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CAUGHT! Pharmacist found guilty of selling brews on the South Side. Face of Evil: The sorcerer who tortured 17 with voodoo dolls. 8-year-old using witchcraft; Parents horrorstruck!
Yuuri flings the papers aside, kicks his feet up onto the table. Another day, another article on the evils of magic. To use magic is to invite the devil in, they say. Well where is the good Lord when a man throws his wife down the stairs? Or when a little girl’s left to walk the streets by her own mama?
Idly, Yuuri makes a dragon out of fire on his palm that morphs into an eagle, a wolf. An antelope that leaps off his palm and shifts back into the shape of dragon, sweeping round Yuuri in a loop. Magic’s just a form of art, practiced by those with the gift. How someone chooses to practice it - now that’s a whole ‘nother story.
“Anybody in? I’m here for the, uh... special menu?”
Startled, Yuuri closes his palm, dragon dissipating in a spark of blue. Rising to his feet, he peeks through the small window on the backroom door. Lean of figure, brown of skin, the customer’s violet eyes express a vivid sense of fiery passion. A man like that wouldn’t stop by an empty coffee shop at this time of day. Not without a purpose.
Yuuri inhales, steeling his nerves, before he opens the door a crack. “Come on back,” he calls.
Turns out the customer’s having some problems with his sister. Something ‘bout her wearing too-short dresses, attracting all manner of dirtbags. But this ain’t for his sister, God’s greatest gift. It’s for the no-good boss that’s making her wear those too-short dresses. So Yuuri lists off a few spells. Basic stuff, like charms and potions that’d make a person susceptible to persuasion.
Only, the customer looks him in the eye and demands for something stronger.
Yuuri’s about to tell him that he doesn’t do stronger–just doesn’t seem right, toying with black magic the way Seung-gil does–when Phichit bursts through the café entrance, face shining brighter than the gold cards he waves in the air. “An invitation to Giacometti’s ball! We’re in!”
“You mean you’re in.” Yuuri’s glasses slips just enough for him to peer over them. “You know how I feel about big crowds.”
“Oh, don’t be a Seung-gil. He said no before I could get another word in.”
“He’s right, though. The less we’re in the public eye, the better.”
“Yuuri, some opportunities only knock once.” Phichit slams the invitation on the table. “This one kicked the damn door down.”
“I’m waitin’ here,” snaps the customer. Yuuri apologizes and shifts down the counter, only to have Phichit shift with him, eyes imploring. That's apparently the last straw for the fiery-eyed gentleman, who throws his hands up and storms out, door slamming behind him.
Well. There’s nothing between him and Phichit now. “Just this once," Yuuri concedes.
Phichit gives a whoop of delight.
Giacometti’s ballroom is, in one word: ridiculous. Chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, light reflecting off the crystals in a myriad of colors. Hors d’oeuvres, baked hams, and glistening oyster rockefellers line the buffet table while waiters weave about with trays of cocktails, knowledge of their illegal procurement adding a taste of thrill to the tangy sweetness. A tangy sweetness that, Yuuri quickly discovers, makes everything less ridiculous with each glass. Must have been his fourth before someone takes his wrist and whispers in his ear, smooth as honey.
“Mr. Katsuki.” Yuuri shivers as the speaker- a blond in a pinstripe maroon suit -presses a lingering kiss to his hand. “Christophe Giacometti. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“First time in a long time I got him in a suit,” Phichit chimes in. “Ain’t he the cat’s meow?”
“Absolutely,” Christophe drawls.
After that is a whirlwind parade of strangers, so many names and faces that Yuuri can only remember but a few. There’s Sara, the petite, violet-eyed hostess of Christophe’s biggest speak, twirling about in a short black dress, the jeweled headpiece on her burnished black head shining golden under the lights. Bootlegger Jean-Jacques and his wife, Isabella, in their glittery outfits, showing off just how lousy they are with dough. And then there’s–
“–Mickey.”
Yuuri jolts out of his reverie to see Sara shaking her head. “Worked himself up into a fine lather this morning, trying to toss out my best dresses. My best dresses. Going on and on ‘bout solving my problems and never needing them again… like he’s gone raving mad.”
“Sara’s brother,” Phichit says, picking up on the look of confusion on Yuuri’s face. “Never met the fella myself, but seems he’s a little overprotective.”
“Now there’s an understatement,” Christophe chuckles. “The man thinks I’m the devil himself for paying Sara to have a little fun.”
Jean-Jacques flashes his white teeth. “As titillating as this conversation is,” he says, unfazed by the glares shot his way, “I’d really like to have my hat back, old boy. It’s a genuine Borsalino, see, and—"
“Will you look at that,” Christophe cuts in sharply. “Looks like the band’s ready.”
Isabella’s red lips tip down at the corners as Christophe makes his way to the stage by the spiral staircase, as Sara scurries after him, exclaiming that she’s been dying to say hello to the band all night. “Are they always this rude?” Isabella huffs.
“Just him, doll, just him.” Petting Isabella’s arm, Jean-Jacques looks to Yuuri and Phichit. “Word of advice, fellas. Don’t leave your belongings unattended in this house, or they’ll take a walk on their own.”
Yuuri nods, just as the whine of a microphone fills the air, Christophe’s voice following right after. “I am delighted to announce, ladies and gentlemen, that the band is set to usher us into the grand ol’ world of jazz with a very special performance.” He pauses amidst cheers and stamps of feet, then:
“Mr. Katsuki, Mr. Nikiforov, why don’t you show us how it’s done?”
“I may have let slip your hidden talents,” Phichit sniggers as the crowd roars their approval.
Yuuri starts to protest, but Phichit snatches his cocktail glass— less talking, more dancing! —and shoves him into the empty space where Mr. Nikiforov is waiting.
At the sight of his dance partner, Yuuri’s heart stops. The blue of his eyes, the soft pink bow of his mouth, the silver of his hair that falls across pale skin. Even through his blurred vision, Yuuri knows those looks. He’s seen them splashed across the pages of the local paper, lingered on them far longer than a healthy young man should. Handsome, charming, and boasting innumerable arrests of magic users, the man is a white knight, just missing the horse and armor.
“Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri breathes. “The witch hunter.”
Viktor laughs, a low, throaty sound. How a man can look so tight in a simple dress shirt and dark trousers is beyond Yuuri. Beyond magic, even. “I prefer ‘detective’,” Viktor says, long fingers sliding into the knot of his black tie, slipping it loose. “Mr. Katsuki, was it?”
Yuuri’s throat bobs in a hard swallow. From fear or want, he can’t tell. “Yuuri.”
“Yuuri, then,” Viktor purrs. He takes Yuuri’s hand, thumb brushing the rise of his wrist.
“Can you swing?”
Just like that, Yuuri goes from knock-kneed and doe-eyed to fuming with righteous indignation. Those three simple words trigger something inside him, fueled by copious amounts of booze. A challenge, that’s what it sounds like, and one that Yuuri is more than willing to accept. For Yuuri knows he’s many things, but a bad dancer he ain’t.
Tossing off his jacket, he presses in close, slips a palm on the curve of Viktor’s hip. Inhales Viktor’s scent, earthy as fresh grass after a light spring shower.
“Can you?” he says, voice gone low and rough.
He barely has time to enjoy the way Viktor’s eyes go impossibly wide before the music begins.
It’s a fast, driving start, the steps taking them round and round as they circle each other, kicking, jumping, whirling. Their hands don’t part for more than a second, the push and pull and twist of their linked palms signaling their next move. Yuuri thrills at how readily Viktor responds, how easily they take turns, leading and following, communicating with their eyes, hands, and hips. Aided by the rhythm of the handclaps, by the energetic riffing of a baritone saxophone, their movements pulse to the beat, spontaneous and electrifying.
Others must have joined in at some point, but Yuuri pays them no heed. The world melts away on the dance floor; him and Viktor, just the two of them, lost in their intimate conversation of swing and jazz. Laughter bubbles up his throat as Viktor whips him out and right back into his arms, as he takes in Viktor’s too-bright eyes and heart-shaped mouth.
Doesn’t matter that Viktor’s a witch hunter. Doesn’t matter that Yuuri’s one slip away from doing a whole other sorta dance. All that matters is that Yuuri feels, for the first time in years, well and truly alive.
All too soon, the song surges in a rising crescendo as it approaches the final cadenza. With a twirl of Viktor’s arm, Yuuri spins and spins until, with one last crash of the cymbals, he’s pulled in for a dip so low that his head falls back, one arm slipping round Viktor’s shoulders.
For a moment, they stay that way. Viktor’s chest rises and falls, his breath warm against Yuuri’s throat. When Yuuri raises his head, their eyes meet, brown on blue, Yuuri’s breath catching as Viktor’s does.
“Wow,” Viktor whispers, face soft.
And then someone screams.
Isabella is wailing now, hands clutching at her husband.
The crowd parts for Viktor as he goes straight for the body. Retrieving his jacket, Yuuri seeks out Phichit, a wave of calm washing over him. Murder has a way of sobering a fella.
“All hail the conquering hero,” Phichit teases. Yuuri flushes as he slips back into his jacket, changes the subject by asking what happened to poor Mr. Leroy.
Phichit’s grin is knowing, but he chooses not to comment. “Flipped over the third-floor banister, head-first.”
Yuuri turns his gaze to the banister, intricately patterned and chest-high. No one can flip over those things by accident, bent or not. It had to be—
“—deliberate,” Viktor says. His eyes are trained on the balcony. “A fall like this cannot be an accident.”
“But he fell, on his own!” Isabella’s bosom heaves as she rears to her full height. “Or are you saying that my unflappable JJ committed suicide?”
“There is one other possibility.” Viktor tilts his head, pauses for just the right amount. “That your husband was bumped off by magic.”
There’s a collective gasp. Christophe steps forward, face grim. “Deal with it, Viktor. Quietly.”
Seems that's exactly what Viktor wants to hear. Crouching down, the detective sweeps open the suit jacket, checks all pockets. Removes the tie next, unbuttoning the inner shirt and trousers. Isabella looks too stunned to stop him, party goers hanging onto his every word as he starts a monologue about the lack of wounds, stains, and blisters, the absence of poison markers on the face and orifices. Body’s too clean, he says, far too clean for a sudden act of insanity.
The whole shtick feels animated, theatrical… unreal. Yet, Yuuri watches Viktor’s performance, mesmerized. And there’s a brief second—an impossible, wonderful second—when Viktor locks eyes with Yuuri. And winks.
Yuuri’s face turns a deep scarlet.
“Chris,” Viktor calls, mercifully turning away. “Can you think of anyone who might want Mr. Leroy dead?”
“That jam milked his monopoly on Canadian imports for all its worth,” Christophe sniffs, while Isabella’s piteous sobs fill the background. “Honestly? None of us are too torn up by this turn of events.” Shouts of you tell ‘em, Giacometti and your boy’s a dirty chiseler, Mrs. Leroy fly out from the crowd.
“So everyone here’s got motive.” Viktor’s lips quirk. “What about magic? Seen anything magical happen?”
“Only if you count Sara’s gams,” Christophe drawls to hoots from men and women alike.
Right on cue, the double doors slam open with a bang. A man stalks through the crowd, and Yuuri recognizes the slouch in the shoulders, the fiery vigilance in his violet eyes. At the sight of Sara, the man’s eyes grow to the size of dinner plates. “What do you think you’re wearin’!?”
“Mickey,” Sara hisses. “Don’t you embarrass me in front of my friends!”
That’s when it strikes Yuuri, sharp as lightning to metal. A request for witchcraft by an overprotective brother; the like-pair of bright violet eyes. Brother and sister. And here they’ve all gathered, like dynamite round a powder keg: a pair of sorcerers, a witch hunter, and one disgruntled customer. Next to him, Phichit, mutely, jerks his head toward the side door. He’s right; they’ve overstayed their welcome. After one lingering glance at Viktor, Yuuri backs into the crowd with Phichit, carefully weaving their way out of an impending explosion.
The brother’s yelling at Christophe now, something about forcing his innocent sister into whore’s clothes and how the hell are you still standin’ anyway. (You just get stranger and stranger, Michele, Christophe muses.) They’re at the door, Yuuri and Phichit, when Viktor’s voice rings out, loud and clear. “Where are you fine gentlemen off to?”
Heads whirl to face them, and recognition creeps across Michele’s face.
“You,” he snarls, jabbing a finger at Yuuri. “You got some nerve, showing your face ‘round a witch hunter!” Yuuri starts to say he’s mistaken, but Michele’s mouth runs like a car without brakes. “Think I’m dumb or somethin’? You own that magic shop on the West side!”
A drawn-out silence, then: “Yuuri?” Viktor’s gaze has gone pensive. Intense. Yuuri’s greatest nightmare and fantasy, all in one. “Is that true?”
“It’s a coffee shop,” Yuuri hears himself say over the rapid pulse of his heart, each thud hard and deafening.
“Like hell it is—”
“May I remind you, Mr. Crispino, that this begs the question of how you know it’s a magic shop,” Viktor says evenly.
Michele falters. That’s when Phichit steps forward, flashing a knife-like smile. “No crime to sell a bit of joe, is it?” he says.
There’s nothing warm about Viktor’s baby blues when he smiles right back. “Then you wouldn’t mind me taking a peek, would you?”
“Not at all,” Phichit says. As Viktor reassures Christophe and the rest of the party that he will soon return to the murder at hand— What murder, Michele says, face draining of color—only Yuuri can see his friend’s hands shaking like leaves in the wind behind his back, the faint green of a calming spell lighting up his palms.
In the shop, Viktor leaves no stone unturned. He opens drawers, empties jars, upturns chairs and tables. Examines every gem and herb and colored bottle in the backroom. Then, after an eternity, he rests his shoulders against a wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Gone is the warm sparkle, the lively theatrics, replaced by the look of a man on a mission. The witch hunter in his most natural form.
“I’m no expert.” A spark of light, and Viktor blows out a trail of smoke. “But I know magical materials well enough.” Yuuri can see the headlines now: Hunter Nikiforov nails down illegal shop on the West side. He has trouble breathing as Viktor falls silent for a moment, cigarette glowing before he speaks again.
“Why do you do it?”
Yuuri blinks. “Beg your pardon?”
“The Huns used magic for power. Control. Why do you do it?”
Yuuri considers his response. “To help people. The gems, we sell as charms for luck and happiness. The herbs and brews, they reduce pain, boost sleep.”
“Help people. Right.” Viktor breathes, eyes soft. “I’ll be honest, Yuuri, I was excited to meet you. Your moves on the dance floor, they were just…”
“Magical?” Phichit offers.
Viktor ignores him. “Bottom line is, I like you. I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive, and I thought….” He trails off, a wisp of grey framing the curve of his face, so beautifully wistful that Yuuri’s chest aches. “Just my luck you had to be a sorcerer.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Yuuri murmurs.
Viktor opens his mouth, then thinks the better of it. “In any case, you’re under violation of the Volstead Act, which is why I have to say, well.” He tosses the cigarette, stamps it out with a polished shoe. “I think we’ve got ourselves a real opportunity here.”
That’s... unexpected. Yuuri glances at Phichit, who shrugs, equally bewildered. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously.
“Crispino came here for a reason.” Viktor shrugs. “I’d like to know what that is.”
“Hold up,” Phichit barks out a laugh. “So you came here for information?”
“You may be criminals but you aren’t murderers. Crispino’s actions make him a more likely murder suspect; the timing of his arrival, that distraught look over Leroy’s death. You heard Chris: no one likes the guy.” Viktor mouth tilts up at the corners. “And I’ll bet you’d both prefer a sentence that doesn’t involve the rope.”
Yuuri’s head bobs in a slow nod as he takes in Viktor’s words. Something’s brewing in his head now, some inkling of an idea. Something that emboldens him to say what he says next. “Or, I could tell you everything I know and help you find Mr. Leroy’s killer.” He stumbles ahead despite the skeptical look on Viktor’s face. “In exchange for our freedom.”
“A detection spell,” Phichit adds, catching on fast. “Every witch and sorcerer has a signature color. If Leroy was killed by magic, we’ll find your suspect.” Snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”
“You’re suggesting... magic?” Viktor says, as if the word itself were a poisonous viper.
“Takes a thief to catch a thief,” Phichit says. “Oh, and just so we’re on the same page? Yuuri likes you too.”
Wait - what? It takes a full second before Yuuri has a sudden, desperate urge to dig a hole in the ground. But Viktor’s pushing off the wall now, cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink.
“You like me?” he whispers.
“Yes?” says Yuuri, eyes wide.
A beat. Then Viktor’s smile spreads, slowly, warmly, like the last vestiges of sun sinking below the horizon. “You like me,” he says.
Heat rises to Yuuri’s cheeks. “Yes,” he says again. It’s not a question this time.
“Looks like we’ve got a deal,” Phichit says with a grin.
Viktor listens as Yuuri relays his encounter with Michele, and the more Yuuri talks, the more something doesn’t sit right. Michele’s target was Giacometti, not Leroy. So why is one man dead and not the other? They need more answers, Viktor concludes.
Which is why all three of them find themselves at Jean-Jacques’s wake three days later.
When Yuuri said he had to be in contact with the body, he didn’t think he’d be casting a detection spell into Jean-Jacque’s casket before a room of potential witnesses. So nervous is Yuuri, and so effusively grateful is Isabella for their presence that he agrees— much to Viktor and Phichit’s amusement —to attend the funeral mass at the Leroys’ family church. But Yuuri’s stomach doesn’t really churn, not until he sees the faint cloud of magenta hovering over Jean-Jacques’s body.
Seung-gil’s signature color.
“Shit,” Phichit says, eloquent as ever.
But of course it’d be Seung-gil. Seung-gil, who stays out of the light and away from crowds, who messes around with voodoo dolls and brews up newfangled potions. Seung-gil, who’s known on the West side for dabbling with black magic.
All clad in somber black, they march over to Seung-gil’s apartment after the wake. Yuuri frets and frets, that Viktor will find Seung-gil hunched over his experiments, that Viktor will send his friend to the jump for sure. Instead, the front door opens to broken glass, bullets in the wall, the carpet, the couch, and Seung-gil, poor Seung-gil, slumped in the corner of his own bathroom. Bleeding from a hole in his gut.
Yuuri stands at the doorway, frozen. A stranger’s death is one thing. Seeing a friend’s, actually seeing it, with that metallic scent thick in the air...
“Help me,” Phichit snaps. The urgency in Phichit’s voice carries Yuuri to Seung-gil’s side without further thought. Swallowing bile, Yuuri slaps his hand next to Phichit’s on the blood-soaked fabric, channelling healing magic through his palm, right down to his fingertips. He can feel Viktor’s watchful gaze as their hands glow: Phichit’s an emerald green, Yuuri’s a deep blue.
Seung-gil’s eyes fly open, his gasp ringing through the cramped space. First thing he sees is Viktor, and in an instant, he’s fisting Phichit’s collar, jerking him down to eye level. “Bad enough I get shot, now I have a goddamn witch hunter knowing where I live!?”
“That’s more words than you’ve ever said in your lifetime,” Phichit says, ducking when Seung-gil swats feebly at his head. “Let’s get you to a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” Seung-gil hisses. “Heal me and I’ll brew up something later.”
“Who shot you, sorcerer?” Viktor asks, tactless. “A name could earn you a lighter sentence.”
“Oh, I can give you a name,” Seung-gil says savagely, waving off Yuuri’s snap of this isn’t the time, Viktor.
“Michele fuckin’ Crispino.”
Seung-gil’s story is maddeningly simple. Michele goes to him for “strong magic”, so he tells the guy to bring something with Christophe’s hair on it for a bit of voodoo. Trouble was, Michele’s the kind that runs on empty upstairs, so he nicks the wrong hat— Leroy did mention losing a hat in Chris’s house, Phichit recalls—and, like a total sap, drops the wrong doll down a stairwell.
“It ain’t here no more,” Seung-gil says when Viktor darts out of the bathroom. “That’s what he came back for. The hat, and me. ‘Loose ends,’ he called us.”
“Where’s he now?” Phichit asks.
“Who knows? Said something ‘bout handling things himself, though.”
Yuuri starts when Viktor calls for him. He lifts his palm from Seung-gil’s stomach, breathes relief at the closed wound. I got this, Phichit mouths, and so he goes.
In the living room, Viktor’s toeing his wingtips at the shards of a broken vase, hands in his coat pockets. “The hat’s gone, all right,” he says, head bowed. “How’s your friend?”
Yuuri clenches and unclenches his fists, hates the feel of dried blood crusting in his skin. “Thought you didn’t care for sorcerers,” he snips, not in the mood for graciousness.
“I don’t, but I…” Viktor looks up, face soft. “...I care for you.”
Yuuri’s breath catches. It isn’t fair, the way Viktor plays. Not fair at all. “He’ll live,” he says after a heartbeat.
“Glad to hear it.” Viktor’s eyes flick to the side in the awkward silence. “Did he say anything about Crispino’s next move?”
“Something ‘bout handling things himself.”
Viktor’s mouth curls. “Then let’s help him do just that.”
When Christophe lets them in the next morning, he shows little concern about Yuuri’s magic use, his lips grazing the top of Yuuri’s hand with enthusiasm. He hides them in his closet, and as instructed, remains au naturale. So literally, in fact, that Yuuri keeps his gaze trained on his shoes. Viktor is oddly nonchalant, his eyes tracking Christophe’s every move through the gaps of the closet door. (Every. Move.)
“Won’t Michele suspect something?” Yuuri says in a low whisper. “Emptying the house of servants and guards...”
“He’s not the brightest crayon in the box.” Viktor’s fingers drums against his pistol handle. “All he’ll see is opportunity.”
For a while, they wait in silence, but Yuuri grows increasingly antsy with every second. Viktor’s got a presence and—pressed hip-to-hip in the cramped space, with the sharp line of Viktor’s jaw visible from the corner of his eyes, the silver of Viktor’s hair shimmering with each shift—it’s hard to stay focused. So Yuuri blurts out the first question that pops up in his head.
“Why do you hate magic so much?”
Viktor’s head cocks to the side in thought. Doesn’t seem like he’ll answer at first, but then he does. “Because magic killed my parents in the Great War,” he says.
Yuuri swallows, chest tight. It’s a sad but common tale: a child, a spouse, a relative, a friend, each swearing to rid of the devil that ruined their lives and threatened the destruction of this great country. He can’t fault Viktor for hating magic. He can’t, and yet, he has to speak his truth.
“Magic wasn’t the only weapon in the war,” he points out.
“No,” Viktor says. His knuckles are white on the pistol handle. “But guns can be used for good.”
“So can magic,” Yuuri says, softly. It’s not the time and place, but he wants to show Viktor, wants Viktor to see his world beyond the haze of fear and hatred. (To see him.) So he breathes, and his hands glow, a rich blue. Opens his palm, offering Viktor a single white lily. “Remember that.”
Viktor gazes at him, lips parted in wonder. Then, slowly, his grip loosens on the gun and he reaches for the flower, fingers it between the pads of his fingers. As if he cannot believe it exists, that magic can produce something so beautiful. “Yuuri,” he starts after a moment, and Yuuri leans forward, eager to hear his next words—
—seconds before Michele smashes through the bedroom door, a shotgun in hand.
Everything happens at once. Viktor bursts out of the closet, pistol drawn, just as Michele, in a knee-jerk reaction, spins round and opens fire. And Yuuri sees it all in slow motion: the lily falling, the bullets flying.
Straight for Viktor.
No.
It’s the only thought in Yuuri’s mind as he throws a gust of wind that sweeps the bullets off-course. Michele shrieks his fury and snaps his gun toward Yuuri. Viktor’s shouting something now, but Yuuri isn’t listening. With a swirl of his hands, he twists the air into a whirlwind that flies at Michele and pulls him in. Spins him about with his shotgun, screaming and flailing, before spitting both man and weapon out against the far wall with sickening cracks.
The air stills as soon as Yuuri lowers his arm, blue light fading from his open palms. Only then does he realize that Christophe and Viktor are staring at him, open-mouthed.
Color paints Yuuri’s cheeks; what was he thinking, using magic like that? And right after his little demonstration with Viktor. “I, I’m sorry. He shot at you and I just—”
“No. If you hadn’t done what you did...” Viktor shakes his head, as if waking from a dream. “Thank you,” he says then, his open smile sparking something white-hot inside Yuuri.
“Mr. Katsuki,” Christophe croons, and Yuuri starts at the feel of a hand on his behind. “I could use someone like you in the liquor business.”
“Magic is more than enough trouble to handle,” Viktor says, sharply, from where he’s hauling a dazed Michele to his feet.
“Ah.” Christophe winks at Yuuri, his grin knowing. “More than enough to handle, indeed.”
Yuuri doesn’t hear from Viktor for a while. The detective makes good his promise and leaves them well alone after the case. Every so often, he appears in the paper with another spectacular arrest, ever the white knight. “Seems to be going after non-magic folks now,” Phichit observes.
Yuuri tells himself to think nothing of it.
Viktor comes in the coffee shop two months later, tight as Yuuri remembers, a brand-new hat tipped at a rakish angle. Phichit has gone to visit Seung-gil in the pen, leaving Yuuri on his own at the shop. Lights dance in blue eyes as Viktor leans over the counter, revealing a single white lily hidden behind his back.
“What have you got for a hole in the heart?” he asks.
“An herbal tea, maybe,” Yuuri suggests, clutching the flower to his chest.
Viktor chuckles, removing his hat. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “And I still don’t agree with magic. Probably never will.” He stops, runs a hand through silver strands. Draws in a breath, as if nervous. (Viktor Nikiforov, nervous?) “But I’d uh…” He looks up through long lashes. “I’d like a partner who’ll tell me why I should.”
Yuuri’s heart soars. It’s not what he wants, exactly, but it’s a start. A very good start. “Then I may have just the thing for your heart,” he murmurs, a hand slipping over Viktor’s.
“Can you swing?”
As Viktor laughs, as Yuuri closes the distance between them, Viktor’s eyes are soft and blue and the curve of his mouth holds the sweet taste of a bright new tomorrow.