Bluebeard's wife

Bittersweet and strange (finding you can change)

Dinner is a quicker affair than lunch, the leftovers warming and thrumming in the microwave.

In spite of the lack of activity Yuuri feels the long day weighing on him, and it's not even eight o'clock yet. The Felstmans had left a little before lunchtime, around eleven, and he had remained in the kitchen long enough for them to eat only starting quarter to one.

Yuuri moves them to the dining room, using it more for its name than because he particularly wished to do so. Lilia had been meticulous on every aspect of the day, going as far as giving him lessons in silverware that he hadn't exactly felt the need to assimilate. His parents didn't own a restaurant within their inn for nothing, nor did they raise him uncivilly.

The head of the table stays empty, Yuuri finding it more appropriate to place Victor to its left and himself to the right. Even without Yakov Felstman here to fulfill his presumed role as head of the household, the seat carries an authority that would certainly be unbecoming of him to embrace. Yuuri was never one for power and control; having Victor sitting opposite him with Makkachin rubbing himself against the legs of their chairs, equal to equal, holds greater value. Other seats surround the tail of the grand table, empty of guests and platters.

His voice's intonation is reduced to little more than a croak he disguises behind a cough, throat drier than sandpaper. Yuuri had downed a good pitcher of water while waiting for their plates to heat up, and had put a kettle on to prepare them a teapot of green tea. Carrying it to the dining room and at the center of the table nearly burns his fingers, hissing when he finally sets it down.

White residue clings to his fingers, which he takes care to wipe down on his jeans before adjusting Victor's handkerchief under his shirt. It might be dust, given how deep the teapot was in the cupboard when he extracted it, though it lacks its thickness and wool-like texture. Powdery film tinges the collar of Victor's shirt when his knuckles dip to bury the fabric.

"Ah, sorry Victor!" Yuuri blurts out, brushing out the remains as best as he could, only managing to spread the markings on the material. Yuuri winces. He'd have some laundry to do.

"Sorry," he apologizes again. "I'll wash that for you during the week."

He chances a glance at the windows. A storm is brewing outside, tree branches rustling with the wind and rain pelting on glass. He'd also have to check if the doors and window panes were locked before going to bed, to keep the water from seeping inside the house. Hopefully the weather would get better during the week, or at least enough to hang clothes.

The basement, which had also served its purpose as the laundry room, had been condemned years ago after heavy precipitations had flooded it. The damage has been so significant, according to Mr Fetsman, that they'd had to lock it down while waiting for someone to come repair all appliances. No one ever came.

A headache starts to crawl its ugly way into his head, as he moves back to his seat. His glasses sit uncomfortably on the bridge of his nose, sliding along its length and lowering dangerously over his half-eaten bowl. Blood pounds behind his eyeballs, prompting him to squeeze them shut to ease the pressure exhaustion and neon-bright light exhorts on them. No doubt sensing his fatigue, Makkachin rubs his head on his knee, letting Yuuri run his fingers through brown curls with numbed strokes under Victor's watchful gaze.

Several cups of tea later he feels at once lighter and heavier. Victor's head sinks like stone against his shoulder and he hugs him tighter against his body while his steps guide him to the little boy's room. He doesn't trust his body to hold Victor properly, fearing any wrong move could topple the poor thing to the ground. His cool cheeks, fresh from the moist cloth he'd cleaned him with, feel like heaven pressed against his flushed skin.