His head was throbbing. Letting the weight of the decisions in front of him crash down on him, he let his forehead drop onto the desk, smearing the ink on the ledgers with his sweat. Numbers danced in his mind, colliding with food orders, staff schedules, and seating arrangements. Whenever a question was answered, a new question appeared in a never-ending task list that rolled through his brain on loop. The maddening sound of his own heartbeat overtook his ears, blocking out the precise sounds of the conversation. Somewhere above him, Mila was speaking in calm tones, but every word felt like it was smacking bruises against his skin. Victor was twenty-eight and completely, utterly overwhelmed.

"Don't be dramatic, Vitya," the distinctly female voice was soft in its criticism, "it has been three months since this place officially became yours and all of the gimmicks have been exhausted. You need to hire a chef or this place is going to go under."

The groan that escaped Victor came from the pit of his stomach, bringing with it the bubble of nausea that he had been struggling to control. Four months. It was such a small amount of time in the grand scheme of a lifeline, but it had been the hardest months of his life. His parents were dead. His head chef had quit when the news broke that the five star family-owned restaurant would be inherited by the owners' playboy son. Had it been his fault that he had never had to work? Sure, he had filled in shifts at the restaurant, but his parents had made life easy for him, never requiring him to work as hard as they did. Victor had taken for granted that they would always be there, up until the moment that they weren't.

"Snap out of it!" Mila cursed at him. She was younger than him and perhaps as the owner he should correct her tone, but he couldn't afford to lose her too. Mila, at twenty-three years old, knew more about running the restaurant than he did and had been his savior in the process. She was an insufferable flirt and tortured the busboys to no end, but the patrons loved her. And, Victor thought painfully to himself, my mother had trusted Mila with the interworking of the restaurant, something neither of my parents had trusted to me when they were alive. Bitter thoughts wound their way into the front of his mind, and he attempted to push them away, refocusing on sound of the red-head glaring down at him. Without her, the doors to this legacy surely would have closed almost instantaneously, and Victor reminded himself to be grateful that she tolerated him at all.

It had been Mila's idea to hire guest chefs until they found someone permanent, offering publicity and a space to work for thirty days at time in exchange for reduced pay. They had made it through three chefs so far, but their profits were starting to curve downward and Victor knew it was time to make a permanent decision. The problem being that Victor had no idea how to make such a decision and his anxiety kept him from even finding the motivation to do so.

Another bang on his desk, brought his head up and out of his own thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mila," he spoke quietly watching the frustration fade from her face, "I know we need someone. Tell me what to do." His dejected sigh took the wind out of her agitated sails. Mila moved to sit in the plush chair in front of the desk when her downward progress was halted by a knock on the door. Confusion taking over his face, Victor raised an eyebrow at his restaurant manager as he called, "come in!"

A bouncing Minami, one of the three remaining busboys, bounded into the room. "Victor!" the boy had the good sense to blush and correct himself, "I mean, Mr. Nikiforov! Sorry, sir! There is someone here to see you. He says he is a chef!" The blush on the boy's checks deepened as he glanced out of the open door, muttering something under his breath about the chef looking good enough to eat.

"Excuse me?" Victor couldn't help his smirk. Minami was the younger of the busboys, a mere seventeen, and was certainly more innocent than the rest of his staff. The simple comment told Victor that perhaps the boy was being a bit more corrupted by his vulgar staff than he realized, and he turned a quizzical look to Mila who was laughing behind her hand.

"Nothing!" Minami squeaked, waving his hands. "Um, he is up front, do you want him to come back?"

"That won't be necessary." Victor stood, smoothing his shirt down, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at Mila who gave him a thumbs up and he strode from the office behind his youngest employee.

Mila collapsed in a fit of giggles, failing to tell Victor that he had a large ink swipe across his forehead where he had rolled it on the ledger books. Trying to gather herself, she stood, shaking her shoulders and pulling down her own skirt. If this chef was attractive enough to get Minami talking, she was going to need to see him for herself. Snickering, she speed up her steps, not wanting to miss the opportunity of seeing Victor attempt to be professional, while he had a face full of messy ink imprints.

Victor moved gracefully through the dining room, making eye contact and nodding to Chris who was behind the bar setting up for the night. Victor again raised his eyebrow when he saw Chris wipe a finger on his own forehead, but shrugged it off as he reached the front of the restaurant, only slightly behind the multi-colored head of hair that belonged to Minami. He distinctly remembered his father wanting the boy to dye his hair to a normal color, but the red and yellow streaks were of no concern to Victor. Cracking his neck as he stepped forward onto the tiled floor of the waiting area, he mentally prepared himself for whatever was waiting for him.

He wasn't prepared. As Minami stepped aside with a disappointed look on his face, Victor found himself standing in front of the most gorgeous man he had ever seen in real life. It wasn't a short list of good-looking men that he had been exposed to either. Fog settled into his brain as his ice blue eyes connected with the honey brown ones peering up at him. The man had a carefully disheveled mop of jet black hair, and his face was accented with a pair of blue rimmed glasses. He wore tailored black pants that looked more practical than expensive, and a pressed white chef's jacket. There was a black bag slung over his shoulder, and a small black canvas bag sitting on the waiting room chair behind him. Victor was so focused on the blindingly beautiful man in front of him that he completely failed to notice that he was accompanied by a second man dressed in similar fashion.

Approaching the small group, Mila exchanged knowing looks with Chris, neither of them containing their snickers at their speechless boss. Her heels clacking on the tile, Mila brushed passed Victor's dumbfounded figure, reaching a hand out to the man standing nervously in front of him. "Hi, I'm Mila," she spoke conversationally as she nudged Victor with her elbow. It was a nod to her own self-resistance when she didn't burst out laughing at Victor's reddening cheeks. "I'm the manager here, and this is Victor Nikiforov, he is the owner."

Taking the hand that was offered, Yuuri softly smiled, nodding his head. "My name is Yuuri Katsuki, this is my sous chef, Phicit," he waved a hand at Phicit, encouraging him forward.

"So, you are interested in being our chef? Do you have a resume?" Mila watched as the smaller man reached into his black bag, sparring a glance at Victor who still hadn't regained his sense of speech. Rolling her eyes, she took the paper from the smallish hand that offered it. Her eyes flicked over the resume, noting that it extended onto a second page. The list of educational background was impressive, not to be outdone by the list of professional experience. She was trying to calculate how the man could have possibly obtained such an impressive resume when he appeared so young, when he cleared his throat interrupting her thoughts. "Impressive, Mr. Katsuki," she noted his smile when she said his name, assuming she must have pronounced it correctly. "Please tell me, how old are you? You have quite a list of experience." It was amusing to watch as the handsome man blushed, in equal measures to her still speechless boss.

"I'm twenty-four, about to be twenty-five," Yuuri's eyes danced between Mila's and Victor's faces. "I have extensive experience in multiple types of cuisine, but I haven't found a restaurant that feels like it fits with me."

"And how," Mila tucked a hand in her pocket, popping her hip to one side while tapping her chin with the corner of Yuuri's resume, "did you know our restaurant was looking for a chef?"

"That's all me, ma'am!" Phicit's voice was cheerful and confident. He was the kind of person that could easily light up an entire room, simply by existing in it. "My parents are restaurateurs as well, they gave us our first jobs out of school. We moved here six months ago for placement at another high-end restaurant, but the family decided to sell the place. When I told my mom, she suggested that we inquire if a chef had been found for your location." Phicit bit his lip, gaze darting to Victor. "I'm sorry about…" he trailed off, uncomfortably leaving the sentence hanging between them.

Jumping slightly when Mila pinched his arm, Victor shook his head, combing his hair out of his eyes with his fingers. "You want to be my chef?" The question was directed straight into the face of Yuuri. There was a purr annunciated on the word 'my' that did not go unnoticed by Mila or Phicit, the two catching each other's expressions and exchanging small wicked smiles.

There was a lump in Yuuri's throat that had solidified over the time that Victor had stood there staring at him. Anxiety gripped at his insides, making Yuuri want to run, but the gentle smile beaming from the man looking eagerly into his eyes fought back against the negative sensation. Phicit had told Yuuri that Victor was good-looking, but nothing his best friend had said had prepared him for the breath-taking blue eyes, sparkling silver hair, or easy elegance that was Victor Nikiforov. Shoving all of that down, Yuuri steeled himself, meeting the challenge with confidence. "If you'll have me," he didn't let Mila's wink at Phicit derail him, "then yes, I would very much like to be your chef. On three conditions."

"Name them," Victor subconsciously shifted toward the smaller man, feeling his heart slamming against the walls of his chest. He had a bizarre urge to touch the black hair that was gracing Yuuri's forehead. It was an urge that he was barely restraining, shoving his hands into his pockets to help the effort.

"Phicit is my sous chef," Yuuri let his friend link arms with him and smiled as he continued, "I will make everything on your traditional menu, but I get to add one chef's special every night, and," he glanced at Phicit who nodded, "we won't accept payment for the first thirty days. If this doesn't work out, than no one is worse off and we'll move on. After thirty days, if we are a match, then we'll discuss the terms of employment." With false confidence, Yuuri lifted a hand to Victor, holding firm as he stared directly at the restaurant's owner.

"You're on," Victor took the hand, swallowing hard when the shock flashed up his arm from the contact.

Mila gaped at the two men as they shook hands for an awkwardly long amount of time. It was quite possible that Yuuri Katsuki could save their restaurant, or destroy it, and she wasn't going to debate that the idea was a fair one, but Victor hadn't bothered to consult with her. What was happening in front of her was untraditional and not how business was normally conducted. Her frustration was painted across her face, when the brown eyes turned to focus on her.

Yuuri dragged his hand from Victor's grasp, hesitant to let go when the sparks were so strong between their touching skin. Reason had fought into his brain when Phicit had nudged his side, indicating a head toward Mila. "Is this agreement okay with you?" Yuuri's shyness broke through his confidence. "It seems that you are the driving force here, am I correct?" He knew that Victor owned the restaurant, but Mila's position was obvious from the moment she had joined them. His attention had defaulted to Victor, for reasons he wasn't ready to address, and he had to consciously remind himself that most successful restaurants were like families and he needed to respect the matriarch of this one.

His respectful tone and small bow of his head cut straight through her desire to be angry and her frustration of being overlooked by Victor. Mila wanted to remain rigid and in charge, but the softness of Yuuri shook the need from her. "He pretends to be the boss," Mila elbowed into Victor's side making him pout, "but he would be lost without me." She sighed looking at her watch. "We'll give you a shot, Yuuri Katsuki, and on your terms. The guest chef has a last shift this evening. You are welcome to stay and observe for the night, assist if he needs it, and learn the layout of the kitchen. Tomorrow, it will be all yours." Flicking a finger at her head waiter, she waited until the severe looking man arrived at her side to continue. "This is Georgi, he is the head waiter. He'll show you to the kitchen." Georgi nodded, turning to lead the way without speaking.

"You'll see!" Phicit chimed in happily, "this is going to be great!" He hugged Mila, catching her by surprise and making her laugh. He skipped toward Georgi's retreating back, making Mila think he was exactly what her staff needed for a boost in morale.

Yuuri followed his sous chef and the sullen waiter, turning briefly back to his new boss. "Mr. Nikiforov?" His question caused the silver-haired man to twist to face him.

"Victor is fine," he said, more breathless than he wanted to be.

Smiling, Yuuri nodded, "Victor." He raised a hand to his forehead, nodding again towards Victor. "You have something on your face, right about here." Yuuri turned on his heel, not waiting to see Victor's reaction, a smile tugging at his lips.

Victor swore, as Mila cackled and grabbed his arm. Dragging Victor toward the bar, Chris joined her in openly teasing the owner. "You're totally screwed," Chris piped, pouring dark whiskey into three shot glasses, "you know that, right?" His wiggling eyebrows spoke volumes about the type of screwed that Chris was implying.

The three of them wrapped their fingers around their individual shot glasses, clinking them together before gulping the burning liquid. Victor let his gaze float to the doors of the kitchen, hoping that whatever he felt chasing the alcohol into his stomach was a signal that better days were coming his way.