louciferish:

“Mr. Cialdini, please. Do I have to?”

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.

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