Bluebeard's wife

Song as old as rhyme

Victor is nowhere in sight when he gets back. The list, however, greets him from atop its place on the hallway table.

He toes off his shoes at the front door, before reaching for the woodboard.

The list still finds its way wherever he goes; in his room, propped against the staircase, hanging in the kitchen, on the piano. Prim, razor-sharp calligraphy winks at him from the paper, almost in mockery. He knows the words off by heart by now, can list them in the precise order in which they come. And yet he stills seizes it in hand. Force of habits.

Black ink glistens as he angles the list towards him, cursive letters dancing over the page perfectly aligned in a soundless litany. And yet in their muteness there is movement, specks of white embossed through thick strokes. Like the writer had seized the pen too briskly and dug it into the paper with enough strength for the words to cut, carving the penmanship on the supporting wood board the sheet rested on. There is, of course, no questioning of whose hand put the words where they now belonged.

Yuuri swings the board onto his palm, bringing forward new rules and bending the old.

Rule number one:

No guests.

Rule number two:

Never leave Victor alone.

Rule number three:

Save meals in freezer.

Rule number four:

Never cover Victor's face.

Rule number five:

Read a bedtime story.

Rule number six:

Play music loud.

Rule number seven:

Clean the traps.

Rule number eight:

Only Chris brings deliveries.

Rule number nine:

Victor is never to leave.

Rule number ten:

Kiss goodnight.

Mental lines crisscross themselves in place onto every line, his slanted handwriting making small adjustements here and there, allowing him the luxury of witty notes scattered in the air. It's a form of hurting; there is a palpable satisfaction in fantasing about displeasing Victor, tainting his words with his own, far clumsier and ruining their elegance on paper. In his mind Yuuri has the upper hand, even when he knows he has no chance whatsover on all grounds.

His eyes rest far longer on the last line.

Rule number ten:

Kiss goodnight.

Yuuri had entirely foregone that one rule during his stay. Lilia had never showed him what he should do for the nightly rituals, only telling him to brush his hair and put him in pajamas. Until he had come across it on the list, she had never mentioned it. And by the time he could ask, she was gone.

"Now we've had quite a lot of candidates asking about the position, but Victor was adamant on having you here."

Victor had kissed him last night. Or rather he had kissed him. A lingering peck of his lips on Victor's porcelain cheek, the taste of blood rich and sharp over the painted cheekbone as he tried to bat it away, eyes clenched shut.