Yuuri keeps the door knob turned as he pulls it closed behind him. The apartment is dark and silent, so he steps lightly, toes off his shoes, and leaves them with his keys and bag by the door. If he’s lucky, he can avoid waking Phichit.
As he tiptoes through the living room, he can see a thin strip of light illuminating the hall, signalling that his roommate is still up despite the late hour. Yuuri tries to hop through to his room anyway, avoiding the spots on the floor that he knows will screech.
He reaches out to open the bedroom door.
A hinge whines behind him, and he’s trapped in a dim gold spotlight.
“Yuuri,” Phichit calls. “Did you forget we have a presentation in the morning?”
Yuuri winces. He turns to see Phichit casting a frumpy shadow along the hall in his baggy red pajamas. “I didn’t forget,” he says. “Sorry. I just lost track of time.”
“I was almost impressed.” Phichit leans against the side of the door. He’s backlit, but what Yuuri can see of his face is decidedly not impressed. “I thought for sure weren’t coming home at all tonight.”
Yuuri shrugs, glad that Phichit probably can’t see him blush. Dinner had been wonderful. Victor was charming, as usual. The only thing different from the other dinners was that Victor had talked him into dessert, and then coffee, and, when the coffee turned out to be a bit Irish, he’d insisted on driving Yuuri home.
“I saw the Cadillac pull up outside,” Phichit teases. “Not up for taking the helicopter tonight, Miss Steele?”
“Phichit,” Yuuri groans. The romance novel heroine jokes are getting old. “I’m sorry I was out so late. You didn’t need to stay up for me.”
“You’re forgiven,” Phichit says, smiling as he waves Yuuri’s apologies away. “But next time at least make the waiting worth my while.”
He disappears back into his room, and the light goes out. Yuuri finally escapes into his own sanctuary. He collapses back onto the bed, still clothed. He can smell the musky florals of Victor’s cologne clinging to the collar of his shirt, where Victor’s arm had curled across his shoulder on the way home.
He pulls the fabric to his nose and inhales, then drops it quickly. What is wrong with him? They’ve been on five dinners now – dates, Yuuri. They’re called dates. – and it’s everything he could have wished for, but he still can’t take it seriously.
They’re like teenagers. They hold hands under the table at the restaurant, legs entwined, and bend their heads close until their foreheads touch, speaking into the other’s ear over the clink of silverware and the sound of violins.
There have been so many moments already – Victor, holding the door of his Maserati, “Would you like a ride, Yuuri?”; Victor, slanting their hips together on the dance floor as his eyes sparkle in the dizzying light of a crystal chandelier; Victor, his breath hot on Yuuri’s cheek as he leans in, only for Yuuri to turn his head.
It’s not that Yuuri doesn’t want it. Of course he does. But he can’t silence the voice in the back of his mind screaming why? Why him? And, worst of all, how? How could he possibly be good enough for Victor Nikiforov, when he wasn’t good enough for N-Corp? It haunts him, hanging over every moment.
The lights on the clock by his bed blink, the double-zeros of one AM staring him down in accusation. Phichit was right. He has a presentation in the morning. He needs to get up, get out of his dinner clothes, and get some rest. The feeling of Victor’s fingers still lingers, tingling against the nape of his neck. He doesn’t move, knowing it will be a long time still before sleep finds him.
Yuuri wakes to his bed thumping against the wall, thrown by the impact of Phichit’s body catapulting from across the room. He groans, fuzzy with sleep, but grateful he didn’t overindulge at the party. A hangover would be murder right now.
“Wake up,” Phichit pleads, still far too loud for 6 AM. “Yuuri, Ciao-Ciao is sick!”
That cuts through the fog even faster than the pillow Phichit smacks him with.
“What?” Yuuri sits up, fumbling on the nightstand for his glasses. “Sick how?”
“I think there was shellfish in the mini-quiche.” Phichit is perched on Yuuri’s knees, wide-eyed, dishevelled, and still in his pajamas. “He’s really ill. I’m worried about the presentation.”
Their time slot isn’t until after lunch, but if it’s that bad, “Can we cancel?”
Phichit hits him with the pillow again. “Yuuri! We worked too hard on this.” His hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “No one at the office is answering their phones.”
Yuuri groans and rubs his eyes. Phichit is right. Their team has been in crunch for weeks making sure the platform would be ready to demo today. This is their big launch. If Celestino won’t be able to run the presentation, then…
“We’re going to have to do it,” Yuuri says. “I think I can run the demo if you’ll take the technical parts.”
“Of course you can,” Phichit says. He sounds confident, but his smile is flagging. “You know this thing better than anyone, but we haven’t practiced. I’ve never presented at a conference before, have you?”
Yuuri pulls his legs out from under Phichit’s and crawls out of the bed. He grabs his slacks from the back of the chair and fishes his wallet out of the back pocket. The gold foil strip winks at him over the top.
“No, but I may know someone who can help with that.”
–
Victor Nikiforov is sitting on the end of Yuuri’s bed in what’s probably Brioni. His long legs are crossed at the knee, and he holds a single finger to his lips as his shrewd eyes follow Phichit’s movements. Yuuri’s throat is dry. He’s about to have to speak, and he’ll be lucky if it comes out louder than a whisper.
He should have gotten a glass of water. He eyes the bathroom door. Maybe there’s time.
“And now I’ll hand you over to Yuuri for the product demonstration!” Phichit announces.
Crap. There’s no time. Yuuri bows slightly as Phichit passes him the hairbrush they’re using as a microphone.
“Um, yes. Hello,” he says. His voice is shaking, and he flushes as all that attention settles on him. Even though he’s the one who messaged Victor – asked him to come – he hadn’t considered what it would be like to have Victor in the tiny room, focused on Yuuri alone.
Victor’s serious look breaks apart, a wide smile splitting his face. “Don’t be nervous!” he says. “If it helps, you can picture me naked!”
Phichit, who did get a glass of water, chokes.
Yuuri is probably redder than Phichit’s tie. It does not help.
But the lighter mood does, at least a little. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply to focus. When he opens them again, he stares at Victor directly. Later today, he may choke in the crowd, but right now, Yuuri wants to make Victor Nikiforov regret not hiring him.
Yuuri opens the demo and begins. He loses himself down familiar pathways and the time flashes by. Phichit was right. Yuuri might not have built this platform, but he uses it every day. He knows its twists and secrets. He’s done better than build it – he’s the one who’s broken it, and he shows off the fixes with confidence.
He clicks the button to log out, then turns back to Victor. “Any questions?” he asks.
Victor taps his chin, then drops his hands to fold them in his lap. “Yes,” he says. “How much longer will it take you to bring this product to market? Who is your planned end user? You move through it very smoothly, but I worry that the interface is not intuitive enough in its current state. Oh, and you need to speak slower when you present, Yuuri! You were rushing!”
Yuuri blinks, caught in the rambling stream of questions. Thankfully, he has Phichit to back him up. His roommate steps up, pulling the hairbrush mic from Yuuri’s hand, and takes the floor.
In the end, Victor leans back on Yuuri’s bed – Yuuri’s bed! He’s stuck on that again. – and nods. “You both did very well for a first time,” he says. “I’m impressed, and I’m sure the others will be as well.”
“Really?” Phichit lights up at the praise and strides forward, clasping Victor’s hand to shake it. “Mr. Nikiforov, I don’t know how to thank you. If you hadn’t agreed to help, we’d be lost.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Victor says. He pats Phichit’s hand, then rises from the bed in a single smooth motion. “As for how to thank me – dinner, perhaps?”
Phichit starts to answer, then stutters to a halt.
Victor is close again. The unyielding edge of the TV stand digs into the flesh of Yuuri’s thighs as he leans back and Victor steps forward. “How about it?” he smiles like the shark the tabloids claim he is. “Yuuri, will you join me for dinner?”
It’s unexpected, but also not. Yuuri has low self-confidence, he knows this, but he’s not stupid or blind. Victor Nikiforov doesn’t know him – not really, not at all – but he clearly sees something in Yuuri. Whatever that may be, he likes it enough to pursue it with a single-mindedness that falls somewhere between terrifying and tantalizing.
Lucky for him, Yuuri wants it too.
“Dinner,” he says, offering his hand to shake. “After we get back from this conference.”
Victor takes his hand, then meets his eyes as he presses a kiss to the knuckles. “I look forward to it.”
Yuuri’s boss sighs heavily and shakes his head, his hand warm but firm between Yuuri’s shoulders as he pushes him toward the door. “For the last time, Yuuri, yes. And call me Celestino! Now,” he punctuates the word with another shove. “Get out there and mingle!”
Yuuri stumbles through the glass doors and out into the sticky heat of the hotel roof. A sea of unfamiliar faces circles the rooftop pool, draped in expensive silk suits, designer bags, and calfskin shoes, all of which would be ruined in seconds if any of them overbalanced and fell into the water.
The combination of an open bar, well-dressed conference attendees, and an uncovered pool seems like a recipe for disaster to Yuuri.
He scans the crowd again. Phichit’s familiar, excited tones carry from the covered patio by the bar, and Yuuri relaxes slightly. He won’t be facing the event alone, even if his boss did throw him to the wolves.
Slipping between pencil skirted women in red-soled shoes and men with patterned pocket squares in their blazers, Yuuri is arrested by a flash of silver, and his heart leaps to his throat.
Victor is here.
He walks faster, following Phichit’s amused giggle like a lighthouse through the storm.
“Yuuri,” Phichit’s eyes wrinkle as he approaches. “You made it after all!” He turns back to the unfamiliar man next to him, continuing, “Yuuri is the other Ciao Co employee coming tomorrow. He’ll be able to tell you-”
“Excuse me,” Yuuri interrupts, pulling Phichit away by his sleeve. Out of hearing, he whispers. “Victor Nikiforov is here.”
Phichit frowns, peering over Yuuri’s shoulder. “Of course he is. This is the biggest conference in our region. Why? Did he say something to you?”
“No.” Victor didn’t see Yuuri – did he? He probably wouldn’t recognize him if he did, but still. Overactive nerves send Yuuri’s insides into spasms. A line of pre-filled wine glasses are balanced on the bar, and Yuuri grabs one, tilting his head back as he drains it.
Phichit catches him by the wrist. “Okay, take it easy,” he says. His smile is still plastered on, but his eyes are wide with concern. “Remember, we’re here representing Ciao Co.”
Yuuri nods, wincing internally. It would have been all too easy to forget, between Victor and the free drinks, even after the warning Celestino had given them. More people are fired after a conference than promoted.
It doesn’t stop Yuuri from drinking, but he counts his glasses, sticking close by his roommate so as not to embarrass himself or the company. He’s just picked up his third when Phichit turns, pulling the glass away to seize Yuuri’s hand in his own.
“Come on,” he says, grinning as he tugs them out into the open. “Dance with me. Maybe we can get the stuffed shirts moving.”
Yuuri’s sober enough to try to plant his feet, but also tipsy enough to think that dancing with Phichit sounds wonderful, so that’s how he ends up in the center of a swirl of expensive cologne and fake laughter, his tailored jacket thrown over a deck chair so he can dip Phichit in his arms.
Somewhere in the sweat and the music, Yuuri loses himself, and one song becomes another and on until Phichit is pulling away, laughing and breathless. Others are dancing around them now, hemming them into the crowd.
“I need water,” Phichit says, dabbing his forehead with his sleeve. “And so do you. Stay here.”
He vanishes into the throng, leaving Yuuri alone in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.
Yuuri turns and jostles up against another pair of dancers. They stumble, listing dangerously toward the pool, and Yuuri grabs at them. Other hands join his, pulling the laughing, drunken pair back away from the water’s edge.
Yuuri looks up – to apologize to the pair, or to thank the people who helped, and finds himself caught in a pair of sparkling blue eyes, already widening in recognition.
“Bathroom boy!” Victor gasps in delight as the bumbling dancers slip away from between them, leaving Yuuri nowhere to hide. “No, wait.” He bends close, staring down at the nametag dangling from Yuuri’s neck. “Yuuri,” he reads, stretching the vowels as he rolls them over his tongue like expensive liquor.
His eyes drop to Victor’s own name tag, even though he knows his name already. Everyone here does. He frowns. “They spelled your name wrong.”
Victor tilts the badge up to read it himself. “‘Victor Niliforov’,” he muses. “So they did. I hadn’t even noticed.”
He drops the tag, letting it swing from his lanyard. “But Yuuri,” he says, eyes and tongue sharp. He draws Yuuri’s attention to his mouth, tapping his chin with one long finger as he purses his lips. “Are you trying to distract me? It’s been weeks, but you haven’t called. Did you lose my card?”
“N-no,” Yuuri pushes the words out through the flames on his face. “I have it.”
“Are you sure? I can get another.” When did Victor get so close? Around them, other attendees are still dancing, pressing in. Yuuri steps back. His heel dangles over the edge of the pool, and Victor’s hand snaps out to catch him by the tie, reeling him back.
“Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor says, savoring the new syllables. “Are you trying to get away from me?”
Their faces are so close that Yuuri can taste the champagne on his breath. He gets caught in the silver spiderweb of eyelashes brushing over Victor’s cheeks.
And then he pulls away again, stepping to the side this time. Meaningless excuses fall from his lips. Busy. Lots of work to do. You understand.
Over the steady thump of the music, someone is calling Yuuri’s name, but he runs anyway, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches his hotel room.
I’ve always wanted to draw them doing traditional Japanese sports…? I like drawing these outfits. Also it’s like two in the morning and I have nothing else to do so Why not, right?
Sooooo a random AU… where Victor does kendo and Yuuri does kyudo (Japanese archery), and their dojos (training halls) are right next to each other and Victor just happens to see Yuuri at practice one day and just falls for this bespectacled beauty. And he starts skipping his own practice to go see Yuuri everyday
+)
Kyudo is all about concentration but having Victor around doesn’t help much
Thehobs 