Bluebeard's wife

Tale as old as time

It turned out that they had stayed inside the bathroom long enough for noon to break. Lunch it would be then.

Yuuri finds out that Victor has an entire wardrobe at his disposal, carefully hidden in the closet of his room, right behind the child-size suits Yuuri had dressed the doll with for the past month. They don't even smell musty as he 'd expected them do, but he discerns an entirely distinct smell alltogether. A faint cap of dust mingled with stale air and the barest hint of bleach. Clean, the kind he associates with tailor-made shirts, freshly made and ironed and left to stand at the back of the closet until it is retrieved by its new owner.

Yuuri fights the urge to bury his nose into the collar of Victor's shirt, seeking the light cologne he had sprayed the doll version of the Russian with only a day ago. He is almost afraid to touch it, scared that the fabric will crumple under his fingers into a pile of dust, fade as soon if he does so much as look at it.

Victor's stoicness appears to be gone, washed down the drain with the remains of dirt and blood. He wears a small smile on his face as Yuuri towels his hair and body and moves to help him into his clothes.

His smile is disturbing. Smiles in general confuse him. Where he comes from smiles are exchanged rather freely, as a form of politeness, to cover embarassment or show silent support. This smile carries the familiarity of a lover's, well acquainted with his quirks and states of mind. It makes Yuuri feel naked before his gaze, even more than he was before with only water as a barrier.

Why can't he just smile like a psychopath?

Yuuri isn't sure what to make of himself, of his hands and his legs as he retrieves garment after garment. Victor makes no move to help him other than lift his limbs to slide them into pant legs and sleeves, leaving Yuuri to do the rest. He takes care not to let his fingers linger too long on Victor's skin, hardly a brush whether he pulls a zip up or buttons his shirt or straightens his collar. His skin still feels a little damp from his hasty towelling, having not desired to spend too long drying certain parts of his anatomy. Victor's hand guiding his own burns his skin long after he'd removed it, the callous digits tracing a path from the tip of a pink toe up to his inner tight, dangerously close to his manhood.

Soon enough Victor is impeccably dressed in a red shirt and a smooth pair of pants that hangs lowly on his hips in spite of the belt slung through the loops on his waist.

Yuuri doesn't protest when Victor takes his turn on him, leading him back to his bedroom and making him sit on the edge of the bed as he fishes through the drawers. Yuuri frowns when he brings back the clothes in the light for him to view. Black undergarments, black leggings, and a long-sleeved shirt, also black.

He recognizes the clothes in a hearbeat. To Victor this is simply dancing gear. To Yuuri this is mourning etiquette.

"You will dance for me after lunch, yes?" Victor smiles brightly. His grasp of English is a little rusty, he notes, but not broken as such. He knows for a fact that Victor doesn't expect him to reply.

He stills nods either way. "Of course."

Victor looks overjoyed, jumping into his arms to hug him. Yuuri's arms hang limply at his sides as Victor crashes into him, nuzzling at his neck.

"I'll go clean donwstairs, alright? You go check if we have any mail and empty the traps."

The "we" doesn't go unnoticed, making Yuuri shiver at the implication. Without his guardians present, they are completely on their own.

Then he perceives the other meaning of Victor's words.

He's almost relieved that Victor should suggest doing it by himself. He can't stand the thought of what could possibly be awaiting him downstairs. It's almost considerate of him to offer to do it. Better the devil you know.