Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He doesn't bring up their initiation with Jean-Jacques, but he can see the memory playing in the other's blue eyes when he joins them in the back seat of the Pakhan’s car. He can see the memory behind his own eyelids when he blinks away exhaustion and breaks the stare. Warehouses make him think of cliche mob movies, probably for good reason. It's just before midnight and they've been casing the building for hours, others have been here for days, watching and waiting. The other party is late and Yakov is not happy, they all know it's an intimidation tactic and they've done this enough times to know it won't work.

When the silver SUV pulls in, he can feel the air dissolve into tension. He's checked his guns at least twelve times since they arrived, he can feel them pressed against his arms in a cold comfort as they watch the other party climb out of their vehicle. He frowns when the driver stays. The Pakhan looks at Otabek with a sideways glance, he nods in acknowledgement then pulls himself out of the car.

It's a signal, the two cars ahead of them and one behind open their doors and men emerge. He feels better knowing Jean-Jacques has his back, even with having the cloud of other men surrounding him and the bulletproof vest hiding under his clothes. But Otabek knows there's more than one way to die in a warehouse, the snipers in the rafters are proof of that.

He thinks of spun-gold hair and thin, warm fingers on his skin as he closes the car door and silently asks the nymph he left in his apartment for a little bit of luck.

Jean-Jacques tells Yakov just who Otabek keeps at home, because he has to. Yakov calls Otabek and tells him to bring his pet with him. Yuri has never seen such a large house or been lead through such extravagant rooms. His eyes go everywhere and he doesn’t understand anything more than he did when he listened in on the conversation. Otabek puts his hand on the small of Yuri’s back and pushes him into a large, dark office, then steps around him and speaks with the old man Yuri knows from the late nights at the diner in a language he doesn’t speak or recognize. Yakov’s eyes never leave Yuri, he’s not sure what the expression on his face means.

In the end, he never gets to say anything. Yakov makes a decision, Yuri can see it in his expression, and the blonde is dismissed with a wave of a hand. Otabek says something, like he’s protesting, but Yakov doesn’t answer. Otabek retrieves him with the hand at his back again. As they’re leaving the room, Yuri chances one more glance back and spots the edge of a smile on the old man’s mouth.

Two days later a piano shows up at the apartment and Mama Lilia fires him without explanation.

Yakov has been around a long time. Otabek is not the first person he's sat in the booth with, though he may be the last. He knows he's old, knows there are people gnashing at the bit to get to his place, just like he was when he fought his way to the top. He's been around long enough to see the rise and fall of many Families; most crash and burn, some quietly absorb into others and eventually come into his own Family. He's been around long enough that when Jean-Jacques tells him who the pretty, petite blonde is related to, he wonders if maybe now is a good time to retire.

The child (they're all children, as far as he's concerned) is confused, clueless and amazed, standing in his office. It's the one he uses when he wants to read people, intimidate them in an open way, not threatening like he knows his other office is. Yuri doesn't seem intimidated, though if he's sleeping with Otabek then it really shouldn't be a surprise.

In the light of the room, he can see it. A ghost that stands before him in new form. It hurts, but he sees it in his jawline, his ears. His eyes. Eyes that haunt him in his sleep.

He knows Yuri because he knew Nikolai. He watched the map as the boundaries expanded under his soft words and calculating mind. He knows Yuri because Yuri knows the piano, like Yulia did. Yakov knows Yuri because he knew Dimitri, too. He had watched the fateful meeting in the banquet hall and had thought it was like watching two stars collide. Had stood proudly next to Nikolai as Yakov gave his only daughter away. Had cried tears of joy when Yulia has shown him the sonogram images. He knows Yuri because he has Yulia’s eyes and Dimitri’s smile.

Yakov has been around a long time. Long enough to watch empires rise and fall. Long enough to pause on the edge of a warzone to bury his daughter and question if his grandchild is gone as well. Long enough to wish his oldest friend dead.

This is the first time he's felt regret in a long, long time.

The air is deathly still. No one speaks, even after Otabek and Jean-Jacques meet the others in the brilliant spotlight of the headlights. It's all a part of the mind game and everyone knows the pieces they play. Three men meet them, one with a leather suitcase, another with the silver glint of a handgun not-so-hidden in his grasp behind his thigh. The third, a middle-aged Asian, keeps his body language casual, does a once-over of both of them, them scoffs and looks around.

Otabek knows there's nothing to look at but moldy crates and old machines, so he focuses on keeping his breath even and his face blank. Eventually, the man tires of waiting and breaks the silence, “We have held up our end of the agreement. I trust you've produced yours as well.” He jerks his head and the one holding the suitcase produces a tablet, turning the screen on before handing it forward. Otabek let's his eyes drop long enough to see Leo standing watch over the movement of packages on a steady video, a large gun in his hands, face looking bored, then looks back up. He keeps his mouth shut, but waves his own hand and feels heat at his shoulder as one of his own men approaches with their own half of the bargain.

Behind him, the Pakhan’s car reverses and backs out of the warehouse, the headlights cast long shadows then vanish and leave the massive room darker. It's a sign for Otabek that work is done and to wrap things up. He turns just enough to take the heavy orange envelope from the man at his side, eyes never leaving the Asians. The one leading them smiles at him, but it's blank and unreadable. He tosses the envelope, and they both watch it hit the ground at his feet. The one with the gun on display moves to retrieve it.

As he's crouched down, the older one opens his mouth again, “How is the Librarian’s grandchild? Have you turned him into a corner whore yet?” Otabek's blood chills and he feels his body betray him and hesitate. It's enough for the man to continue, “I'd gladly take him off your hands. He'd bring in a pretty penny with those eyes and that figure. Even more if the buyer knows whip he is. Did he ask for protection? Or just bend right over and tell you all his secrets while you were in his ass?”

“Beks.” Jean-Jacques’ voice breaks through the red he sees and brings him back. This is a game and he almost lost. He lets the fist he'd been forming drop, and shakes his head to clear it. He turns his head to the voice, brown eyes holding blue, a short connection and silent conversation. He catches just the edge of a smile and takes it as an agreement.

“Our work here is done. Have a pleasant day, gentlemen.” Otabek spins himself on his heel and heads for one of the remaining cars.

“Is that all? No rise from the infamous Kazakh killer? Here I was hoping to see the craftsmanship on your guns in person. I hear they're quite beautiful.” He can hear the laughter in the tone and wonders if the other is trying to start a war on purpose.

Jean-Jacques opens the car door for him, though it's not his place to do so. They trade another look as Otabek's work phone sounds in his pocket. He pulls it out and reads the message to his friend.

“We only need one.”

He climbs into the front seat and the Canadian flashes him a vicious grin before he closes the door. Tonight, Otabek isn't the one to be afraid of.

There's a high pitched shriek as Jean-Jacques whistles a signal for attention. Otabek watches the men turn to look at him, knowing the ones who can't be seen are watching, too. He holds up two fingers a little higher than his head and sweeps them around once.

It could be a signal to clear out.

It's not and the warehouse lights up like the Fourth of July.

Yuri doesn’t remember his mother other than photos papa showed him when he was little. Papa didn’t speak of her often, either, that he can remember. Of course, papa had disappeared when he was seven, so there weren’t many stories for Yuri to remember. His grandfather had kept a photograph on the table next to his recliner, faded and with a tear on the edge, Yuri had only looked at a few times before papa disappeared. It was a younger version of his grandfather, with another old man and two children in front of them. Mama and papa, grandfather had said. He wouldn’t say who the other person was.

The photo vanished when papa did, but Yuri was young and didn’t notice. He wonders now if this is what regret tastes like, staring out the apartment window as snow filters down from gray skies. Questions he’ll never have answers to and answers he didn’t know he had questions for.

He turns his head away and eyes the piano Otabek has made room for in the corner like it’s an infestation. He wants to play it, but at the same time, he’s left that part of his life behind and it doesn’t feel right. Yuri doesn’t know the man who gifted it to them; to him. Otabek says he has no use for it and it won’t go with him when he leaves. Yuri ignores how he doesn’t say the plural, how he doesn’t promise they’ll go anywhere together.

Yuri does that a lot, ignoring things Otabek says. It makes it easier to lie to himself. Like blinders, he can stay ignorant to things he should accept, things that are inevitable. Potya meows at him from her tree and it’s almost sad. He smiles at her and reaches out to scratch her ear. She leans into the touch, purrs and pushes at him until he pets her back. He goes back to looking outside, watches a bus drive through the slush and spray it over the sidewalk and fence surrounding the park. It reminds him of blood spattering his shirt, the walls, the rug.

Potya hisses and scratches at him out of nowhere. It catches him off-guard and he curses her. She pushes her ears against her head and hisses one more time before jumping off the tree and scampering away. He pops his finger in his mouth, tastes copper as his tongue catches beading blood from his new wound. He scowls out the window one more time, then pulls the rope to close the curtains and block out the view.

The piano is less intimidating in the dark.

Shadows over shadows. They keep the strobe light going as Otabek watches two men throw their captive into a chair in the center of a cement room, they tie his arms and ankles down, then one yanks the cloth bag off his head. If he hits him a little hard during the removal, it’s no one’s loss. The Asian in the chair looks around as the door behind Otabek closes. There’s nothing to see but Otabek and the strobe light. Shadows and the grim reaper. It’s enough to make the Asian close his eyes again.

Otabek knows what he looks like, it’s intentional. This is what he’s paid for, after all. He lets a corner of his mouth quirk upwards, then reaches out to push a hand into the black hair on the man’s head. It’s greasy, but it crunches when he closes his hand into a fist and yanks. Nothing like the blonde hair he enjoys pulling. This is an entirely different type of pleasure, it makes a different type of energy surge through him. Black eyes open to look at him, wide and terrified. He doesn’t say anything. Waiting is his part of the game.

This one isn’t in charge, but Otabek has seen him at meetings before. He’s not top-ranked but he’s up there. He may not have all the answers, but he’ll have enough. He’ll break easier than anyone higher on the ladder would. He lets his smirk drop and releases his hold, shoving the head away from him.

“What do you want?” The other asks, voice breaking. Otabek shoves his hands in his pockets and walks around him slowly, not speaking, “I don’t know anything, you won’t get anything from me! Let me go or kill me!”

Moments like this, Otabek wishes Jean-Jacques could be here with him, to share a look with. To enjoy just how little this man understands. But Jean-Jacques has a different part in the game. It doesn’t include watching Otabek break a finger to begin with. It doesn’t include watching Otabek turn into the monster he keeps locked inside. When he unleashes it, he lets it slowly take the Asian apart. There are 206 bones in the adult body, and when Otabek is done, the Asian has very few left still intact.

Not that the Asian is alive enough to know it.

There’s a hauntingly slow melody that meets him when he gets off the elevator. He’s too tired to acknowledge it until he’s unlocking the front door, but it doesn’t stop, and only gets louder when he steps inside. It’s slow and fragile sounding and makes him pause just as he locks the door behind him. He had figured Yuri wouldn’t touch the piano at all, hearing it tonight of all nights is like a time machine. It drags him back to their first meeting in another apartment.

He moves silently, shedding his shoes and jacket. Yuri is sitting at the piano, his eyes closed, body moving with the music as he plays. Like everything he does, he’s playing with everything he has, puts his soul into his fingertips and into the sound coming out of the instrument. Otabek pauses to watch him, compares the ethereal aura around him to the blood on his own hands.

It cuts off mid-note when Yuri realizes he’s there. Sound dies and they simply stare at each other. Emerald eyes are unreadable as they take in Otabek’s appearance. Otabek doesn’t try to hide anything. What can he hide behind? This is who he is, and they have always circled around it. He is a monster to Yuri’s soft angelique figure. He is covered in blood and shadow, will probably drown in it in the end, where Yuri is in the soft yellows and whites of his robe and the sunrise sneaking through cracks in the curtains. There is a breath without air, and Yuri is moving, standing in front of him, looking up at him. It hurts.

It burns when he brushes fingertips over Yuri’s cheek, pushes blonde hair back and runs it through his fingers. Yuri closes his eyes and leans into the touch. So much trust when Otabek could snap his neck in seconds. Otabek closes his fingers and pulls, a softer echo of his night. The sound it pulls from Yuri is decidedly prettier than anything else he’s heard the last few hours.

A delicate hand wraps around his wrist and pulls. He lets go, only to have Yuri open his eyes again and stare at him like he’s reading his soul. There’s still no words, it seems there hardly ever is, and Otabek finds himself being pulled to the bedroom. The room is warm and dark, Yuri flicks on a lamp as he passes the dresser, but doesn’t release his grip til they are at the foot of the bed. Only then, he turns to face Otabek and lets go. The taller stills, waits. This is not a game, he knows. He doesn’t know rules here.

Yuri doesn’t look at him, but fingers reach up and begin undoing the buttons on his shirt. They don’t hesitate, even as they reach the ones surrounded by blood. Otabek stops him though, grabs both his wrists and forces him to look up. Those haunting eyes simply watch him for what feels like an eternity, before he says, “I’ve seen worse.” as if it makes everything better. It settles something in Otabek, he supposes, because he loosens his hold and Yuri shakes free, resuming his task. When all the buttons are undone and the shirt untucked, feather-soft touches push at his shoulders and drag the fabric down.

Otabek moves like he’s being pulled in, leaning down to grab Yuri’s lips with his own. There’s no protest, only the push and pull of acceptance and Yuri answers the call, fingers pausing at Otabek’s biceps only briefly. But then Yuri is opening his mouth, urging the kiss on, and pushing the fabric down and away, letting it hit the floor and be forgotten. Hands push into Otabek’s hair and whatever calm Otabek had thought had descended on them vanishes.

He is lust, and greed. He pushes against the lithe body, fingers on hips that he pulls closer, his mouth devours everything Yuri gives him, lips, tongue, soft noises. They break away only for Otabek to dip back in and claim Yuri’s neck, to feel Yuri’s fingers dig into the back of his own, to pull at him as if they could merge into one being. He growls, feels the monster in him rumble, and lifts Yuri up by the thighs, throws him onto the bed.

There’s no protest, only a soft huff, then a smile as Yuri watches Otabek peel off his undershirt. Warm fingers dance over his abs, up his chest, grabbing, pulling, until Otabek caves and crashes down between Yuri’s legs to kiss him again. He pushes down, grinds against Yuri, pulls back as the robe splits apart and he feels much less fabric than he was expecting. A quick glance down, then the smirk on Yuri’s face is all he needs to realize Yuri is nude under the robe.

Fingers pull him down again and the kitten puts his lips to Otabek’s ear to murmur, “Welcome home.”

He enjoys the noise that escapes Yuri when he pins his wrists to the bed above the blonde’s head. The breathless sound that follows as he pushes fabric aside and latches onto a nipple is just a bonus, one that he’ll probably take to his grave. Yuri tries to twist under him, but there isn’t anywhere to go, and Otabek’s teeth nipping in warning puts a stop to the movement quickly. He shifts to attack the other nub, releasing Yuri’s hands again, pleased when they only find their way into his hair.

He doesn’t there stay long, sitting up to undo the tie on Yuri’s robe. Yuri drapes himself back on the bed like a work of art and offers no assistance. Once the knot is undone, he simply pushes the fabric off Yuri’s hips, but makes no move to remove it otherwise. He traces his hands over pale skin and Yuri closes his eyes again, accepts the touch as solid fact. It settles heavy in Otabek and the monster inside him rumbles.

He pulls away only long enough to get lube and a condom, smears the gel over his fingers and warms it quickly, then tossing the bottle aside. Yuri holds his own legs up, spreads them wide and smiles through hazy eyes. He arches as Otabek pushes a finger in, pausing at the first knuckle, then all the way in when Yuri whines. He doesn’t wait to add a second and the noise it pulls from Yuri is music. The kitten pushes the crown of his head into the mattress, spreads his legs wider, tries to lift his hips and roll them, as if it will hurry the process along. Otabek takes his time instead. Savors the noises as he takes the blonde apart carefully.

He pushes three fingers in and scissors, only to be told in English, “Enough. Please.” And then Russian, “Please, I need you now.”

He undoes his pants, lets them hang on his hips and pulls his cock out. Yuri watches and licks his lips, a small dart of a pink tongue, drops a hand to stroke himself slowly as he waits. Otabek keeps his eyes there as he rolls the condom onto himself, then grabs for Yuri’s hips and hauls him to the edge of the bed. It causes another surprised noise, and then a laugh that Otabek quickly morphs into a moan as he pushes into the tight heat in one move.

He stills, wraps his hands around the other’s ankles and holds them up and out, spreading him open. He waits, feels the other pulse around him and tries to reign himself in. Control is slipping so quickly, especially when the kitten issues a soft whine and tries to move, to pull himself off and impale himself again. He lets go of the ankles and the lock around his hips instantly, pull him forward so he has to hold himself up by his knuckles. He starts moving, and there’s nothing gentle about it. Yuri seems to only urge him on, fingernails in his shoulders and the way he calls his name, like he’s begging him for something.

He stills, straightens and Yuri pulls his knees towards his shoulders, still spread wide. He can’t resist touching, soiling the angel he’s destroying bit by bit. His tan hands over pale skin. It all burns the same, and he’s mesmerized by it. He doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving until Yuri’s hands are on his wrists. They pull gently, guiding his hands up over Yuri’s chest. Yuri’s eyes are solid pools that show him how serious he is as he carefully wraps Otabek’s hand around his throat.

Otabek presses. Yuri’s eyes hold his until Otabek rolls his hips. Emeralds vanish and Yuri makes one more noise before Otabek cuts it off with his pressure. He feels the difference, the way Yuri’s body changes around him, even with the condom. He holds on.

He could kill him now, he realizes. It could be an accident. Yuri would let him.

He presses and feels Yuri tighten around him. So impossibly tight, until he can’t move but a few sharp thrusts that barely change anything but give him enough friction. He presses and feels the coil in his stomach that unleashes an orgasm just as Yuri’s body reacts similarly. He presses until Yuri’s hand goes loose on his own dying erection. He slowly lets go.

Beneath him, Yuri inhales.

Yakov uses his cane to help him sit as children race across the playground, screaming and laughing. It would hurt, if he thought about it, so he doesn’t. Instead he thinks about how much his back hurts in this early winter chill and what he’s going to do with the pile of papers waiting for him on his desk when he gets home.

Very little surprises him these days, so he’s not surprised when the blonde sits beside him. He’s not surprised when the blonde’s shoulder touches his. He’s more surprised by how natural it all feels, to sit here and watch the world go by while Yulia’s son sits beside him. They don’t speak to each other, but Yakov turns his head just enough to catch a soft smile playing on the edge of the other’s mouth.

Maybe this is what redemption feels like. For the first time in a long time, he hopes Yulia is watching over him. Them.

Yuri sits at the kitchen table and braids his hair. His phone is in front of him, propped up and playing a movie that he’s not really paying attention to. There’s movement in other parts of the apartment, Otabek getting ready to leave. Yuri listens closer to those sounds and pretends he doesn't. One day, he thinks, it will be the last time he hears him. There's something soothing about the routine of Otabek checking his guns, then buttoning his shirt, then pulling on his suit jacket. Yuri knows after that he'll check his reflection, then find Yuri for goodbyes. They're coming up to that part. Otabek seems to be stalling this time.

He undoes the braid, digs his fingers through his hair and stares blankly at his phone screen. Everything heads towards an inevitable end Yuri can't see. Everyone but himself seems to know how the story ends. He lets his hands fall to his lap and tries to center himself.

“I’ll be back tomorrow at the latest. Put the chain on the door behind me.” Otabek’s voice is warm and Yuri closes his eyes to savor it, he nods, then tips his head back as Otabek puts a hand on his shoulder. He lets the top of his head sink into Otabek’s stomach and opens his eyes to look up at him. There’s the ghost of a smile, a rare sight, and Yuri burns it into his memory.

And then Otabek is moving away. Yuri twists, reaches for and pulls on the taller man’s tie, stands and drags him back to him. He adjusts the knot on it, not that it was out of place, but he needs something to do with his hands, then looks up to meet Otabek’s eyes, “Be careful.”

Otabek studies his face, Yuri lets him, hopes he can read everything there. All the words he can’t say and all the thoughts he can’t straighten out. Before Otabek can step away, Yuri closes the distance and ghosts a kiss over his lips.

And then he lets go and walks away first.

Everyone has a debt to pay, everyone’s time comes eventually. Otabek has always figured his would be from a major mistake on someone else’s part. A betrayal or an undercover cop. Not from his own carelessness. Not from his thoughts drifting to green eyes and pale skin and wandering thoughts of a different light. He walks with a cigarette tucked in his lips, smoke curling skyward, eyes scanning a book but not really reading. The neighborhood is quiet, so he doesn’t think.

He nods to Leo in the doorway, tucks the book away. Leo drops into step beside him, brushing hair out of his face then taking Otabek’s cigarette when he offered it, finishing it as they walk down the dark corridor, not talking. They meet Katsuki at the end of the hall, he looks as nervous as always, shifting his weight and glancing around, twisting his hands at his waist. He visibly relaxes when he sees them.

“You’re late. Were you followed?”

Otabek shakes his head, passes a small keycard to Leo without a word. Katsuki steps around Leo, who goes to a solid metal door, and close to Otabek, “Otabek,” Katsuki’s voice is low, “Viktor wants to meet him.”

Otabek frowns, “Not now, Katsuki.”

“Now is the only time I can talk to you.” The Asian smiles, puts a hand on Otabek’s bicep, “You’re a hard man to get hold of. Viktor wants to see him. He’s convinced himself your Yuri is his missing cousin. Just a breakfast? Or a dinner. Bring him to dinner one night. I’ll cook katsudon.”

The door Leo has been standing at beeps and bursts open with a rush of cold air. Otabek looks at it then back at Katsuki, “I’ll ask him. I’m not his keeper.”

Katsuki smiles.

They’re stepping into the room when all hell breaks loose.

Someone knocks on the door. It’s a firm 3 knocks, then silence. Something about it feels important, it makes Yuri pause in pouring his fourth cup of coffee. He listens, but nothing happens, so he slips the pot back in the machine and abandons his cup on the counter to go see who is at the door. He avoids the part of the floor that creaks when it’s stepped on and silents steps up to the peephole, peers through to spy on the hallway.

Jean-Jacques is there, hands in his pockets, speaking with someone he’s never seen before. The man is slightly taller than him, which seems almost impossible, considering how tall Jean-Jacques is, and is wearing an expensive looking tan suit. Yuri hesitates for a moment, chews on his lip, then undoes the deadbolt and creeps the door open as far as the chain allows, peering out into the hall.

They both turn to look at him, and the stranger has startlingly clear blue eyes and silvery hair. A soft smile slides onto his lips and he opens his mouth to speak, but Jean-Jacques beats him to it, “Yuri. Are you dressed? We have to move you.”

“What?” Yuri straightens, hand tightens on the doorknob, “What’s going on?”

“There was an attack, everything is compromised. Hurry and get a bag together, there isn’t a lot of time.” Jean-Jacques pushes at the door, but it can’t go anywhere with the chain.

“What about Otabek? Where is he?” Don’t let anyone in. Don’t trust anyone. At the moment, Yuri isn’t sure he can trust Jean-Jacques, “Who is that?”

“This is Viktor Nikiforov.” Jean-Jacques hesitates, glances at the other man, then says, “He’s next in line after Yakov. Otabek has been taken, along with a few others. They were loaded into a vehicle and carted off. Enough questions, Yuri, let’s go.”

Yuri’s heart is in his throat, invisible hands choke at him, laying claim to him in rougher ways than Otabek’s had. He nods once, closes the door, and moves through the apartment in a daze. Otabek has been kidnapped. Everything is compromised. Otabek may be dead already.

He pulls a gun from a hiding spot under the coffee table, checking it like Otabek had shown him before stepping towards the bedroom. He should probably collect clothes.

Potya makes a noise behind him, draws his attention. He’ll need her as well. She’s hiding under the piano, shrinks away when he reaches for her. It’s then he realizes his fingers are shaking, and that he’s been holding his breath. He forces himself to breathe, and leaves her there, goes to find her carrier and shove the gun and clothes inside a duffle bag. She still doesn’t respond when he returns, then runs when someone knocks on the door again.

Yuri breathes a curse under his breath, goes to the door and throws it open. It’s the silver-haired man, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Yuri doesn’t like it. He shoves the duffle bag at his chest, “Take this, I have to catch my cat. I’ll be down in a minute.” He shuts the door without waiting on a response.

The living room is quiet, other than the sounds of traffic outside. As if life is continuing on, just another day. He looks around and realizes there isn’t much to take. Otabek had always been prepared for this, everything here is Yuri’s influence. The blanket on the couch, the cat tree, the television in the far corner. He stares at the piano.

He’s pushing the fallboard up before he realizes what he’s doing. White keys glaring like beacons in the afternoon light. He pushes down on one, listens to the sound echo around him. The noise scares Potya out of hiding and across the room. He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers dance, pound, push emotion out of him in the only way he’s known for years. Panic, anger, frustration. And then he stops. Mid note, he lifts his fingers from the keys and lets the last sounds die out around him. He closes his eyes, and breathes.

Yuri turns and picks up the bench from behind his knees and throws it across the room. It hits the kitchen counter with a crack. It breaks something open in him and he tears the room apart. He starts with the piano.

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until there’s nothing left to destroy.