.

.

"What's the one thing you couldn't live without?"

Yuuri considers this, flopped out on cafe noir and taupe and brass-colored pillows. It's the middle of the day, so it's not as if a deep, intellectual discussion feels unwarranted.

"… A water filtration system?" he says mindfully. Yuuri's eyes narrow a little.

It's apparently not the expected or desired response, as a now fussing, naked Viktor rolls onto his side and hugs Yuuri's also naked side, his chin pressing onto Yuuri's arm.

"Yuuuuri…"

"They're important!" he points out, without looking away the collection of mason-jar lightbulbs above them. Yuuri's voice raises a little, before softening with further thought. "I don't know… I guess…" Viktor's fingertips nudge playfully against his. "Ice skating?"

The other man smiles widely, digging his forehead up against Yuuri's skin. "You were supposed to say love, but that's fair," Viktor tells him, whispering.

"How about you?"

"Hmm…?" Viktor glances up curiously, peering into Yuuri's eyes. "Is love my answer?" Once he sees a half-nod, Viktor's smile reappears. It's so gorgeous and sincere that Yuuri's heart physically speeds up, hammering away inside his chest.

Viktor breathes out a laugh, instead of doing any more talking. He straddles the other man effortlessly, kissing Yuuri's neck and lightly tickling his armpits.

"Stop—ahaha, stop stop," Yuuri bellows out, giggling nonstop despite his protests and squirming and writhing roughly beneath him. Viktor's mouth shifts over his lips, leaving tender, slick-slow kisses, easing their jaws open and tongues darting out.

Viktor's wriggling fingers cease their pleasant torment, moving down Yuuri's belly and groping between his thighs. "Aah, don't stop," Yuuri moans, hugging his arms to Viktor's shoulders and neck. He laughs raggedly when Viktor does, arching his body under his husband's mouth trailing over his pecs and stomach and hipbones. "Viktor, don't stop…"

His babbling only seems to amuse Viktor further. He whispers out Yuuri's name, over and over, burying his face against Yuuri's pubic hair, nuzzling and kissing and licking his cock.

With as much intense, raunchy sex they've had on the dark blue and French beige sheets — Yuuri still finds himself capable of shying away from Viktor's gentle touch or blushing. He doesn't mean to. Viktor is just. He makes Yuuri so happy and intoxicated on love.

(Isn't that how it's supposed to be?)

.

.

After two years of living in Viktor's apartment, Yuuri doesn't mind St. Petersburg as a whole.

He adapts to the bitter cold weather. Their neighborhood isn't the quietest, but it's more lively than dangerous or menacing. He's thankful for that.

Viktor bundles up in one of his fashionable, tailored overcoats. "Don't miss me too much, Yuuri," he murmurs, grinning and leaning in to dutifully kiss his cheek.

"You're getting groceries, not leaving the country," Yuuri reminds him, not even blinking. He shoots Makkachin a knowing, mild look, as she wags her tail under Yuuri's attention and sniffs his hand as Yuuri bends over to pet her. "Take care of him, girl."

As soon as they're gone, Viktor twirling Makkachin's decorative, pink leash between his hands, Yuuri heads immediately for the bathroom. He rids himself of his slightly sticky boxers, washing off his and Viktor's cum off his thighs and ass, rinsing off with the shower-head. Unsurprisingly, Yuuri's hole feels swollen and sensitive when he carefully rubs his wet fingertips to it. A faint raw-burn from the previous round of Viktor being inside him.

He towels off and dresses in pajama slacks and a loose, white t-shirt. Yuuri spots Viktor's wallet on their bedstead, growing confused. Must have forgotten it accidentally.

With a long sigh, Yuuri places on his glasses and steps towards the hallway. Viktor

That's when he hears the voices.

Male. It's definitely male voices in Viktor's foyer, and not just one.

He ducks back into his bedroom soundlessly, assuming whoever it is hasn't seen him. Or is aware that Yuuri is there. If they had — the men could come marching right over.

Who are they? Why are they here?

Yuuri tightly covers up his nose and mouth, pressing himself against a wall, his mind racing.

His laptop and his mobile are both sitting out on the kitchen counter-top. Too far away. There's a bedroom window on his right, but it's straight to a thirty foot drop onto the crowded street. No ledge. No way to draw attention to himself in time or safely.

It's likely burglars that invaded the apartment — he never heard the door-jab snap open or the lock being jiggled. But then again, maybe it all happened while Yuuri clearly wasn't paying attention… while he was getting dressed, or blow-drying his hair, or…

(Why is this happening?)

Okay. Okay, he could wait it out. The burglars will take what they need, and then leave, right?

Yuuri grimaces, remembering Viktor's wallet nearby. Once he discovers his wallet is missing, Viktor will either call Yuuri or head back with Makkachin. Fuck.

He needs to get out of here.

Panic and adrenaline inflames Yuuri's chest. He can't wait. They'll come right down the hallway and search out the bedroom, for either valuables or a person, and notice about the fresh, warm steam pouring out of the master bathroom. There's nowhere really to hide, and he doesn't even know if they're carrying weapons—

A weapon!

Yuuri lowers his hands, opening his eyes and sucking in a deep, steadying breath. He needs a weapon to defend himself — that's the first thing. He hurries over to the bathroom, inspecting and stopping himself from knocking over a lotion bottle with his trembling hands.

Bottles of shampoo and mouthwash, an electric razor, toenail clippers, a jar of hair gel…

He grabs onto the tweezers for their sharp, pointy ends and a can of hair spray, and after a moment, Yuuri decides to hoist up the brand new plunger near the toilet. It's heavy enough to strike an attacker. At first, he thinks about making off with the heavier toilet lid, or the huge, oval-shaped bathroom mirror, but can't work out how to remove either of them.

Just as expected, one of the burglars walks down the hallway, towards his bedroom. Yuuri peeks out when he yells out coarsely in Russian, now faced away from him.

To Yuuri's relief, the front door seems partly open. The only obstacle is him.

He creeps out into the same hallway, prepared for the worst. The man in the dark sweatsuit continues to remain oblivious, laughing gruffly as someone answers him in a muffled voice.

Oh god, this is a stupid decision…

Yuuri stands a couple inches from him and taps on his shoulder, jamming the plunger into the man's face as he utters a surprised, low noise, taking off into a run.

He's almost there. Almost.

Another man in dark clothes unexpectedly crosses in front of Yuuri's path, just as Yuuri barrels into him at full-speed. They both cry out, with Yuuri slipping and falling onto the hardwood floor with a thunderous boom! of impact. The tweezers and the hairspray releases from Yuuri's hand, flying into another hallway.

Yuuri crawls backwards in his terror, pulse racing as the greasy-haired man swears and towers over him, reaching in.

A revolver shoves into Yuuri's mouth, widening it painfully, scraping his teeth. Oh god, oh god, he's gonna pull the trigger — Yuuri's brain screams out, anticipating death.

The third burglar interrupts, scolding his partner, ordering the man to not kill Yuuri.

Yuuri's attacker frowns and squints his eyes, as if unsure of the command, before yanking his revolver out of Yuuri's mouth with a jerking, rough motion.

Eyes bulging, Yuuri lies on his back, coughing and choking for air. He goes up on his elbows, only to be rewarded with the revolver's leathered handle abruptly whacking the side of Yuuri's face, bursting ugly, hot-white stars behind Yuuri's eyelids, stunning him.

It gives the first burglar (glaring daggers in Yuuri's direction, but oddly silent about the embarrassing plunger incident) and the gunman the opportunity to knot Yuuri's ankles together and his wrists behind him, using the bed-sheets. Yuuri's glasses, having flown off his face during the face-whack, crushes and mangles underneath one of their boots, kicked aside.

The front door shuts, with the gunman blocking it and casually flipping his weapon midair.

Yuuri gets hauled up, dragged towards the living room. He feels like hell already. His lip split and bleeding down his chin, and his left cheek swelling into a massive bruise.

Although he's scared for his life, Yuuri resents this entire situation, and being helpless. He can do nothing but remain on his knees, looking sullenly and quietly at the first burglar squatting down next to him, waving his pocketknife with a little, eerie smile.

"If I were you, I would be more nervous…"

This time, someone is speaking in English — thickened and naturally accented. Yuuri side-eyes him, breathing heavily out of his mouth, tasting a hint of blood mingling in his own saliva.

"You're going to jail," Yuuri murmurs, in the flattest, deadpan Russian he can muster.

It had been absolutely worth getting forcibly choke-gagged on a scarf, for even that second's glimpse of the burglar's gobsmacked, infuriated expression.

His satisfaction doesn't last. Yuuri's mobile rings on the counter-top.

The third man — their ringleader, supposedly — tucks away his own gun, calmly pressing a button to answer but says nothing as Viktor blurts out, "Yuuri, darling, could you grab my—"

"Is this Mister Nikiforov?"

Yuuri senses Viktor's hesitation and possibly his baffled temperament, even with the fake cheerful, energetic response on Yuuri's speakerphone: "Who might this be?"

"That does not matter." The ringleader opens up Viktor's wallet, slipping out the cash and pocketing it. The conversation persists in English. "We have your husband and all of your nice, expensive belongings. If you call the police, we torture him, set him on fire and he dies. Then everything else will burn. If we see any police, the same thing happens."

Silence follows. Yuuri swallows laboriously through his gag, feeling his body trembling again.

(Did they plan this?)

"And I'm supposed to trust that you haven't already killed him?" Viktor finally says after a long pause.

The first burglar jostles Yuuri higher up on his knees, ungagging him after a firm, understanding nod from his leader. Yuuri wastes no time, screaming hoarsely, "Vitya, don't do anyth—uugh!" A balled-up fist collides into Yuuri's wounded cheek, ripping an alarmed, loud cry out of him.

Searing pain roars like a wildfire into Yuuri's nerves.

He's gagged once more, thrashing violently until Yuuri is punched in the gut by the same burglar, finally winded by the severity and going limp in their hands.

"Not a very smart boy," the leader announces offhandedly. "He must be a good fuck instead."

Instead of sounding weepy or fearful, or even compliant to their demands, Viktor's earnest but deliberate tone masks his anger. A powerful, abyssal rage expanding to the surface.

"If Yuuri is harmed further, there will be no place you can ever hide from me."

He doesn't know how his captors feel, but Yuuri's own skin goosebumps.

"Threats will not get you what you want, Mister Nikiforv." The lead-burglar's composure falters. He picks up Yuuri's mobile, hissing out, "You should show a little more gratitude."

Somewhere during a moment of disassociating, Yuuri realizes he's fallen over sideways to the hardwood floor and no longer being watched up close. Everyone's talking in Russian again. He assumes the burglars want Viktor to wire them an absurd amount of money he doesn't have and within a short time frame. Didn't… the bad guys always do that with their hostages?

"You have two hours before you die." A menacing, split-wide grin. Yuuri stiffens, leaning away from the ringleader's face hovering closer. "Let's hope your Vitya does as he's told."

.

.

He doesn't focus on the time. Yuuri has no way of checking, and distracts himself with concentrating on rolling himself and belly-crawling on the floor, meaning to escape.

Every determined attempt ends with getting pulled backwards, by his ankles or by his bound wrists. He's thrown against a side-table or wall by then, or kicked into submission. Yuuri's right shoulder blares with agony, from hitting the corner of some unnamed furniture, and his stomach area feels like a gigantic, tender welt from the constant abuse.

"Take him," their once cool-mannered leader barks, face twisting up in irritation. He thrusts Yuuri to the gunman. "Make sure he's restrained for good. Don't fuck this up."

It's the guest room Yuuri gets flung into, landing face-first on the mattress.

With a chilling, speechless horror, he feels the burglar wiggling off Yuuri's rings, successfully prying and stealing them. Yuuri shouts around his gag, flipped over onto his back and goes motionless as the revolver's muzzle presses harshly into Yuuri's forehead.

"You're gonna shut the fuck up," the gunman proclaims, beads of sweat cascading down his temples and brow-line. It's not a statement coming out of him — it's a warning.

Hating himself for it, Yuuri does as he's told and watches the gunman set aside his only weapon. Grimy, clammy fingers tug on Yuuri's pajama slacks. Oh fuck no. Yuuri prepares to make this hell for his nasty captor, to fight with all of his energy and willpower.

That's when the gunman's face pales drastically, his hands raising in surrender.

"Untie him," Viktor mutters coldly, windswept and missing his overcoat. "Gently."

The gunman's revolver clenches between Viktor's hands, having pressed against the back of the gunman's skull during their exchange. He knocks him unconscious when the gunman refuses to obey. Viktor arranges him upright on the floor, tucking the revolver into his back-pocket.

How the HELL did he—?

As soon as Yuuri regains control of his limbs, he practically leaps into Viktor's arms. "Yuuri, oh my god," Viktor says between their mushed, needy lips, between kisses. He stares almost comically outraged at Yuuri's facial bruises, holding onto his uninjured cheek. "Yuuri—"

"Don't worry about me, I'm alright," Yuuri insists. He glances over to the opened, guest bedroom window, its curtain billowing. "How did you get up here …?"

"Ladder," Viktor informs him seriously. "A very big one. Listen to me, you need to leave." He passes Yuuri his mobile. "Take this and call the police. I left Makkachin with the grocery store's owner. Go find her and wait for help. Tell them where you're going."

Yuuri gapes, shaking his head.

"Viktor, no, what—"

"Go!" he whispers noisily, leaning over the gunman and considering the best way to wake him.

"Viktor—" Yuuri's voice hisses out. He then points to the gunman solemnly, as Viktor peers around at him with lessening patience. "He took my rings."

That does the trick. Viktor's features relax.

He kneels down and inspects their unwelcomed guest's ratty pockets, fishing out both of Yuuri's golden-bright, shining rings. "Promise me you'll never lose these again," Viktor says as if it's a disapproving lecture, remaining in his kneeling position in front of Yuuri.

Yuuri can't help the teeny, affectionate smile as his husband's fingers slip the rings over his knuckle, in a familiar gesture. Viktor gathers Yuuri's hand into his, kissing his palm.

"I won't."

Viktor's lips press against his, and Yuuri feels his insides somersault. It's a blissful feeling. He wants this to be a normal day, like right before Viktor left the apartment. He wants to pull him in, and kiss him deeper, until they're shaking with arousal, not fear

"Be safe, dorogoi," Viktor whispers.

He spins around, breaking Yuuri's eye-contact as the gunman moans and rubs his head, becoming conscious. Before he knows it, Viktor leads the other man out, putting him in a headlock.

Yuuri looks at the window doubtfully, and then the guest bedroom's doorway.

… Like hell he's leaving.

.

.

This is a stupid decision.

Yuuri has seen and anticipated enough of them today.

The leader tilts his own gun sympathetically. "No hard feelings, Abram," he says monotonously, shooting his partner through his right eye without so much as a single flinch.

Viktor drops the gunman and his own revolver, shell-shocked and disgusted. A new, hot bullet fires and lodges itself into Viktor's left side, midway between his shoulder and breastbone, as he collapses with a groan. That's when a blood-curdling scream echoes through the apartment.

Yuuri isn't sure if it's coming out of him or the leader, as he jabs a kitchen knife into the other man's spinal cord, yanking the object free with both hands.

Dark red blood wells up, spurting onto the front of Yuuri's white t-shirt and his lower face.

He tries to shoot Yuuri, blundering his coordination and shattering a vase. Yuuri wretches it out his hand, letting the fatally wounded man gurgle and pass out onto the hardwood floor.

The first burglar stares at Yuuri, gulping and wide-eyed in terror.

"Your pocket-knife. Now."

No hesitation. The man places it down by his feet, visibly shaking. Yuuri, still aiming the leader's gun at him, fumbles for his mobile on the counter-top, not looking down.

"Slide it over," he orders, Yuuri's mouth cotton-dry.

"Please don't kill me."

"I won't," Yuuri says. Tears stung like fire in his eyes. "I'm not like you."

At this, the first burglar shakes and shakes harder, lightly kicking his weapon towards Yuuri. He falls onto his hands and knees, curling up into a fetal position, bowing his head.

Yuuri's mobile flashes.

"What's your emergency? Hello?" the emergency operator calls out in Russian.

Yuuri twists up his face, flushed and nauseated, gulping down a sob aching in his throat. He presses his wrists to his moist eyelids, still clutching the gun for dear life.

"We need help… please… help…"

.

.

In around four months, there's nicer weather in Japan. "I always wanted to live with Yuuri in Hasetsu," Viktor tells him, patting Yuuri's hand and weaving around their piles of moving boxes.

He's off the medication by now and fully recovered — except for the nightmares. They don't last for Viktor, but Yuuri still experiences them on nights where he's alone, clutching onto a whining Makkachin who licks his healed, puffy face and snuggles up with him.

What's the one thing you couldn't live without?

Viktor's innocent question echoes back to him, as Yuuri glances over his husband stretching idly under the sunlight, blowing a kiss goodbye to one of their older, friendlier neighbors.

(Him.)

(Them.)

.

.


Yuri on Ice isn't mine. HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATSUKI YUURI! IT'S KIND OF AN INTENSE STORY, BUT I LOVE ANGST. AND THESE BOYS. SO. HERE WE ARE. We are getting close to the end of the year and to the one year anniversary of YOI Wednesdays! Wooo! It's been a blast. I hope you guys have been loving it too, and enjoyed this fic! Any thoughts/comments appreciated! Prompt came from yoikinkmeme: "Viktor/Yuuri + established relationship, violence, blood, injuries, any verse" and it also covers my "Viktor/Yuuri K" bingo space for the YOI Bingo hosted on Tumblr and Dreamwidth!