yuuri PLEASE | Thehobs

louciferish:

yoi business au – part v

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.

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