm down on the rough decking, discomfort and -- another shocking realisation -- grief heavy in his shoulders. "I will take all the help I can get at this point. please. please help me try and bring him back, to life itself if not the life he had before everything went sideways."
it's so earnest and sincere that Yuri's quiet for long minutes. his head and heart war with each other, with themselves; he looks out almost longingly at the glade his little home faces, hearing the birdsong and the last-ditch chirring of the cicadas. this time of day brings the full force of the sun's heat to the place where they sit. it's a beautiful place. Yuri honestly loves it, for all he's still not certain how long he'll stay. it's done wonders at healing his broken pieces, or at least at propping them up together so they can heal themselves. he rubs a hand over his face, fingertips scratching the itch of sweat in his beard, and considers.
Silverstar, in trouble. five months ago Yuri wouldn't have hesitated, though he'd still have doubted how much use he could be. now it's all twisted and desperate, a complicated knot that sits in his chest, devouring its own tail like the mythical ouroboros. Victor, in trouble. five months ago Yuri hadn't hesitated even though he ought to have, and look at what it's brought them. both wrecked and off-centre.
(both alive, a sharp thought reminds him. Yuri sighs.) )
What are we dealing with here, Chris? People aren't my strong point. I don't know that I'll be any help.
( but the implication that he'll try is met with such relief that Yuri can't take it back. his lips thin back into a line as Chris cavalierly describes Victor's (Silverstar? no, definitely Victor, at least to Yuri) downward spiral. the drinking, well, Yuri's neither surprised nor judgemental, not really. that's a fairly normal response. he could probably do without the video footage and the painful confusion it sets writhing horribly in and out of Yuri's ribs; Yuri sets it aside, deflects, because he's good at that. )
Well, his form isn't half bad, at least.
( he almost manages to sidetrack Chris with that.
before Yuri can talk himself out of this he finds himself packing away his tools and cleaning himself off, changing to well-worn but thankfully clean clothing. "good to see you're back to your old form," Chris teases; Yuri rolls his eyes and flicks ice-cold water at him with the correction of: )
Better than old form, and my eyes are up here.
( Chris has finished off the last of Yuri's readily-edible food. Yuri firmly removes a brown glass bottle from the speedster's hands as he pops the cork from it to take a curious sniff. before the sun gets lower than the treeline they're off. Chris' speed certainly hasn't slackened since the last time he'd toted Yuri around; now, more than then, Yuri feels like he's racing towards his own destruction. he fights the anxiety back as best he can, trying to focus on being annoyed that it takes Chris barely two hours to get them back to the city where it's a solid three-day hike for Yuri on his own feet. it's a comfortable sort of pettiness.
they wind through to the seedier parts of town. neither of them really fit here, Chris a little too high-tone and Yuri decidedly too realistic in his interpretation of Hipster Lumberjack, but for once he finds that the curious stares don't bother him. it's that same focus as putting on his mask and fronting up to a situation, like there's no room for his anxiety to come out to play. Yuri wraps that confidence around him as they duck into a bar. Chris pays the cover charge. Chris pays for their drinks, too, though he looks slightly annoyed when Yuri immediately and calmly orders a triple of the most expensive whisky the place stocks. Chris leads him to a table out of the ring of dim lighting. Chris knows the bar's owner by now and they have a quiet little conversation, while Yuri watches.
they've arrived a little early for Victor to be here, it would seem, and that's just fine. by the time Yuri's halfway down his glass he's learned a lot. every now and then Chris gives him a curious look, or tries to engage him in a chat, but Yuri's focused now. he watches the stage, and the room, and he waits.
he stays waiting and quiet until the very end of Victor's set and then he leans in to inform Chris that Chris needs to part with more money tonight. it can go on Yuri's tab; if he can somehow shake Victor out of this mess he's worked himself into, he thinks they'll be more than even, after all. Chris seems both shocked and awed at Yuri's too-calm suggestion and maybe that's what gets him to go along with it. he forks over a frankly exorbitant amount of cash to the delighted club owner, who discretely ushers Yuri to one of the cough-ahem-private booths-ahem-cough.
"this better work," Chris tells him as he goes, staring sadly at his much-reduced wallet.
Yuri doesn't sit down when he gets past the booth's curtains. he does spend some time admiring the wallpaper at the back with a sort of morbid fascination; it must have taken a lot of concentration to get it all, ah, laid to match up. there's a lot of detail. a lot of very specific, um, poses.
he doesn't turn when the curtain brushes aside and someone enters, and it's only partly because he's afraid that Victor won't be the one to show up, as requested. Yuri can't honestly say he thinks it's better if he is. but at the very least he supposes it will expedite things a little. )
( Victor doesn't come. the young man who steps inside of unfairly attractive in his own right. tall, athletic, sunshine blond to Victor's silver platinum. he studies Yuri, an unfamiliar form, and smiles, standing there in his outfit designed to emphasise his allure. it certainly highlights his form, and the soft, apologetic smile that turns his lips up at the corners. there's an appalling amount of cash in his hand, neatly rolled. he watches Yuri through his lashes.
oh, he thinks, he hopes this is one of the ones who stays. there are those he enjoys dancing for more than others. it was always curious learning which wouldn't leave.
sorry to be the bearer of unhappy news, sweetheart. the man you were asking for had a previous engagement. he smiles, and he means what he says. Victor never takes private requests. Victor always claims he has a standing engagement with his dog.
this young man approaches Yuri knowing that one of the club bouncers stands by the curtain. that he has a panic button tucked by his hip, on Victor's insistence. that Victor had vouched anyone who'd come in with Chris would be legitimate: there should be nothing to fear. and so he's confident and he's curious as he presents Yuri with the money; apology and offer, all at once.
anyone else? i promise, we'd love the chance to perform for you, on the house. because Victor always forwarded them the cash that would have been his, and he pays the greedy club owner down, and he walks out free. free from what he'd done once, curious, before part of him had rebelled at the false intimacy. it was the only time he's used his powers to influence someone in this place, and he let him believe Victor was a let down, disappointing in the immediate range, impressive only when there on stage.
Victor could afford it. what a way to spend his money, but he cares less and less. he funds the neighbourhood projects and the neighbourhood liquor store, through two entirely different means. whenever someone new thought to ask for his private attention, he paid for that, too.
money, he supposes, really does make the world go round. and in his caustic opinions, he's been a public and private whore before: doing this would be more respectable, in various ways.
but he doesn't want to. and so while Yuri is approached by the young man who'd volunteered to intercede, Victor slips out the back. glitter down his neck, eyeshadow dramatic, eyeliner on point. his comfy knit cap with the two almost ears on top pulled down over his hair. his coat wrapped around him tight, his scarf hiding his lower face, gloves hiding the painted nails and glitter strewn decorations of his skin. he heads out, watchful but tired, the adrenaline fading, the endorphins settling into a pleasant buzz that dies slowly, a candle burnt at both ends. heads toward home by hopping lyft at the corner, smiling and asking bright questions in Russian and broken English. it keeps the conversation focused on a safe fantasy. when did he get here? where was he from?
my English is improving. do you like dogs? i do. they are good creatures. they are loyal. they know love.
he extols Makkachin until he's let out at the corner address that isn't his, and he waves when he tips the driver on his phone. goodnight, he thinks, and good riddance to whatever Chris had in mind this time. )
( Yuri turns, and he regards the newcomer steadily for a long moment, probing for some kind of recognition. Silverstar was a master of disguise, after all; it's not impossible that he'd switch faces for this. but Yuri's heart knows: there's no matching light sitting painfully in the other man's chest. Yuri gives him a neutral sort of smile and shrug, tells him to keep the money; says he wasn't really here for a dance anyway. just a chance to meet up with an old acquaintance without interfering in his routine too much.
he walks out of the booth and right over to Chris, who curses softly. "he must have slipped out; I don't know where he'd go." it must be galling to admit - even professionally the world had known that Silverstar and the Scarlet Blaze had been good working friends, at least - but Yuri just shrugs. he's not entirely surprised.
he is a little relieved. )
He has to go home eventually, for Makkachin if nothing else. Take me there.
( this Chris balks at slightly but Yuri is unyielding, steady as a glacier and with all the weight of one supporting his spine. "I'm going to start charging you transportation fees," Chris grumbles. Yuri names his callout fee as a counter and Chris shuts up.
there doesn't seem to be anybody home in the bare minutes later when they arrive: good. again Chris hesitates, admitting that he doesn't know how to get around all of Victor's security, that he doesn't even have a spare key. )
You can get in touch with my handler, right? Tell Phichit that his highschool sweetheart's in town for the weekend and needs to be shown around.
( it's not a code formalised between them but Phichit's smart. he'll put it together in no time flat - does, predictably, and chatters away to Yuri even as he works at the security system when Chris holds his phone camera up. Phichit's skills have been honed further than ever. Yuri wonders what he's been digging for. "you'll have to take care of the physical lock," he points out cheerfully enough, "but that won't be a problem, right? good luck, Yuri. and don't be such a stranger next time!"
they're running out of time; Yuri can feel it even as he gets the lock free and replies a vague affirmative. he gives Chris a meaningful look. Chris takes a deep breath and nods, cautious. "be careful, Frostflower. he's a little-- erratic.")
I'll be fine. Go on; I can handle it.
( possibly. the sense of urgency increases and Yuri shoos Chris away after he gives Makkachin one last pat. the dog's confused why these people are here and her master's not, but they're familiar. one more than the other, but still familiar enough. Yuri relocks the door once he's inside and takes a seat on the couch, lights off, obediently playing with Makkachin's rope toy. he has no basis for the feeling that has his heart hammering more wildly with every passing second, sure that it's on the brink of this encounter; he might be here for hours before Victor comes home. but that's okay. one of the many things Yuri has learned is the patience of hunting wild things. )
( he has had his home violated before, only months earlier. seven? eight? a memory that's scabbed over, ugly, and refused to quite readily scar. but it's still a memory that thrums through him, the balance between fighting hard enough for himself, and not fighting too hard. not allowing people who are considered more expendable than he was, in the eyes of those who'd been jabbing him with needles and bundling him off. as leverage against a man who wasn't what they thought he was.
ironic, still. he'd been kidnapped in truth for the fears he'd helped stoke.
but it's a memory that has left him jittery. his system looks for any brush, and his phone vibrates, little more than a time notification. nothing else comes through. in most cases, that could be nothing but a blip; someone testing themselves out against a network because they can. he's dealt with people who loved to involve themselves like that; teenagers, young women and men in their twenties. younger than he is, or older. when do people decide to stop taking risks?
it's too individual, he thinks, and his heart hammers in his chest as he stands outside his building. it is probably nothing, but Makkachin. his every thought circles around to her, the only part of his life worth preserving. he feels in some part of himself that when her age catches up with her, his youth will finally fail on him. it doesn't seem a bad bargain, really. kind of a misplaced, macabre loyalty.
but he remembers feeling helpless. he remembers the bite of a needle seeming so inconsequential, the numbers of faceless people who'd been there, the fight he'd managed before his body couldn't respond. he remembers waking up tied up and under the spotlights, informed that he was the bargaining piece for Frostflower's destruction. he remembers the sound of that beating, one of the many neat little pieces in his discombobulated nightmares.
we win. that'd been the feeling that night, before Victor had felt the drugs slip enough that he could act. before he'd...
it is the hardest thing for him to reason through what the numbers on his phone mean. the anger that balances against the fear, and then overwhelms it. the anger that cools into something he wraps tightly around himself, calm no matter how his heart is trying to run right out of his chest. he has to think. has to act logically. this is another violation if it's even anything, and it's not one he was expecting, no phoning ahead. unlike when Georgi or Yakov came by; unlike when Yura stopped in, berating his patheticness. Silverstar is dead. and yes, Victor had said, did you figure that out just now? Yura had left angrier than he'd arrived.
it's the place he's allowed Chris into, because Chris has been a friend. he's been fighting harder for Victor than Victor has, and Victor has watched, seeing but unable to find it in him to truly care. letting things slip through his fingers and smiling even as he left anonymous tips on hotlines and in drop boxes, feeding information to the police. never to the association.
he almost calls Georgi. almost asks, but he knows what the cost of asking is. knows that Georgi finds it hard to bear up under Victor anymore. so he pulls the cold anger and fear around himself, and he moves, taking one step after another. summons up another emotion, and lets it pool in the pit of his stomach. feels a different fear electric along his nerve endings, before he accepts that, too.
this is his home, and he did not invite anyone there. he hopes, deep down, this is paranoia. that he'll walk in, ready for something that isn't there. that he'll let himself drop down through layers of his own stifled emotions, lock the door, throw the switches, let his defense system reconstruct and nestle around him with the familiarity of a cocoon. he'll take down the bottle of champagne tucked into his fridge, and pop it; pour himself out a flute and curl up with Makkachin and let the television speak when he has no mind to. take the bottle with him to the bath, and end up spilling half of it on his own chest, uncaring. that's the night he wants; forget about everything, drink until he's insensible, and pass out. waiting for the next dawn with the same lack of enthusiasm as he's greeted the last hundred of them.
he knows every creak in this building. he floats like a ghost; keeps himself visible, because it's too hard, too frightening, to layer skills. keeps his sense of calm reflecting back on himself, until he reaches his landing. and it is with care that he clenches his fists and tries to remember what it felt like, to simply be tired. a good tired, a clean tired.
and he can't quite remember, so he goes for what he can: lassitude. quiet. and a longing for oblivion that makes every movement, every thought an effort. channeling depression because of it's familiarity, and feeling hollow in the aftermath. he leaves a bubble of protection for Makkachin. knows the feeling of her to his own heart, and reaches out, feeling with the light that doesn't feel like it's anything more than a jest at his expense.
and stops, because he finds her, and she is not alone. she is not the only light he touches, and that shocks him badly enough the projection fractures; emotion crumbling away into a sharp spike of shock that he sends, directionless, through the whole building. everyone feels it, some even dead asleep and sitting up with a pounding heart, wondering what is wrong. something is wrong. then for all but Victor, the sensation is gone.
Victor locks down on himself, tighter, tighter, as he stares at the handle of his door. as he backs away, involuntarily. he has never breathed for anyone except him. he has never forced a heart to beat with his, except with him. and he has never healed as deeply, with such desperation, as when he held him dying in his arms, only once because of Victor's actions. Victor feels like his chest is constricting, too tight to breathe, and he knows at least that Makkachin is okay. that with his pounding head and the sudden nausea that accompanies the helpless fluttering n his heart and stomach, that he wants to go forward, and he wants to run away.
you can't be angry enough to hurt her. he takes a step back toward the stairs. this time, not so careful about where he settles his weight. the creak is so small, so inconsequential in the scheme of things.
she still hears him. Makkachin lifts her head and barks, tail wagging, head turned unerringly toward the door. he reaches out, feeling for the familiarity of his light in anyone other than himself, and it's there, more obvious as Makkachin moves. there are two points. there is more than one star in his night sky.
Victor flinches, and he's gone one step too far.
he loses his footing with a slip and a feeling of endless falling, tumbling back down the half flight of stairs between levels. remembering a lifetime of training in order to go with the fall, to not stiffen up. landing in a sprawl with his head cradled in his arms, cursing under his breath, heart hammering too hard, too fast. breathing too fast. he needs to slow down, and he's not sure he remembers how, even as he tries. even as he slams his eyes shut and counts down from one hundred, head throbbing, body aching, lungs burning. breathe. )
( the shock sets a jolt right through Yuri's heart, but in an odd sort of way he's expecting it. he's up and moving before Makkachin is, pacing quiet-footed to the door, and-- there he stops. waits, hands held at his sides in loosely-clenched fists. from here on out he doesn't really have a plan, or much expectation, and five months ago that would have worried him a lot more than it does now. he still worries, of course, because that's Yuri's nature.
as it turns out his worry is justified, if rather misplaced. he can feel Victor on the other side of the door, a gentle kind of magnet. he can feel when Victor steps back and. falls?
inappropriate as it is, Yuri has to repress the urge to laugh.
he unlocks the door without issue and Makkachin bounds out ahead of him. Yuri takes the time to relock the door, just in case, and skitters down the stairs after the poodle, trying to ignore his heart doing backflips in his chest of its own volition. he gets to the puddle of Victor at the landing, immediately taking stock of the situation while Makkachin licks at her master's face helpfully, sighing relief when it seems clear enough that Victor's not seriously hurt. maybe a little concussed at worst. )
Do you always have to be so dramatic?
( crouching carefully, Yuri reaches out to slowly walk his fingers over Victor's skull first, checking for bumps or bleeding. god; he really needs to get control of his heartrate. he takes a second to imagine a cocoon of ice, slow and soothing, until it feels less like he's got a jackhammer working between his ribs. better. easier. )
Hello, Victor. ( what is he supposed to say here? 'i heard you were making an ass of yourself and came to check it out?' ) I suppose I was overdue to pick you up again.
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he doesn't like that sound in Yuri's voice. doesn't know what to do with it, or about it; fingers clutching Makkachin's lead and Victor opening his mouth to make a small noise of protest, one that doesn't become words. he breathes in, closing his eyes. shakes his head. )
That... would be giving me a little too much credit.
( it's a softer statement only by volume. it pulls at the ache in him that knows this could have, should have gone better. and it pulls at the part of him that knows (believes, thinks he understands) why distance has been so useful for the majority of his life. it's been five minutes, and he's already feeling. feeling an edge of a different distress, wanting to apologise again and again, wanting to say he has never seen anything so brave as what Yuri, that idiot did, how it makes it next to impossible to breathe remembering that moment where the bindings at his wrist had started going slack. just like hearing he'd gone down. hearing Phichit's plead across the mutual airwaves.
it makes him remember the tinge of red his world had taken, and just as starkly, how the rage had turned into a monotone sort of clarity. the efficiency of a cruelty only born out of a single minded focus. one he's used before, but never like this. never because he felt like — his heart pounds too hard, his vision narrowing. Victor swallows, locking his legs. any light there had been in his eyes dwindles slowly; dies off, trembling before the face of a series of memories he doesn't know how to process. )
There was never a detailed plan. There wasn't anyone else. There was only me.
( and how inadequate that had proven to be. Silverstar: Sleeper Villain? maybe. he sure feels like one if he allows his thoughts to stray toward dark places. )
This last time, the drugs...
( Makkachin sidles closer, leaning against Victor's leg as his knuckles turn white, he's holding on to the lead so tight. he doesn't step toward Yuri. frankly, the wisest thing is for Yuri to get the hell away from him.
it's safer for Yuri that way. may even be what the silent watchers in the shadows will interfere to ensure if Victor doesn't... he swallows, looking up. looking to Yuri and feeling as pale as he looks, a point of light quietly being overtaken by the shadows. )
I just hoped I could outlast them.
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( more or less.
he's so angry, suddenly, that it's probably just as well Frostflower exists in name only now, all power tapped out. save for desperation, perhaps. that's not what he feels here. sick and hollow and stupid and angry, but not desperate. desperation would require more impetus.
Yuri's ice only exists in his voice right now, sharp crystals of it coalescing along the brittle edges of every word. )
Do you know how many people I left - or put - in danger when I came to you instead? ( he doesn't wait for a reply; he'd made Phichit do the math for him, needing to have the whole picture in each aftermath. ) Eighty-seven. That's the conservative estimate. Robberies and muggings and brawls. Domestics. Car crashes. A kid in a tree. That damn mess at the bank.
( he looks at his hands idly, irreversibly scarred by the last of his own power, then closes them into painful fists. )
That's what I weighed against you, because something was up, and you were doing it on purpose without a plan.
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Let me be the focus of everything that's gone wrong. Let me be the source of everything that's failed and disappointed you. Let it be me. Don't let it be this city. Don't let it be the politics that have made me what i am.
So he nods, once. Finds words he thinks may make it better, by making it worse. )
Yeah. Something like that.
( not much like that at all with context; not much like that at all when what they'd stopped was considered for what it did. Not like that at all when he'd spent weeks in drug trials that couldn't make him less of a weapon. That didn't stop him caring, and didn't stop the desire.
Hate me, he thinks, If that means you're safe. If it gives you more than just yourself to blame.
So he smiles. Tight, no humour in his eyes, his dog whining in audible reflected distress. )
The selfish one to blame for all of this is me.
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powerless to help. too powerless to even deserve the full and proper truth. no, he's not surprised. now he's barely even hurt. )
I don't believe that, ( Yuri states baldly, but it's unimportant. his eyes flicker to the dog at Victor's side and there's thawing of the coldness in his eyes, just a little. ) Makkachin's better than a lie detector.
( and it's for his sake that Yuri steps forward, fingers curling around Victor's on the lead in an attempt to prise that grip a little looser, staring him flatly in those dishonest eyes. )
Lie to me all you want, but give the dog a little breathing room, Victor. C'mon. Slacken off.
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he doesn't move, caught between those two impulses. he shivers, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to listen. not to Yuri, but to Makkachin, whose whining is a plead that Victor can't ignore.
his fingers relax. Makkachin doesn't leave, presses closer. Victor's eyes slide away from Yuri's face to look down at his dog. he's always loved him; and that's been okay. the logical part of him knows that what had happened wasn't something he would fall victim to again, because he learns too fast, too well. but he remembers that distance, the apathy that had set in as a protection, the distance. he doesn't necessarily feel things so deeply all the time that he's worried about being even keeled; it's the depth that had been too much. it had been the depth of his rage, his fear, his frustration, his own helplessness. the fruitless, lovely ache in his heart that had always been beyond him, really.
he looks up, into Frostflower's cold eyes, and the smile fades away. the tiredness he's been doing so much better with settles like a weight dragging down on all his bones, pulling him under. Makkachin is the most real thing in his world; Makkachin, and Frostflower's fingers on his.
Victor drops his hands down, steeling his arms to not tremble. they still do, but not so badly as they would have before. Lie to me all you want.
the truth isn't any prettier. he drops a hand down for Makkachin, fingers spasming as his dog shoves his nose into his palm, licks at his wrist, tries to offer comfort in the ways he knows how. )
Silverstar hit the room with an empathy bomb, for lack of a better term, within seconds of you passing out. Anger, fear, hurt... everyone was brought to their knees. I hear the heroes close enough that they were en route felt it; the closest ones to the arena were incapacitated. It was that overwhelming. I don't know how long that lasted. It felt like hours. It was probably seconds. Then everything went red.
( there is a distance in his voice when he first speaks; one that wavers, because he hasn't processed everything he'd done to find peace. not yet. not for some time later. it's never pleasant being confronted by the extent of his own capacity for violence; or the part of himself that had felt it was so deserved. deserved, and at the same time, felt from a distance. numb to himself. burnt out now in memory by the intensity that haunts his dream. )
No one left that arena uninjured. No one. A whole wing of Providence General had to be cordoned off to handle the influx of criminal patients needing care. That doesn't account for the fatalities. One heart attack, one stroke, several from traumatic injury. Friendly fire, those ones.
( he looks back to Yuri's face, pain hidden somewhere deep in his darkened eyes. he repeats himself from earlier. unlike then, he believes this. he believes this entirely, and it exhausts him, admitting it to the one person he'll never regret saving, even if it'd been in desperation both times. Makkachin whacks his tail once against the ground, trying to jump up, half climb Victor's side in his reaching for his face. Victor moves his arm, inviting his dog to balance his paws off Victor's hip. )
The selfish one to blame for all of this is me.
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he looks at the dog trying desperately to console its master. he looks at Victor's hands where they shake, ever so slightly, barely enough to see unless someone was specifically looking for the signs. Yuri is. despite himself he knows he can't give up his duty of care just yet. not for Victor, after all their ludicrous run-ins. not to a a shellshocked victim too wrapped up in the aftermath to see his horror for what it is.
no one left that arena uninjured.
well, that's more than true enough. with half a sigh Yuri meets Victor's gaze and steps in again. barely a step. not enough for their feet to entirely crowd each other. not enough that Victor doesn't have room to move. just enough to be in anchoring distance. he faces him squarely, a quelling, reassuring hand brief against Makkachin's poll where the dog whines anxiously, the other hand reaching gently for Victor's chin, wanting them to be more or less at eye level. balance. equilibrium. give and take. )
You're an idiot, ( he tells Victor softly, solidly, ) but that doesn't make it your fault. You didn't force people to kidnap you. You didn't force an unholy criminal alliance. You didn't force me to come in, every time. I don't care who you are, Victor; there's only so many things in life you can control. The actions of other people isn't always one of them.
( and Yuri gives him a little shake, fierce but careful. )
The blame for this mess isn't on you.
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that'd been before. when he thought he understood about his own control; before he'd learned in the most dramatic fashion he was vulnerable, and he was capable of being truly, deeply cruel. one arm has made way for Makkachin, his hand finding familiar, curly fur, fingers entangling in it. he still finds himself caught by Yuri. caught and shaken, firm enough to feel, if not to dislodge the thoughts he's not sure how to say. shaken deeper, in a way he doesn't know how to quantify. he's never learned.
no, he forced no one to kidnap him. he rigged it, keeping others out of the way. hell, the first time he'd literally shoved the initial victim back so they got out and he went right on in to negligible danger. that's not on record.
the criminal alliance was what he'd brought up to deaf ears; how he'd learned what his value was, as long as he was useful in politically viable ways. how it was considered his ghost hunt. now it's become his haunting grounds.
Frostflower, and how Victor had been pleased when it'd been him, even against the stacked odds within a given region. Yuri isn't wrong. Victor's always know the variables he couldn't control, as well as guessed at those he could. keep casualties down. calculate risks. walk the edge of the razor that is this lifestyle and accept the bleeding that inevitably comes along with it.
but Yuri's said it. Victor lifts his free hand, resting the tips of his fingers against Yuri's wrist. )
I am the one I couldn't control.
( it's the deepest, rawest confession yet, and for Yuri, it has no real context. if he couldn't control himself, then he is a danger. and maybe, just maybe, it's better to not feel anything at all. (he doesn't believe that. he hurts, and he sorts through it, and he knows he prefers the aching to the numbness, but it isn't always a choice.)
it's a softer confession that follows. the one that really breaks through to what little light he's seen in all this particular horrific darkness. )
The only good thing to come out of that night was you surviving, and I don't even know your name.
( Makkachin rests their head against his side, reassurance by warmth and contact. Victor, who clings to that warmth, swallows past a lump in his throat. he's sorry. he's well and truly sorry to both of them. for not being good enough when he was supposed to have been the best. when he'd arrogantly even believed he was the best. )
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he softens his grip at Victor's chin but doesn't drop the contact. Victor doesn't seem to mind it, after all; he's reaching back out without batting Yuri away. Yuri wouldn't have blamed him. his frown deepens at this new iteration of Victor's repeated theme, not sure what he's getting at. Yuri's not good with people. in honesty, he's never really tried to be. right now he wishes that was different, because reaching out a hand to save Victor is second nature at this point and no matter what he says he gets the feeling that it won't be right.
but he has to try, and try, and try, because otherwise it makes all the rest of it so pointless. )
You survived, too, ( he points out softly, ) That's another good thing. I'd be pretty pissed off with myself if I made it out and you didn't, after all that. I'm sure Makkachin's grateful, too.
( there's a sigh that's been sitting heavily at the back of Yuri's throat; he releases it now to one side, letting his fingertips drop from Victor's face finally without shaking off the other man's own light touch. )
And you do know my name, Victor. The only one that means anything, at least.
( maybe now it's a name with no power behind it, but that's fine. five times it had the power to save this man's life. that makes it worth something. )
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Victor's not even sure if pissed would have been the right word to describe how he'd have felt with himself if Yuri hadn't made it out alive; but it isn't that which made him change his grip for a span of several heartbeats. it's the earnestness behind his words, leaping off his tongue uncensored. )
Every name we have matters. They all mean something.
( but he lets go, right then. tucks his chin in and lets his lips twitch up into a ghost of a smile. lets his eyes close, so he doesn't have to see Frostflower, knowing he won't want to look away. knowing this is goodbye. sayonara. he holds on to Makkachin all the more tightly.
it's tiring. it's exhausting, and he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed now with a bottle of alcohol and see if he can't numb everything all over again. self medication at its finest. )
No matter if it's a name we chose for ourselves or not. They still matter.
( Silverstar. Victor. Failure, for the moment, in the shadowed sanctuary of his mind. his eyes open again, and there is a brightness in the intensity of his look. something that almost seems to glow, but of course, of course, that couldn't be the case. )
You matter, whatever name you go by. Frostflower or anything else.
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And you? Are you happy with the name you chose, Victor?
( he's not really sure why he asks, except that there's still so much that's puzzling about Victor. mysteriously wealthy, despite the lack of clear family connection. certainly a kind a power about him, even if Yuri can't put his finger on it. names are secrets, too.
Yuri's kind of looking forward to burying his. )
Well, remember Frostflower fondly for me. ( he sighs, gaze dropping to the gloves covering his scars. ) I think it's high time he retired and let me get on with the rest of my life.
( as far as jokes go this one probably falls a little flat, but Yuri's always been slightly awkward with humour. )
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Frostflower said not to blame himself. and there's enough that he can't take responsibility for; there are things simply beyond him. Frostflower is correct as far as that goes. then there are the ones he's directly responsible for. the things he can't do again. the things he can't escape. he finally allows Makkachin down, his dog sitting at his feet and leaning heavily against his legs. he smiles, in response to that question. it's a soft smile; one that remembers a time gone hazy with the passing of years. )
They said Starlight was too much like a lullaby.
( in the end, Silverstar had not been the name he chose for himself. it'd been a partial allowance, keeping star in his name, but it had become something of an illusion in and of itself. approved when he was meant to be a star in more than one way.
so he answers Yuri's question, and it doesn't sound like an answer at all. the only name he'd ever chosen for himself was the name he never used. but that fades; its an old memory, and an older hurt. one that had healed clean. one that hadn't left a scar, he thought, until he looked back on it now and wondered why it had been such a stringent demand that a teenager not be allowed to pick his own name. how Starlight hadn't been considered firm enough. too common. too sweet. Frostflower's jest does fall flat, in part because Victor takes it seriously. takes Frostflower serious, eyes brought up to look at his face. he starts forward, catching himself at the last second, hands twitching forward, fingers splayed, as if he'd been about to latch on. he had. it's why he held back, cut himself off.
let it go. )
You're retiring? Right now. In all this? You can't, I mean, you can, I — you're leaving?
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it seems he has a talent for it despite his best efforts, however. )
That's how it is, ( Yuri announces, baldly honest, and delivers another heavy sigh. it hadn't been an easy thing to brace himself for, but there's only so far he can go. ) Unofficially, Frostflower's been dead since the bank. I tapped myself out and there's nothing left, Victor.
( he hadn't been much of a hero before that; now he's got not even power to his name. luckily that's a name he can shed and continue the quiet, uninteresting life of Yuri. )
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better to learn that sooner than later.
he shelves all that; there's both a sense of deep horror and deep sympathy with what Frostflower is telling him. there's nothing left. part of Victor desperately wishes he could switch their positions, relative to powers; another part of him is removed enough to do mental calculations, weigh considerations. )
You near killed yourself at the bank. No one comes back from that and is back at capacity in under six months. Hell, most of us would shut down entirely from a mental block at the very least — wait. You came into that mess completely tapped out?!
( his eyes flash, and for a moment, that almost seems literal. can't be, can it? because as suddenly as it happens, his voice is dropping into a deep incredulity, and he reaches up and fists his hands instead of reaching out to grab hold of Frostflower, to call him an idiot, knowing that it's no different than what he would have done... but he'd been dying for a second time. and not for a good cause: not to save innocents. to save Victor from his oversights, and save their thankless community from its own arrogant mistakes.
he closes his eyes, breathing in deep. calm falls over him by an effort of shutting down his emotional processing. repression, most would say. survival mechanism in recent months, he'd say. when his eyes open, they're a little too bright, but they're calmer. too calm. the distress, the anger, everything is dampened. distant. part of the very effective mask he wore as Silverstar. not processing, but categorizing, tucking away. considering information.
it takes time to recover. but if he'd been entirely tapped out, then what Victor knows had happened would have been impossible. )
It wasn't your hands that cut mine free. ( he turns his wrists over, exposing both to Yuri. ) Recoveries take different time for each person. Coming close to dying twice in however many months isn't speeding yours along at all. We don't even know if what — if that kind of healing isn't part of what's holding you back. Silverstar never was a healer. That power could be suppressing yours until you're as healed as he was wishing — demanding you to be.
( these aren't rushed statements, but ones delivered as a series of quiet, musing statements. he stops, breathing in long. breathing out soft and quiet. )
You deserve the right to live your life the way you want. It's... it's good, if you're brave enough to take that chance, Frostflower. I... I wish you well, in everything you do. But please don't tell yourself it's what you want if it isn't. Justifying a fear to yourself only gives that fear strength.
( words that should be making more of an impact on Victor himself. he seems to realise that much, at least; his calm cracks for a moment, brow furrowing, lips parting with a soft: ah. only he doesn't know how to take that strength away from his own fears. )
At the cost of taking it away from the rest of you, I suppose.
( if he's feeding his own fear of himself, how does he get past that? )
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though he supposes that doesn't really count: Yuri had always run in guns blazing for his sake, of his own free will. more or less.
he wishes he knew why Silverstar kept saving him.
he takes a long, slow breath as Victor's little rant winds down, feeling ice-cold in a way he associates now with death. with control-loss. with grim, determined despair. )
I've run myself dry before, you know. The bank wasn't the first time I found my limit. ( when he was trying to work up to the properly active service he'd craved Yuri had pushed that boundary time and time again. ) But I have never felt like that. Like this. It's, I don't know.
( he really doesn't know how to describe it. Yuri turns his hands over, frowning at them in concentration as he attempts to find words. )
...It's like being off-balance all the time. Like your equilibrium just isn't there any more. ( Yuri looks up, staring into Victor's startlingly blue eyes, trying to convey how serious he is. ) Whatever I managed to find to cut you free was the last of it, Victor. My reserves aren't low; they're just not there. There's nothing left.
( all the years he'd spent building it up out of sheer piqued bloodymindedness, and it's all gone. Yuri's not sure whether to laugh or cry. he twists a bitter little smile instead; it softens slightly for his next statement. )
But I don't regret spending that last of it on you. So don't go doing anything stupid, like blaming yourself. ( reaching out slowly, Yuri takes Victor's hands and turns them palm-down, resting over his own in opposition. a benediction of sorts, though slightly in reverse. ) Do me that favour. Okay?
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( he sounds equally certain. he can't defy death. not true death. Victor doesn't have that arrogance in him, only the will and determination to half kill himself in bringing the other man back from the brink.
for the rest, he listens. catalogues. notates that he may have pushed himself past his limits before, but not to this level. it's not the same. and it doesn't invalidate Victor's own concerns, about that level of crossover, over what his own powers could do, in another powered being. Makkachin wasn't the same.
it's what he says that breaks through again, Victor's expression falling, eyes dropping away, then coming back up. pressing his hands into Frostflowers.
I don't regret spending that last of it on you. )
Frostflower, I... why?
( he can't do that for him. he can't promise the blame tied up in all this won't linger, because it has, and it will. it's not about his powers going dormant, or empty, or whatever Frostflower believed they'd done. it was the rest. Frostflower had used his powers to help people. there'd been backlash. he'd tried his damnedest to die. Victor saved him.
that's nothing for blame. even if he'd taken Frostflower's powers in earnest, even if he had, he wouldn't allow blame for that to hold the way the rest does. because it means Frostflower lives.
and a life without powers is still a life. the alternative had not been Victor's decision to make, but he'd stepped in regardless. stepped in and demanded that Frostflower live, whatever the consequences, he supposes.
and now he's retired, and Frostflower is retiring. and if he were not who he was right now; if he trusted himself, then maybe he'd follow that song in his heart that says wheedle and beg and chase after the man who is stepping away from masked crusades. Victor's never needed a hero in his life; just someone with a drive and passion of their own. screwed up as it probably was, from an outside perspective. Frostflower had worked hard to be what he was. he'd work hard to be whatever he became. Victor wants to applaud that. he wants to hold that close.
he's been taught too much about self denial. as he is now, he figures the best thing he can offer is to follow through on letting go. to let Frostflower walk away and find his life without Victor's... well, without Victor. even if he'd thought, for a while, and thinks now, in a better world, he'd prefer otherwise.
this is the world he has. and he doesn't know what to say; doesn't really want to hear Frostflower say why. instead he moves, sliding his hands up, and he leans in, pulling Frostflower into a hug with his arms over his shoulders that his dog grumbles over, pulling a head clear of knees and legs. knows Frostflower can handle himself just fine without powers; doesn't care. it's a final liberty. one way of saying a long goodbye. )
Live. ( he says by Yuri's ear. ) And be happy, sooner or later. That will make all of this worth it.
( saving Frostflower; learning his limits and his own cruelty. it makes the letting go worth it too, and so he lets go, steps back, steps away. sidles toward the mouth of the alleyway.
he needs to get away, or the next thing he knows, he'll be begging. and he has no right, no right at all. no positive reception to expect. just a thin smile and a smart wave as he's framed by the sunlight from behind, a warmer halo than the one he wore in costume. )
Dasvidaniya, Frostflower.
( i think i might have loved you. )
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it's a funny thing: he knows Victor only in fits and starts, in the oddly-coincidental overlap of their lives that has led them ultimately here. he doesn't know Victor's favourite colour, or what his favourite food is, or why he lives the way he does. he doesn't know if Victor's a native to the city or if he moved here from somewhere else. he doesn't know what Victor does on his days off, or how old his dog is, or whether he has to wear contact lenses to get his eyes that shade of blue - though Yuri rather suspects that he doesn't.
what he does know is that this is Victor's Lying Face. he can feel it right in his chest, a deep and visceral understanding of the man. there is nothing, ostensibly, for Victor to be specifically lying about but there's dishonesty there all the same. or -- maybe it's not dishonesty, per se. maybe it's just a grim kind of uncertainty. Yuri finds he can sort of related to that.
he's too confused and stunned to do anything but accept the embrace, hands awkward and belated as they pat at his back, as they try to grab Victor's shoulders in turn. he's too late for that much but follows after, a step behind. always chasing Victor's shadow, it would seem. usually Victor's much more happy to see him. )
--Victor, who are you?
( there's no good reason for Victor answer him truthfully. Yuri knows enough about the world to recognise that Victor's not some ordinary golden-hearted trust-fund baby with a head for tracking down organised crime. it's the puzzles again, so many of them mixed together and Yuri without so much as the drawing on the box. he takes another step, wanting to say something more, once again running out of words to convey what he means. )
You're not going to do anything stupid, are you? ( what a silly question to pose to the Five-Time World Kidnapping Champion. Yuri nearly bites his tongue in frustration with himself. ) Anything else stupid, I mean. I'm not going to be much use saving you again, you know.
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when he can't make them, then he won't allow himself to mouth the empty words.
so he can answer, instead, what Frostflower asked. who are you? )
I've never really been sure who Victor is. ( he lifts his shoulders, a faint sort of shrug. it's an honest statement, and the shadows soften the quiet sort of uncertainty on his face. Victor is who he has to grow into being. Victor is what he has left, and that's right and rightful, probably. but even lingering like this, the temptation to answer Frostflower's questions, to be drawn in when he needs to get out. to spare them both whatever nonsense he'll start saying. perhaps most to spare himself; to keep his fragile shell from falling completely away. he needs time to shore it up and wear it properly as a guard around his heart. as a conduit for his fear, when he finds a way to handle it.
or finds a way to drown it out. )
But since I've retired, I guess I get to start figuring that out. As for who else?
( and he's been saying it in a thousand ways since they started talking, but he can see it hasn't broken through. his fingers twitch, and his eyes look so tired while he smiles. smiles honestly; not out of any pleasure, but a wry, exhausted humour. he brings his hand to his opposite shoulder, tracing a slow arc up, in front of his face, then down, reaching for the ground. it's a gentle motion, smooth and unhurried. as gentle as the expression that flits across his face when he pulls on his powers to create his oldest, most well known illusion. for a few seconds, it's Silverstar standing there, eyes closed, hand extended toward the ground, reaching for something and finding he wants too much. it's the perfection of his features, his skin, his softened, refined self. it's the posterchild of their city, lovely even here, in the mouth of an alleyway, with his silver, sparkling light. and it all disappears, winks out, that inner lit beauty going abruptly dark, as he says: )
I was a fallen star.
( his illusion drops completely, leaving only Victor standing there, dark circles under his eyes, hair mussy, clothing fitting but not so formtight as Silverstar always appears. his lips are still pulled up in that wry, humourless grin. he'll be hearing about this later. not from Frostflower, though if anyone deserves to upbraid Victor, it's the man he's still standing before. he's so close.
he's just barely far enough away. )
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he wants to ask what do you mean, retired, but Victor's already moving and, oh. the unfinished edges suddenly align. Yuri's left with a picture of the moonlit sky when he'd been expecting something much, much darker. his eyes go wide with shock, unable to believe what's before them; then horror, realising everything he's said and done in front Victor Nikiforov while being unaware of his true nature; to finally narrowing with a simmering anger that's undaunted even by the barely-hidden sorrow in Victor's dimmed eyes.
Yuri spends enough time feeling like the butt of some cosmic joke. and now here's the punchline, after all. he finds himself laughing, bitter and incredulous, as he steps back and shakes his head. how long has he spent chasing this exact falling star? how much of his hard work has been for the dream of maybe, just maybe he'd one day be able to thank Silverstar for just existing at the right time for Yuri to find his inspiration? well, they've certainly met. Yuri's probably left a definite lasting impression, with his rather unprofessional attitude in their last few meetings and the whole 'I just died in your arms' thing, twice.
this isn't how he wanted it to go at all. then again, what in Yuri's life ever has been?
taking another step back Yuri feels his laughter die off, strangled by frustration and disappointment and wave of utter self-loathing that catches even him unprepared. he shakes his head again, denial and disbelief in one. the urge to flee is overwhelming, stronger even than his urge to spit at Victor's feet or punch him in the face. running from his problems is one thing Yuri is very good at it. )
Well, have a good life. Whoever you decide to be.
( it's been a hard few months for Yuri. this is the proverbial straw across the camel's back: he can feel his vision tunnelling, knows he needs to get out of here before he does anything more incredibly stupid than he already has, wishes desperately that he still had the cold comfort of his ice on command. but he doesn't. all he has is an escape route that he's not familiar with, whirling to tread hastily and off-balance through the narrowing twist of the alley. )
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and he leaves, turning and walking down the sidewalk. he doesn't hold hope in that moment. doesn't really want to think about feeling at all, and so he doesn't, not past wishing that if anything, of anything, at least let Frostflower hate him. hate Victor, hate Silverstar, and not himself.
Victor makes it home without comment. without seeing much of his surroundings beyond evaluations for threats, so ingrained he doesn't even think about it. walks up the stairs like he's bowing under the weight of gravity, a moving mountain instead of a man. Makkachin stays at his side, matching stride for stride. whines once or twice, then smiles a canine smile. love is easier for Makkachin to give. love and worry, and it's too good in that moment; Victor reaches out and reassures Makkachin in the ways he doesn't know how to reassure himself. blinks away dry eyes that won't cry, and locks the door behind them. activates the alarms. walks like he's half awake to his kitchen, staring at the fridge, knowing he should take out one of the veggie shakes. anything better for him, really.
turns away, reaching for the cupboard with the alcohol, pulling out whatever his hand finds first. he doesn't bother with a glass. doesn't read the label, because it doesn't matter what it is. carries the bottle by its neck, fisted in one hand as he awkwardly feeds Makkachin, measuring out dry food, adding wet. laying out the dental chew, and topping off his dog's water. turning away at last to half shrug out of whatever layers he can strip down, switching the bottle to his other hand when he's left half dressed. shaking off what had been lingering, temporarily piquing his irritation, until that, too, dulls. he uncaps the bottle as he starts to drink, wanting to not remember, wanting not to dream. the sleeping pills didn't work as well as they used to. and the headaches, the morning after, the fact he never forgot, but he never really dreamed; all that felt earned. like a self flagellation that gives him a measure of what he's earned.
it's escape of a different kind, and he swallows it down with the happy burn of alcohol over his tongue and down his throat and swirling in his stomach. turns on his music, listening to Beethoven by the Sea, and hears nothing but gulls and waves and orchestras until he passes out, surrendered to a blissfully unconsciousness. not restful, but dreamless.
it's a pattern he maintains every night for the next week. he drags himself out of bed, showers, heads to the soup kitchen because even if he looks like hell, he manages to help. manages to learn how to better manage his binge nights, regaining his veneer of sociable cheer, though he listens more than he speaks. it's fine that way. people enjoy being heard. when he has so little worth saying, he can at least listen.
and listening is what helps. how much he hears is a matter he doesn't fully know, but listening is what leads him to agreeing, eventually, to help with another community production. where his eccentricities are explained away as being a trust-fund baby, sweet and not all there. where people talk about the daily problems they face, the upswing in gang related activities, as the city fights its way through its criminal inequilibrium, looking for a balance. he listens, and in spite of himself and what he wants to do, he's learning. piecing things together because he can't kill that part of himself; if anything, it's the one constant companion, louder than the ache of the heart he's shut away.
he learns to laugh again. not because he ever forgot, but he forgets more than passing reason; he slides back into that social space that gives him the cues even if the humour is only skin deep. ends up helping with a burlesque competition running at the end of that month, which is a distraction for the time it takes up; a mixture of strangers and people he knows from the soup kitchen and the community. half how are itinerant gossips, but cunning ones; while Victor allows the people from his old life to drift through when they can bring themselves to, he also drifts on, pulled along by the patterns he starts seeing all over again. caught up in smaller lives and how they connect back to the larger picture. it gets him out to clubs he's only visited for information before, accepting company might be better sometimes than drinking alone. choosing not to acknowledge that he drinks more, flirts more, and takes a certain caustic pleasure in buying the rounds for everyone. it makes him very popular, for a certain demographic.
he's tipsy, pleasantly so, the first time he accepts a soft challenge to dance the pole. which he asks roundaboutly if it isn't really just another flirtation, smile easy and lazy and utterly insincere. still, there's little cost in that early afternoon to standing up and seeing how the strength he still trains himself for (another habit he'd been unable to really break; he keeps in shape, somehow, in spite of the fact he's apparently trying to embalm himself while still alive) lets him handle what these people do, some for part-time work, some for expression. and he's not so bad, though he's making a joke by copying back what his challenger is providing, adding in the ridiculous, sliding and catching himself and falling with practiced ease. and they're all laughing, laughing by the end, Victor sprawled out on the stage with his knees bent and an arm tossed over his eyes.
not so bad, sugar, one of the guys tells him as he's hauled back up to his feet. you should come by classes sometime.
imagining the look on anyone's face if they really knew the fallen posterchild for the city's heroes was taking pole dancing for exercise curls his lips up. he buys a round, considering, and drapes an arm around friendly shoulders.
if I can bring my dog, why not?
Makkachin likes the new routine. there are more hands and more attention, and the sweat of cleaner, social exercise, where for a while Victor is drinking more water and electrolytes than he's drinking alcohol. it's a mood lift, he knows it; exercise always is. it doesn't solve much, but he feels a little, little bit better. )
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by the time he finishes throwing up and finds his way out onto the street proper the skies are darkening. a quick check of his phone reveals a few texts, mostly from his sister. those Yuri responds to, apologising for being so late and assuring her that he's on his way home. there's a ping on his map app and when he opens it Yuri can see that Phichit's been watching, too, finding his way out for him without saying so much. in one breath he's grateful for the concern and assistance.
in the next he's resentful, hating being under surveillance even so benign, hating that even now - when he's worthless, when he ought to be left by the wayside - he's still being kept track of. it makes him feel like some kind of commodity. well, that's what he is, essentially; more accurate to say it's what he was. now, he supposes, they're keeping tabs on him to make sure he doesn't do anything that hurts the Association.
Yuri comes home exhausted, upset, confused, and more than a little desperate.
though he manages to pull down a shift helping out at the bath, his family know him more than well enough to tell something's horribly wrong. they don't press him; Yuri isn't entirely sure that he's grateful for this consideration, this time around. he manages to eat dinner. he lays awake half the night, stewing in his own welter of unhappiness.
he'd spent more than half his life trying to be good enough to back the city's top hero up, and what has he got left of that dream? it's all scar tissue and broken bones and someone else's heartbeat forcing him to continue when Yuri doesn't think he wants to. he hadn't chosen to live and continue to suffer. his aching hands clench into fists beneath his sheets, tears of frustration and a kind of mourning rolling unchecked down his cheeks to soak the pillow below. what's he supposed to do now?
the answer he comes to pleases nobody, which Yuri finds oddly fitting: after all, he's choosing to rebel. he's getting out. he's getting out. sitting around moping amidst his own personal destruction won't bring him anything but more hurt, he knows. his gut tells him that he needs to move, needs to change, and he can't do that here. it's too full of memories. Yuri doesn't want to remember himself. he wants to be himself.
it takes him almost five days to find where he wants to be and by that time his feet are blisters. hiking through forest and hill is far, far different to physical training in an controlled urban environment; even his parkour exercises aren't much help here. he stumbles and trips and scares away the wildlife with his city-slicker clumsiness. that'll have to change, if Yuri wants to survive: Yuri's brought only brought the most limited of survival basics with him. no long-term store of food. no real weapons. a phone, yes, but not his phone; he hasn't even turned it on to activate since he bought it. paid cash, of course. harder to track. Yuri doesn't want to be found, not until he's dead or ready to face the world.
it's his dog he misses the most. solitude Yuri craves; loneliness is a different beast, and he'd underestimated how much an animal's companionship could salve him. but bringing Kenta with him wouldn't have been a kindness to either of them. Yuri's not sure how he'll survive out here himself, let alone support another life, and Ken-chan's a spoiled city boy, even moreso than his owner. he'll be better off back home.
the months pass. Yuri barely keeps track of them, save to note the changing temperatures and the difference it brings to his new world. he learns how to walk through the undergrowth silently; learns to set lures and traps; learns to kill, even, though he never takes any pleasure in it. he learns where the nearest town is and what he can trade there. he learns many, many things; about the world, and the forest, and himself. )
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shockingly, Chris doesn't flirt around the point for long. it's a sign of his exhaustion, Yuri thinks then corrects himself: no, desperation. Chris is desperate. and if Chris is desperate, he's not sharing that alone. something is Heavily Afoot.
what do they think Yuri will be able to do about it?
he's tight-lipped and hard-eyed as he listens to Chris' drawl about what he refers to as The Situation. "my, Frostflower, this certainly is an interesting look for you. i'm a little jealous in all honesty. my beard never grows quite that lush." that's the extent of the pleasantries Chris allows himself before sighing and sobering. Yuri wonders why he'd never before noticed the little red glow that comes into the older hero's eyes when he really focuses. "as wonderful as the foothill air is, when are you coming back to us? you're greatly missed, you know."
Yuri allows himself one sardonic upcurve of an eyebrow.
"don't give me that look. it's the truth." and he feels that Chris isn't lying, even if he's hiding meanings behind his words. a political game, even out here. "fine. i don't have time to waste and neither do you. The Situation is as follows: crime in the city, blah blah blah, everyone's overworked, blah blah blah. that's not news. but there's something simmering under our beloved little city, dear Frostflower, and the hole left by yourself and Silverstar's not been totally filled. it was big news, after all. the little hero that could, taking down the bigwigs; the hero's king, pulling out power never even heard of and retiring right after it." )
So you want my autograph, is that it?
( Chris doesn't hide a roll of his eyes. "please. I have enough money, even though that'd be worth a fair bit these days." at Yuri's disbelieving snort he laughs. "oh yes. you're more popular than you know." )
I've head sayings about this, ( Yuri muses, ) Something about absences and fondness?
( "maybe something like that," and there's an edge to Chris' tone now that Yuri wonders at. he thinks about probing it but senses that this is going to be a long conversation no matter what Chris says about his time being precious. Yuri sighs, rolling back to his feet, and gives Chris a little wave to follow him as he heads over to his little handbuilt cabin. there's bread and savoury jam and some cold meat; he makes a couple of sandwiches as Chris continues, and Chris doesn't comment on the rusticity of the food as he accepts it with a certain relief. "but crime's always been the problem. even when it changes and tries to find new shadows to expand, we're used to that. I'm not here to call you back for that line of work." )
Good, because I distinctly remember retiring.
( Chris tuts at him, wagging a finger before daintily licking caramelised onion off the end of it. "technically you're not supposed to just walk away from the city and get your handler to put together a puzzle with your resignation in it, but I'll let that slide," he says, having done exactly the opposite of that. "no: I'm here on a more...personal mission. and it galls me like hell, I'll have you know, but I honestly think you're the only one with a chance of pulling it off."
there's a definite dissatisfaction to Chris' small frown. maybe Yuri's a sadist at heart, but he has to admit that he sort of likes the look of it. or maybe that's just the sound of his carefully-constructed peace beginning to splinter all around him... )
Fine. Spit it out, Chris. I have a lot to do, and I don't know if you've noticed, but winter is coming.
( the petulance takes on an edge of withering disdain as Yuri hides a small smirk, but both of them are soon serious enough again. "it's Silverstar," Chris states bluntly. Yuri physically recoils before he checks himself. "he's...off the rails, totally. I thought I'd been getting through to him but it just gets worse and worse, and I'm at a total loss, Frostflower. he's going to kill himself in the most pathetic, cliched way if it keeps going on like this." the distress he's been keeping in check is revealed now, a hand raking through his bleached hair, not quite making eye contact. "I've tried everything." )
What makes you think I'll have any better luck?
( "I don't." he sounds almost waspish. "I'm just clutching at straws here. besides, he saved your life. twice. isn't it time you returned the favour?" )
To be fair, I sort of saved his. It's not my fault he was playing at being a normal idiot instead of a superpowered one.
( "Frostflower, I'm serious. we're going to lose him, even more than we have, and nothing I've been doing will stop it. I am begging you," and Yuri's startled when Chris does bow his head, hands palm down on the rough decking, discomfort and -- another shocking realisation -- grief heavy in his shoulders. "I will take all the help I can get at this point. please. please help me try and bring him back, to life itself if not the life he had before everything went sideways."
it's so earnest and sincere that Yuri's quiet for long minutes. his head and heart war with each other, with themselves; he looks out almost longingly at the glade his little home faces, hearing the birdsong and the last-ditch chirring of the cicadas. this time of day brings the full force of the sun's heat to the place where they sit. it's a beautiful place. Yuri honestly loves it, for all he's still not certain how long he'll stay. it's done wonders at healing his broken pieces, or at least at propping them up together so they can heal themselves. he rubs a hand over his face, fingertips scratching the itch of sweat in his beard, and considers.
Silverstar, in trouble. five months ago Yuri wouldn't have hesitated, though he'd still have doubted how much use he could be. now it's all twisted and desperate, a complicated knot that sits in his chest, devouring its own tail like the mythical ouroboros. Victor, in trouble. five months ago Yuri hadn't hesitated even though he ought to have, and look at what it's brought them. both wrecked and off-centre.
(both alive, a sharp thought reminds him. Yuri sighs.) )
What are we dealing with here, Chris? People aren't my strong point. I don't know that I'll be any help.
( but the implication that he'll try is met with such relief that Yuri can't take it back. his lips thin back into a line as Chris cavalierly describes Victor's (Silverstar? no, definitely Victor, at least to Yuri) downward spiral. the drinking, well, Yuri's neither surprised nor judgemental, not really. that's a fairly normal response. he could probably do without the video footage and the painful confusion it sets writhing horribly in and out of Yuri's ribs; Yuri sets it aside, deflects, because he's good at that. )
Well, his form isn't half bad, at least.
( he almost manages to sidetrack Chris with that.
before Yuri can talk himself out of this he finds himself packing away his tools and cleaning himself off, changing to well-worn but thankfully clean clothing. "good to see you're back to your old form," Chris teases; Yuri rolls his eyes and flicks ice-cold water at him with the correction of: )
Better than old form, and my eyes are up here.
( Chris has finished off the last of Yuri's readily-edible food. Yuri firmly removes a brown glass bottle from the speedster's hands as he pops the cork from it to take a curious sniff. before the sun gets lower than the treeline they're off. Chris' speed certainly hasn't slackened since the last time he'd toted Yuri around; now, more than then, Yuri feels like he's racing towards his own destruction. he fights the anxiety back as best he can, trying to focus on being annoyed that it takes Chris barely two hours to get them back to the city where it's a solid three-day hike for Yuri on his own feet. it's a comfortable sort of pettiness.
they wind through to the seedier parts of town. neither of them really fit here, Chris a little too high-tone and Yuri decidedly too realistic in his interpretation of Hipster Lumberjack, but for once he finds that the curious stares don't bother him. it's that same focus as putting on his mask and fronting up to a situation, like there's no room for his anxiety to come out to play. Yuri wraps that confidence around him as they duck into a bar. Chris pays the cover charge. Chris pays for their drinks, too, though he looks slightly annoyed when Yuri immediately and calmly orders a triple of the most expensive whisky the place stocks. Chris leads him to a table out of the ring of dim lighting. Chris knows the bar's owner by now and they have a quiet little conversation, while Yuri watches.
they've arrived a little early for Victor to be here, it would seem, and that's just fine. by the time Yuri's halfway down his glass he's learned a lot. every now and then Chris gives him a curious look, or tries to engage him in a chat, but Yuri's focused now. he watches the stage, and the room, and he waits.
he stays waiting and quiet until the very end of Victor's set and then he leans in to inform Chris that Chris needs to part with more money tonight. it can go on Yuri's tab; if he can somehow shake Victor out of this mess he's worked himself into, he thinks they'll be more than even, after all. Chris seems both shocked and awed at Yuri's too-calm suggestion and maybe that's what gets him to go along with it. he forks over a frankly exorbitant amount of cash to the delighted club owner, who discretely ushers Yuri to one of the cough-ahem-private booths-ahem-cough.
"this better work," Chris tells him as he goes, staring sadly at his much-reduced wallet.
Yuri doesn't sit down when he gets past the booth's curtains. he does spend some time admiring the wallpaper at the back with a sort of morbid fascination; it must have taken a lot of concentration to get it all, ah, laid to match up. there's a lot of detail. a lot of very specific, um, poses.
he doesn't turn when the curtain brushes aside and someone enters, and it's only partly because he's afraid that Victor won't be the one to show up, as requested. Yuri can't honestly say he thinks it's better if he is. but at the very least he supposes it will expedite things a little. )
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oh, he thinks, he hopes this is one of the ones who stays. there are those he enjoys dancing for more than others. it was always curious learning which wouldn't leave.
sorry to be the bearer of unhappy news, sweetheart. the man you were asking for had a previous engagement. he smiles, and he means what he says. Victor never takes private requests. Victor always claims he has a standing engagement with his dog.
this young man approaches Yuri knowing that one of the club bouncers stands by the curtain. that he has a panic button tucked by his hip, on Victor's insistence. that Victor had vouched anyone who'd come in with Chris would be legitimate: there should be nothing to fear. and so he's confident and he's curious as he presents Yuri with the money; apology and offer, all at once.
anyone else? i promise, we'd love the chance to perform for you, on the house. because Victor always forwarded them the cash that would have been his, and he pays the greedy club owner down, and he walks out free. free from what he'd done once, curious, before part of him had rebelled at the false intimacy. it was the only time he's used his powers to influence someone in this place, and he let him believe Victor was a let down, disappointing in the immediate range, impressive only when there on stage.
Victor could afford it. what a way to spend his money, but he cares less and less. he funds the neighbourhood projects and the neighbourhood liquor store, through two entirely different means. whenever someone new thought to ask for his private attention, he paid for that, too.
money, he supposes, really does make the world go round. and in his caustic opinions, he's been a public and private whore before: doing this would be more respectable, in various ways.
but he doesn't want to. and so while Yuri is approached by the young man who'd volunteered to intercede, Victor slips out the back. glitter down his neck, eyeshadow dramatic, eyeliner on point. his comfy knit cap with the two almost ears on top pulled down over his hair. his coat wrapped around him tight, his scarf hiding his lower face, gloves hiding the painted nails and glitter strewn decorations of his skin. he heads out, watchful but tired, the adrenaline fading, the endorphins settling into a pleasant buzz that dies slowly, a candle burnt at both ends. heads toward home by hopping lyft at the corner, smiling and asking bright questions in Russian and broken English. it keeps the conversation focused on a safe fantasy. when did he get here? where was he from?
my English is improving. do you like dogs? i do. they are good creatures. they are loyal. they know love.
he extols Makkachin until he's let out at the corner address that isn't his, and he waves when he tips the driver on his phone. goodnight, he thinks, and good riddance to whatever Chris had in mind this time. )
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he walks out of the booth and right over to Chris, who curses softly. "he must have slipped out; I don't know where he'd go." it must be galling to admit - even professionally the world had known that Silverstar and the Scarlet Blaze had been good working friends, at least - but Yuri just shrugs. he's not entirely surprised.
he is a little relieved. )
He has to go home eventually, for Makkachin if nothing else. Take me there.
( this Chris balks at slightly but Yuri is unyielding, steady as a glacier and with all the weight of one supporting his spine. "I'm going to start charging you transportation fees," Chris grumbles. Yuri names his callout fee as a counter and Chris shuts up.
there doesn't seem to be anybody home in the bare minutes later when they arrive: good. again Chris hesitates, admitting that he doesn't know how to get around all of Victor's security, that he doesn't even have a spare key. )
You can get in touch with my handler, right? Tell Phichit that his highschool sweetheart's in town for the weekend and needs to be shown around.
( it's not a code formalised between them but Phichit's smart. he'll put it together in no time flat - does, predictably, and chatters away to Yuri even as he works at the security system when Chris holds his phone camera up. Phichit's skills have been honed further than ever. Yuri wonders what he's been digging for. "you'll have to take care of the physical lock," he points out cheerfully enough, "but that won't be a problem, right? good luck, Yuri. and don't be such a stranger next time!"
they're running out of time; Yuri can feel it even as he gets the lock free and replies a vague affirmative. he gives Chris a meaningful look. Chris takes a deep breath and nods, cautious. "be careful, Frostflower. he's a little-- erratic." )
I'll be fine. Go on; I can handle it.
( possibly. the sense of urgency increases and Yuri shoos Chris away after he gives Makkachin one last pat. the dog's confused why these people are here and her master's not, but they're familiar. one more than the other, but still familiar enough. Yuri relocks the door once he's inside and takes a seat on the couch, lights off, obediently playing with Makkachin's rope toy. he has no basis for the feeling that has his heart hammering more wildly with every passing second, sure that it's on the brink of this encounter; he might be here for hours before Victor comes home. but that's okay. one of the many things Yuri has learned is the patience of hunting wild things. )
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ironic, still. he'd been kidnapped in truth for the fears he'd helped stoke.
but it's a memory that has left him jittery. his system looks for any brush, and his phone vibrates, little more than a time notification. nothing else comes through. in most cases, that could be nothing but a blip; someone testing themselves out against a network because they can. he's dealt with people who loved to involve themselves like that; teenagers, young women and men in their twenties. younger than he is, or older. when do people decide to stop taking risks?
it's too individual, he thinks, and his heart hammers in his chest as he stands outside his building. it is probably nothing, but Makkachin. his every thought circles around to her, the only part of his life worth preserving. he feels in some part of himself that when her age catches up with her, his youth will finally fail on him. it doesn't seem a bad bargain, really. kind of a misplaced, macabre loyalty.
but he remembers feeling helpless. he remembers the bite of a needle seeming so inconsequential, the numbers of faceless people who'd been there, the fight he'd managed before his body couldn't respond. he remembers waking up tied up and under the spotlights, informed that he was the bargaining piece for Frostflower's destruction. he remembers the sound of that beating, one of the many neat little pieces in his discombobulated nightmares.
we win. that'd been the feeling that night, before Victor had felt the drugs slip enough that he could act. before he'd...
it is the hardest thing for him to reason through what the numbers on his phone mean. the anger that balances against the fear, and then overwhelms it. the anger that cools into something he wraps tightly around himself, calm no matter how his heart is trying to run right out of his chest. he has to think. has to act logically. this is another violation if it's even anything, and it's not one he was expecting, no phoning ahead. unlike when Georgi or Yakov came by; unlike when Yura stopped in, berating his patheticness. Silverstar is dead. and yes, Victor had said, did you figure that out just now? Yura had left angrier than he'd arrived.
it's the place he's allowed Chris into, because Chris has been a friend. he's been fighting harder for Victor than Victor has, and Victor has watched, seeing but unable to find it in him to truly care. letting things slip through his fingers and smiling even as he left anonymous tips on hotlines and in drop boxes, feeding information to the police. never to the association.
he almost calls Georgi. almost asks, but he knows what the cost of asking is. knows that Georgi finds it hard to bear up under Victor anymore. so he pulls the cold anger and fear around himself, and he moves, taking one step after another. summons up another emotion, and lets it pool in the pit of his stomach. feels a different fear electric along his nerve endings, before he accepts that, too.
this is his home, and he did not invite anyone there. he hopes, deep down, this is paranoia. that he'll walk in, ready for something that isn't there. that he'll let himself drop down through layers of his own stifled emotions, lock the door, throw the switches, let his defense system reconstruct and nestle around him with the familiarity of a cocoon. he'll take down the bottle of champagne tucked into his fridge, and pop it; pour himself out a flute and curl up with Makkachin and let the television speak when he has no mind to. take the bottle with him to the bath, and end up spilling half of it on his own chest, uncaring. that's the night he wants; forget about everything, drink until he's insensible, and pass out. waiting for the next dawn with the same lack of enthusiasm as he's greeted the last hundred of them.
he knows every creak in this building. he floats like a ghost; keeps himself visible, because it's too hard, too frightening, to layer skills. keeps his sense of calm reflecting back on himself, until he reaches his landing. and it is with care that he clenches his fists and tries to remember what it felt like, to simply be tired. a good tired, a clean tired.
and he can't quite remember, so he goes for what he can: lassitude. quiet. and a longing for oblivion that makes every movement, every thought an effort. channeling depression because of it's familiarity, and feeling hollow in the aftermath. he leaves a bubble of protection for Makkachin. knows the feeling of her to his own heart, and reaches out, feeling with the light that doesn't feel like it's anything more than a jest at his expense.
and stops, because he finds her, and she is not alone. she is not the only light he touches, and that shocks him badly enough the projection fractures; emotion crumbling away into a sharp spike of shock that he sends, directionless, through the whole building. everyone feels it, some even dead asleep and sitting up with a pounding heart, wondering what is wrong. something is wrong. then for all but Victor, the sensation is gone.
Victor locks down on himself, tighter, tighter, as he stares at the handle of his door. as he backs away, involuntarily. he has never breathed for anyone except him. he has never forced a heart to beat with his, except with him. and he has never healed as deeply, with such desperation, as when he held him dying in his arms, only once because of Victor's actions. Victor feels like his chest is constricting, too tight to breathe, and he knows at least that Makkachin is okay. that with his pounding head and the sudden nausea that accompanies the helpless fluttering n his heart and stomach, that he wants to go forward, and he wants to run away.
you can't be angry enough to hurt her. he takes a step back toward the stairs. this time, not so careful about where he settles his weight. the creak is so small, so inconsequential in the scheme of things.
she still hears him. Makkachin lifts her head and barks, tail wagging, head turned unerringly toward the door. he reaches out, feeling for the familiarity of his light in anyone other than himself, and it's there, more obvious as Makkachin moves. there are two points. there is more than one star in his night sky.
Victor flinches, and he's gone one step too far.
he loses his footing with a slip and a feeling of endless falling, tumbling back down the half flight of stairs between levels. remembering a lifetime of training in order to go with the fall, to not stiffen up. landing in a sprawl with his head cradled in his arms, cursing under his breath, heart hammering too hard, too fast. breathing too fast. he needs to slow down, and he's not sure he remembers how, even as he tries. even as he slams his eyes shut and counts down from one hundred, head throbbing, body aching, lungs burning. breathe. )
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as it turns out his worry is justified, if rather misplaced. he can feel Victor on the other side of the door, a gentle kind of magnet. he can feel when Victor steps back and. falls?
inappropriate as it is, Yuri has to repress the urge to laugh.
he unlocks the door without issue and Makkachin bounds out ahead of him. Yuri takes the time to relock the door, just in case, and skitters down the stairs after the poodle, trying to ignore his heart doing backflips in his chest of its own volition. he gets to the puddle of Victor at the landing, immediately taking stock of the situation while Makkachin licks at her master's face helpfully, sighing relief when it seems clear enough that Victor's not seriously hurt. maybe a little concussed at worst. )
Do you always have to be so dramatic?
( crouching carefully, Yuri reaches out to slowly walk his fingers over Victor's skull first, checking for bumps or bleeding. god; he really needs to get control of his heartrate. he takes a second to imagine a cocoon of ice, slow and soothing, until it feels less like he's got a jackhammer working between his ribs. better. easier. )
Hello, Victor. ( what is he supposed to say here? 'i heard you were making an ass of yourself and came to check it out?' ) I suppose I was overdue to pick you up again.
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