❆ come on out ❆

10 ❆ VICTOR

Author's notes, TW & CW 
↳

December 11, 1:55 p.m.

5 minutes to go

It feels kind of like walking to his own execution.

The aesthetics of it don't fit, of course. He's walking through the sleek halls of the hotel in Barcelona, and it's a sunny day, and it's mid-afternoon, and he's hungry because he was too nervous to have breakfast. But the sense of doom hanging over his head is the same. He walks slowly. Yuri walks slowly too. Neither of them say a word as they take the elevator up to the fifth floor, so the oppressive hum of the air conditioner and their quiet footsteps are the only sounds.

As they approach Yakov's room, Yuri's face takes on an expression of grim determination, while Victor can feel himself start to tremble slightly. Still, when they stop there, Victor tries to seem grounded. For Yuri's sake, he tells himself.

"What are you going to say to him?" Yuri asks.

Victor doesn't respond. "Maybe you should wait outside."

"What? Hell no. What if he–"

"He won't," Victor says quietly, shutting down the inevitable stream of paranoia and accusations. "It's Yakov. He wouldn't hurt me." He can't believe he even has to say that, and to Yuri, no less.

"He already has."

"Not on purpose."

"Does it matter?"

"Stay outside, Yura," Victor repeats. "And don't listen in."

They have a mini staring contest, but in the end Yuri huffs and looks down. "Fine," he says. "Be careful."

He doesn't want to do this, he thinks as he faces the door. Every single cell of him screams to run away, but he has to go. He has to try. For his own sake, and for Yakov's.

Victor nods, takes a breath, swipes the keycard, and enters.

The room's comfortably warm, early afternoon sun streaming bright through the far windows. There's a single king-sized bed, made neatly, and a cushioned chair next to the window. The decor is all the same modern, minimalist stuff from the halls.

Yakov is sitting in the chair. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept. It tugs at Victor's heart. It's strange—since Yuri got so mad, it feels like all of Victor's anger and bitterness drained out of him, leaving him just as tired as Yakov looks. As he enters, the fear and anxiety drains out of him too, replaced by nothing but a strange, quiet resolve.

Yakov looks up as Victor comes in. "Is Yuri with you?"

"Out in the hall," Victor replies.

"I texted you."

"My phone was off."

"You should have told me he was staying at your hotel. I was worried."

"Sorry." Victor hangs up his coat and makes his way over to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and staring at his own feet.

There's a long, long pause. Dust drifts aimlessly in the rays of sunlight, rushing around in whirlpools where Victor's breath disturbs the currents. The radiator turns off, leaving the room in utter silence.

"Victor–"

"Please don't call me that."

It's stupid. It really is so very stupid. Intellectually, he knows he might be in danger, and the way Chris and Yuri acted last night confirmed it—when you know your shit, you realize that homophobia isn't a joke, not even when it's someone you love. Especially not when it's quiet, works its way into your brain and makes a home there. It still kills you. You're still being killed. But he doesn't want to believe it, he can't believe it—so, no, he's not afraid of Yakov. The thing he's really afraid of is that Yakov will stop caring at all, will become polite and cold and distant. That, and only that, would be truly losing him.