Chapter Fourteen

Victor is confused as hell and his nerves are so jittery they have begun to numb. He leans against the scratched-up wall of the police lock-up, inwardly groaning at the stink in the corners. They have been going through the official procedures over the last hour, frisking him for hidden weapons, taking mugshots, casting dirty glances. His body is still reeling with discomfort from the gross manhandling.

They told him it's a murder case. They didn't say much though, taking his questions for obvious smugness. Regardless, he has managed to keep his cool. He can still hear the buzz of reporters outside; occasionally one of them succeeds in leaking past the police barrier and takes his picture. Victor feels tired, of the accusations and the suspense and the gawking – like he's an act on the stage for the world to lap up. And to think earlier in the evening he was with Yuuri...

Yuuri. Oh, god, right. He's also Eros. Victor never got enough time to process it, and even if he did, he could never process it enough. Yuuri must be panicking. Victor can only hope he doesn't attempt something drastic – like jailbreak – that would turn both vigilantes into fugitives and throw Yuuri under the police radar.

"So you the celeb doll with all that buzz?"

Victor doesn't address it. He has been trapped in here with ten other people, and it isn't the first thing he has overheard about himself.

"Hey, roller-skating Victor, I'm talking to you."

He feels someone behind him, touching his arm. A nerve of annoyance twinges at his temple. It takes all his strength to not turn around lest he turns the precinct into a big chunk of ice. "A stuck-up bitch then, huh?" the man sneers, running his fingers up and down Victor's arm, "I heard you shot the faces off some folks. Lord I wish we get the same prison. Pretty face and I uh gonna have some real fun –"

Victor hopes the crunch was loud enough to send a message when he whips around and traps the man's arm behind his back. The man screams out in pain, trying to wriggle out of Victor's grasp like a fish caught on a hook – while others look on, some even cheering.

"Dare speak to me again and I'll break that arm off, shove it up your anus and pull it out of your mouth."

Victor twists the arm emotionlessly, even as a crowd surrounds them and cheers louder. The man cries, "Let go, you slimy son of a bitch –"

"Hey, cut it out – what's going on in there?"

Victor hears the clinking of the lock and the door pulled open, and he knows an officer must've arrived to disperse the crowd. He lets go and turns to his corner again, as the man scuttles out of his vision cursing under his breath, pointing accusingly, "He broke my arm!"

"I only sprained it," Victor shrugs nonchalantly at the officer.

"Mr. Nikiforov, you need to come with me."

What? Is he going to be punished for a lock-up brawl now? Is being falsely framed for murder not enough? Victor glares, but silently cooperates. The officer handcuffs him and they briskly trot into the narrow hallway that leads to a dimly-lit room. There is a table and two chairs in the middle; he stares at his own ragged reflection on the two-way mirror as he's seated. He watches Mila pass by – she casts him a worried glance but doesn't talk. Then the door opens and the detective in-charge walks in, and of course, of fucking course – it has to be JJ Leroy.

If this case has anything to do about him being a vigilante, he can already kiss his freedom goodbye. Something tells him it's not. He needs to keep his guard up regardless – and if it indeed treads that way – he needs to keep Yuuri's identity safe.

This is going to be an episode of intimidation and manipulation. Victor stares deep into the table; he decides not to talk unless he really, really requires to.

JJ Leroy thumps into the chair opposite him. Loud, boisterous, just like he remembers. Victor winces but doesn't look.

"Mr. Nikiforov, do you remember what you were doing at 7:10 this evening?"

It was around the time he and Yuuri returned to his apartment, not talking to each other. Then they had an argument, a big one, the details of which he certainly can't tell the police. Then they made up and kissed. Victor knows that right now he's at full liberty to not answer whichever question he chooses to – should he speak – should he not speak –

"I was spending time with my boyfriend in my apartment." He replies curtly.

"Your boyfriend," JJ double-checks, "his name is Yuuri Katsuki, correct?" – a pang of dread shoots through Victor's heart at the mention of Yuuri, he's already done fucked up hasn't he, he's involved Yuuri in this – "He seemed like a nice fella to me. He waited outside the precinct for the last hour demanding to see you until we told him it's pointless unless he arranges for an attorney and a bail order. Do you really want to do this, Mr. Nikiforov?"

Victor looks up, his forehead clammy with sweat. Do what?

JJ smirks when he notices the change in expression, like he has finally discovered Victor's weakness. "Well, well. If Mr. Katsuki is your alibi, and you're proven guilty, it would make him a participant in your crime. Instead of making him suffer, why don't you confess it upfront?"

Victor senses his fingertips sparking under the table, freezing it from below. The steel handcuffs are already as cold as they are. He takes in a deep breath to keep his powers in check. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm going to be straightforward with you, Mr. Nikiforov. You were seen shooting two people, male and female, near Michigan Avenue by an officer and his civilian assistant. That's two witnesses, Victor. The officer was me. Then you escaped the scene of crime and misled us until we found you in your apartment. Does that jog your memory? The bodies were found beside those cultish scribbles. What's 1911? What's it all about?!"

There's no doubt they caught the wrong person but – wait – what the fuck is JJ saying? Victor and Yuuri were indeed there at Michigan Avenue; they had confronted those two and the criminals had committed suicide on their own accord. No one shot them, no one else was there – except the vigilantes. Is JJ lying to make Victor confess his secret identity – or is this some giant booby trap – some weird cult conspiracy Victor is unsuspectingly caught up in?

It doesn't matter. Because Victor has to bite it down. He can't say a word of what really happened. Because Victor Nikiforov was never there. He saw nothing. He was at his apartment with his boyfriend Yuuri Katsuki, doing simple civilian things, living a simple civilian life.

"I - "

There's a resonating clang and the door bursts open. It's a policewoman, who marches in and hands a phone to JJ. "There's a call for Victor Nikiforov. It's his attorney."

JJ places the phone against his ear, his eyes never leaving Victor. He listens without a word, then slides the phone over, "They want to speak to you."

Victor picks it awkwardly what with his hands cuffed in steel, hoping for a monotone at the other end – or if he's blessed enough – maybe Yuuri from the sidelines. "Yes?"

"Jesus Christ, Vitya, did you speak to those policemen?! Don't tell me you are stupid enough to talk without even consulting a lawyer first?! I let you get out of my sight for a few months and you end up in prison?! You don't even call me?! DO YOU WANT TO GIVE THIS OLD MAN A HEART ATTACK!?"

"Yakov?" Victor's surprised and warmed, "How've you been?"

His old coach's tone doesn't falter. "Shut up. You are very lucky I was on a trip to New York. I've booked a flight. I'll be there in a couple of hours. Meanwhile I have a lawyer on the line for you. You're going to talk to him. He's on his way to the police precinct. He's going to get you a bail. Don't talk to the police until you talk to him!"

"Spasibo, Yakov."

"Whatever. And to think you'd be sitting ducks in jail if I hadn't turned on the hotel TV!"

Twenty-two hours ago

"The sky is pretty tonight, don't you think?"

"Huh?" Yuri breaks out of his trance. "Yeah, yeah. Bitch-ass beauty."

He is still trying to wrap his head around the surprise party – especially around Victor's gift. How Victor pulled him to a side and gave him an offer – an offer to coach him into mainstream figure skating again. He told Yuri he could train him right here – at the Detroit Skating Club – or at St. Petersburg – whichever suits him (Detroit, Detroit of course, Yuri can't imagine leaving now), and he could start over his life again. It all felt... too good to be true.

"I'm really sorry I pressed you about your past," Otabek starts awkwardly. They've been sitting on this old ledge of an abandoned building not too far from the airport. They've been holding hands. They still have an hour before Otabek has to leave.

"It's fine," he assures him. Worse happened this morning and he'd have told Otabek if Katsudon wasn't involved, and that would've stolen the thunder anyway.

"– And now I'm leaving you behind in this city. I feel so bad, Yuri, but I don't have a choice – it shouldn't be a very long trip –"

"I told you, I got people who'd watch my back. There's nothing to worry," and then he looks glum, because he is about to tease a topic which has been playing on a loop in his head for a while now. "When I was with the mafia, I never thought my life would get better. And definitely didn't think it'd get this better. I cannot thank you enough, Otabek. You've changed my life. But... but my past has been cornering me and when I look at now - I - I don't know – everything feels too fragile. I feel I'm too cold and broken to be loved. I - I need some time, Beka, I need time to heal, to be normal again. Until then, I feel like we should keep the labels off our relationship." He chuckles as an afterthought, "If I'm a boyfriend now, I'll be a really baaaad one."

His heart flips when he glances at Otabek – who seems sad, concerned – staring off into the distance. Did Yuri disappoint him?

"You think you're too cold to be loved – that's funny. When I first saw you at the interrogation table, I thought you were like fire. Brilliant, blazing fire. A spirit that can't be crushed, no matter what. You had the eyes of a soldier." They're still holding hands, and he caresses Yuri's softly with his thumb; then he smiles. "I'm your friend before anything else, Yuri. Our friendship isn't about condition. It's about comfort. If you want me to be just a friend, I'll be that. If you want me to be just a roommate, I'll be that. You don't have to feel one bit guilty about it. We'll still be the same."

Yuri wraps his free arm around himself, warm in his chest. "You know, you're the most badass best friend. So, if it's okay to ask, what's your deal with St. Petersburg?"

Otabek sighs. It is a touchy subject, maybe. Yuri wonders if they should talk about something else. It's less than half hour now, after which they won't be seeing each other for weeks...

"It's about that Wanted Man and the cryptic graffiti case. I thought if it's possible to trace it back to where it all began – so I'm gonna see if the Bratva is anyhow involved or if something happened in 1911 or if it's some kind of code... whatever it is." He hesitates. "I... I didn't want to mention Russia too much because it brought you... bad memories."

"Makes sense," Yuri hums, "So when will you be back?"

"I'll try wrapping it up in a week or so. Two weeks, max. I hope."

They leave for the airport soon. Otabek hands him the keys to his bike, "Try avoiding the highway, since you don't have a driving license." Yuri smirks, "You better be worrying about yourself, Beka. Russia's fucking cold. Try not to die."

"I will."

"Good."

It's quite past midnight when Yuri reaches home, his heart sinking. The apartment suddenly seems too hollow and big for one person. He collapses on the couch; it's been a bittersweet day – less on the sweet, more on the bitter, maybe. He reaches out for the refrigerator; there's a couple of beers. No one allowed him to drink at his own party earlier in the evening. He might as well drink now, and make sense of the day – and think about a new future, of a doomed relationship, and people who weren't who he thought they were, perhaps in a good way.

He passes out before he could go for a second.

Naturally, he wakes up with a terrible headache the next morning. He rubs his groggy eyes and flits into panic mode when he finds the beer from the unfinished can has spilled over and soaked into the carpet. It hasn't been one day and the apartment's turning into a garbage bin. He rolls and sets it aside for dry-cleaning, then falls back on the couch. Everything still feels rancid, bitter, sour – every odd undesirable taste.

Distracting himself seems like a nice idea. It's 8:30 a.m., and he'd leave for the café soon, and forget the void in his chest. He needs to pass twenty minutes. Somehow. He could call victor; he wanted to genuinely thank him for his coaching offer and there wasn't a scope of such last night – at first Yuri himself was way too stunned to react, and soon enough Victor and Katsudon got drunk and began making bedroom eyes at each other... god, the second-hand embarrassment of it all, Yuri shudders.

It takes Victor ages to pick up the call, and when he finally does, it is with a less-than-enthusiastic "Yeah."

"Fucking finally," Yuri berates him loudly, "Now if you're done kissing your boyfriend, I have something important to talk to you about. I don't do this often, so listen very carefully. And never ask me to say it again."

There is no follow-up comeback, no playful jibe from Victor, and Yuri feels odd. Please don't tell me I called in the middle of their morning sex or something. "So Otabek left for St. Petersburg and I was thinking... well, what are you doing, by the way?" He asks to be sure.

"This is not a good time, Yura." Victor's voice is low and raspy. That's not a sex voice. That's just a really really sad voice. It's like he's been crying – or wanting to cry – or something close.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I just don't feel good. I'll call you later."

"Don't dare fucking hang up on me!" he screams into the phone, "Tell me what happened! This has something to do with that Katsudon, isn't it? Don't you fucking lie."

"I..." Victor trails off with a sigh, "I don't know. We had a fight and I think... I think we're not together anymore."

It doesn't make any sense. They are embarrassingly in love. Anyone who was there last night could tell. They can't just break up over every stupid argument, what are they, twelve? He shouts again. "What? What do you mean?! Why?!"

"I can't tell you. I'll call you later."

"Victor, wait –"

Victor hangs up inconsiderately. Yuri tries again, fuming. Dial tone, dial tone... then voicemail. He leaves an angry message demanding him to call him back right now. Damn, does Victor know how to ruin the mood. Yuri doesn't want to do the whole thank-you thing anymore. Ugh. He tries a while later but Victor has switched off his phone at this point.

Yuri wants to scream into the pillow, and he isn't totally sure why. A small sane voice in his head tells him he probably shouldn't meddle, but this weird loud noise at the back overwhelms all reason and keeps screaming what the fuck. The two dickheads just got together after a century of dancing around the fact that they're in love, and they can't break up now. What caused this? Did Katsudon drunken-babble out his secret?

If Victor's switched off his phone, there's no use even trying to call Katsudon (he prefers to text, he's always sleeping at odd times and low-key believes if the call is urgent enough a person would call twice; Victor is the talkative, social one, and all of this is one big disaster).

Yuri tries nonetheless, and gets what he expects. Then he texts Phichit out of desperation – who too sounds reasonably calm, or maybe they just don't know each other that well. So he decides to confront him straightaway at the coffee shop.

Even that plan is unwittingly thwarted by a giant toad.

Yuri isn't even kidding. Giant toad, that's exactly what this guy is. Jeans Jacket Leroy. Or something close. He saw it in the paper.

"Look, kiddo. I don't like this either. But you're under witness protection and can't be left unsupervised. In return, ya can assist me. And ya can call me JJ."

Yuri feels like he already had a terrible day and a bird shat on him on his way back home, and it's not even 10 a.m.. He glares at the officer's wide white grin on that punchable face. None of what JJ said is a choice. Yuri has to comply, or else he'll be on house arrest or something.

"Ladies first," JJ bombastically jeers, ushering Yuri to the back seat of the undercover car.

"You feeling man enough now?" Yuri shoots back. JJ doesn't talk for the rest of the drive.

He drives towards the outskirts of the city. Yuri feels familiar; about half a year ago he used to peddle meth in the darker alleys around the nightclubs and rest stops. Further down this road, there's a small massage salon the mafia owns as a front for money laundering. Two streets down there's their regular meeting hub. Although he doubts if that's still open; they never settle at one place for too long.

JJ parks the car around the corner, then sets up a photography kit; they are in clear sight of an unfinished three-storeyed building. "This building started construction five years ago. Two years ago, the owner died and the construction stalled. There've been reports of weird odours from the building but we never investigated. Weirder part is, there's been a hush-hush that the owner's ghost has been sighted walking into the building a few days ago."

"Alright," Yuri snaps, "so in conclusion, I never asked for your boring-ass story, and what are we doing here, ghost hunting?! In broad daylight?"

"How does Otabek tolerate you?"

"How does anyone tolerate you?!"

They spend the next three hours in near silence, with JJ tsking and Yuri groaning his soul out. The camera idea is an impending, boring disaster; no one of interest passes through this deserted neighbourhood, let alone the ghost of a man. Yuri is lying in the backseat, hands behind his head and feet up on the window when he notices JJ preparing his gear and guns. "There's no harm in checking out an empty building, is it," JJ says to no one in particular.

"None, except this time I might actually die of boredom."

"Oh ya will, sonny boy. You're gonna stay in the car. I'm gonna handcuff you."

"Fuck you," Yuri snaps, staring daggers, "I'll bite my way through that steel shit and you know I will do it."

"Pissing your pants already, Jojo?"

Yuri would be lying if he said he wasn't spooked a bit. In any case, that elicits another annoyed grunt out of JJ as they tiptoe their way through the empty hallway-ish area (it's meant to be a hallway, but is incompletely built, splattered with bright sunlight and damp darkness). "That reminds me," says JJ, glancing back, his gun on the go, "you need to sign a form."

"About what?"

"That if you die here, it isn't one percent my fucking responsibility."

Yuri sneers. "Don't worry about that. If I die here, I'm sure you'd chase down my ghost to sign that form, won't you? It's what you do best. Detroit police wasting civilian tax money hunting poltergeists. It's their favourite pastime –"

"Shhh," JJ blocks the way ahead, pushing them both behind the pillar, "I hear a sound." They hold their breaths for a while, wanting nothing to obscure whatever sound JJ just heard. Yuri isn't sure but there does seem a faint clink clinkclink coming from where the path turns right...

"Stay here," JJ orders him. Yuri pulls up his middle finger, but complies.

Then the officer disappears from sight, leaving Yuri unarmed in the middle of a haunted hallway. Yuri sighs; this could've been so much more fun if it were Otabek. Or even Katsudon, or Victor. There's a new sound this time – a certain schlickschlick – like the dragging of metal against floor. Yuri feels nervous; maybe it's just the birds. Or maybe it's JJ moonwalking his way through the empty rooms.

Sweat clamming up his forehead, he decides to check. Two-four steps to the right leads to a new room – a big banquet room – the eerie amount of empty space makes his inside rumble. Another room connects to it. He could smell a sort of stink now – it's not organic, it smells like a mix of incompatible chemicals. Yuri is legitimately scared now.

Even so, he pushes the door open.

The sight is almost surreal.

It's the Wanted Man.

Yuri is supposed to run – or scream – or do something, but he freezes in his spot. This is scarier than the time the mafia guy threatened to put a bullet in his knee. He should get his phone out and alert JJ but his nerve impulses are short-circuiting, never quite reaching his limbs.

It's like staring in the face of a tattered, wounded lion. The Man hasn't spotted him yet, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The Man seems exhausted; a strange whirring noise erupting every time he wheezes for breath. He – of course – has an eye missing; there are wires peeking out of his damaged eye-socket, mangled with half-healed flesh. His right arm, too, is broken and useless, the metal joint dangling by a stray wire.

Until Yuri is spotted, he can evaluate his options. Screaming isn't a good one. He won't be able to outrun the Man. This Man almost killed Yuuri, and Yuuri is much stronger, faster than he (or any average human, for that matter) can ever be –

There's a noise of movement – footsteps? - no, it's that old schlickschlick schlick – "Please find me, JJ," Yuri whispers, prays to himself, barely managing to hide behind that flimsy door. He checks again – and forgets to breathe. The Man is staring at him, looking him in the eye, right into his soul.

"Pomo...gi..temny..e.."

Did the Man just speak Russian? Did he just – ask for help?

The cry for help clenches at Yuri's heart. He walks out of his hiding spot – bad decision, bad decision, this is a trap, this has to be – and takes a step ahead. The Man looks like he barely registered anything; his good eye sleepily blinks. "Nat... Natsya?"

Yuri's eyes widen. They used children for experiments. Is he, is the Man – "Dimitriy?"

The Man reacts to that name. He seems more aware now, trying to focus his attention on the small, human figure before him. His good eye is wide open, alert. "Yuri... Yuri?"

"GET DOWN!"

Yuri dives to the floor without thinking, arms shielding his head. JJ is here now; he shoots at The Wanted Man – Dimitriy – who is aware of the sudden incoming threat. Dimitriy scrambles to his feet – stumbles, as if he's disoriented – the bullet grazes him but doesn't do any significant damage. He escapes into the backdoor even as JJ chases him. Yuri follows them on instinct.

"Get to the car!" JJ yells at him, flinging the keys over, "And call back-up!"

"Look out!" Yuri screams before anything else registers; he catches a phantom passing through the door behind JJ. There are more people here. He feels a sudden shove – JJ 9 pushed them both behind the wall, and it was a good call – the next second there's a rain of bullets. JJ peeks his head out to check, and colour drains out of his face.

"Who was that?!" Yuri asks him breathlessly.

Instead of answering, JJ crawls on his knees to the nearest window, watching: Yuri can hear the faint screech of tyres. The rain of bullets begins again, which means whoever it was left the armed person behind to finish them off. "We have to run. Now."

As egotistical and annoying as JJ is, he knows darn well how to do his job. He strategizes an escape fast – there are bullets flying fast even as they race to their car. Yuri glances through the window pane as soon as he gets into the back seat: it's an old man. Yuri never expected an old man. Strangely agile, though. "Who is that guy?" Yuri screams to no-one in particular, even as his face smacks into the front seat thanks to JJ's bull-headed driving.

"It's Simon Hoffman."

"Who's Simon Hoffman?"

JJ picks up a photograph near the steering wheel and throws it at Yuri. It's the same old man, albeit with a kinder, less threatening vibe. "The dead owner."

"What?"

"That's the truck, that's the one that escaped," JJ speaks, going way over the speed limit as he locates. The city area is approaching, and it's going to be difficult to chase it down the crowded roads if he doesn't do it soon...

"Active shooter at Michigan Avenue. Anyone close by, report there immediately. It's priority."

"We're almost at Michigan Avenue," Yuri replies. With a furious grunt, JJ launches the brakes and takes a hard left, abandoning the chase. "Motherfuckers." The mini-trucks begins to dissolve out of vision.

They're at the instructed location, almost. There're no police yet; this time, JJ doesn't hesitate locking Yuri inside the car. Face smushed against the window pane, he tries to make sense of the situation. A line of cult graffiti etched across the walls of the stores – that Happy New Year thing, a distant noise of JJ screaming "Freeze!", a mixed stench of blood and burnt gun powder, and a man with a gun.

August 13, 2017, Present time

"Then he turned and I saw his face. It was Victor. There were sounds of more gunshots – and I don't know – he escaped, and I was so confused because this was inconceivable... but the face is burnt into my memory. It was him."

"But that makes no sense."

"I know. I know. It was unlike him, everything about it – and I just stopped thinking. I think my brain stopped functioning. I saw a ghost of a dead man, and I saw my friend's become a monster, and now I saw Victor killing people – that, that was just the final straw. I feel like I'm going fucking insane."

There is a lingering silence in the room after Yuri finishes his story. Phichit is somewhere between concerned and confused, and Yuuri just wants to hide away from the world.

It's bright, early morning. It's been more than four hours that they took Victor, and he hadn't been even a bit of a help. Yuuri's knees tremble, even as he brings them closer to himself, crouching against the wall. He's made a mess of himself at the police precinct, screaming, crying. They asked him to get an attorney. Bail orders. Legalities. Appointments. He doesn't know much about any of this. Where is he supposed to start?

"I'm not going to testify against Victor," Yuri says, looking markedly at Yuuri.

"Why not?" Yuuri snaps bluntly, and Yuri's eyes widen. Yuuri clarifies, "I mean, that's technically lying. What if they take away your immunity?"

"I don't care!" Yuri sways with emotion, his eyes burning with tears, "There was something wrong about it. That wasn't Victor. It couldn't have been!"

Yuuri feels drained. It's almost like he still hasn't fully grasped the reality of the situation. His head is floating with a list of attorneys. Who'd be the best for Victor? Should he involve other people? Who is Victor's legal guardian? What's the fees? Yuuri has his student loan at disposal. He'd spend it in a blink, but what are the legalities of doing that? The time is slipping. He sighs, nonetheless.

"Victor and I were there earlier that evening at Michigan avenue, as vigilantes." Yuuri sees the question forming in Yuri's mouth; he nods: Yes, Victor is the other vigilante. "We nabbed them making cult graffiti. They tried to attack us but when they failed, they committed suicide. In front of our eyes. We returned to Victor's apartment. Much later we saw your text and then what happened, happened."

"Wait - but," Phichit interrupts, "um, does that mean what Yuri saw this Victor doing - was he basically shooting people who were already dead?"

"Yes," Yuuri says, cathartic, "That, and the fact that Victor can't be at two places at the same time."

"But – why – why would someone –"

"It was a distraction," Yuri realises, "probably. It was to distract us from chasing the mini truck. It had Dimitriy, and we almost caught it."

"But – but - but," Phichit flails his arms about, "how come they get an exact doppelganger in this limited time, and – gah, this is ridiculous! How are we going to get Victor out of this? At least we can prove they killed themselves. We can, right?"

"Wait a minute," Yuri utters slowly, as if he is trying to comprehend every word he says, "this guy... this ghost of a guy. The man died two years ago. Positively. I mean, there can't be an actual ghost, so he too must have a doppelganger."

"Is this what they're experimenting on now? Creating doppelgangers?"

"No, but what if, what if it's one person? This ghost guy shot at us. He was left behind to kill us. We were too busy chasing Dimitriy and he must've had a hell of time in his hands. What if this person is some kind of... shape-shifter?"

"You're getting ahead of yourselves," Yuuri comments emotionlessly, "We don't have time for this." He walks across the room and picks his jacket, "I'm going to look for an attorney."

"Oh, c'mon, Katsudon, what's the matter with you? Getting ahead of ourselves, really?" Yuri barks, "You're some super-fast super agile weirdo, Victor can make ice explosions, there's a giant mecha man roaming in the city! Is a shape-shifter that far-fetched? It's why the police can't track them, they're taking other people's identities. It's fucking genius if it's true. Also, Dimitriy had a sister, he called for her. Maybe she's alive, maybe she's –"

"This is not the time, I'm begging you."

Phichit speaks in between, sensing the heat, "Where are you going though? I have a friend in law, maybe we can –"

"I can't!" Yuuri snaps, finally. Tears break free again, dribbling down his cheeks, "I can't sit here doing nothing. I can't sit framing wild theories while Victor is in prison for something I know he didn't do! I can't!"

"Yuuri," he senses Phichit's hand on his shoulder as his vision blurs and breath wavers, and he restrains himself with all his strength from jerking it away. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes against his sleeve. He can't break now, he has so much to do. His phone buzzes in his pocket. An unknown number. His insides churn uncomfortably. "Hello?"

"It's me. It's me. I got out. Yakov got me out. There's some procedures and stuff left but I'll see you in a few hours. Yuuri?"

He doesn't expect Victor's voice. Relief washes over him so hard he almost crumbles to the floor.

Yuuri sits at the corner of the bed, fingers carelessly combing through Makkachin's fur. Victor's apartment is so big and hollow that his chest bobs in anxiety every time he hears loud voices from the other room. Victor returned to the flat around the evening with his old coach. Soon Phichit and Yuri left (Yuuri apologised to him and promised he'd consider Yuri's theory seriously, because anyway, time is slipping). As of now, Victor has been scolded since the last hour, and coach Yakov – who side-eyed and glared at Yuuri and didn't even bother asking his name – already hates his guts. Yakov must think Yuuri is the source of all the trouble.

Yakov is perhaps right.

Yuuri doesn't want the idea to stress him. Yakov might care deeply about Victor, but he doesn't know Yuuri. He's not allowed to judge Yuuri's relationship with Victor.

However, when all of this is over, Yakov might want to take Victor back to Russia with him, and Yuuri would... relent. It sounds like the best choice, which means – they've only got so much time together. He'd rather not talk about it to him though; only last day he wore Victor down with his I-am-Eros-is-me bullshit. He'd be what Victor needs him to be. For now, at least.

"Hey."

Victor looks so exhausted it hurts. Strands of his hair sticking up at odd angles, bags under his yearning, sad eyes. Yuuri noticed the hardened look Victor carried with him after he was released on bail – as if the blue of his eyes has frozen into something cold and distant. So Yuuri decided not to prod him.

Right now, under the yellow of the lamp, Victor seems fragile again.

Neither of them has slept since the last thirty-six hours. Victor walks up to the bed and slowly sinks into the mattress. Yuuri watches him from his side – guilt churning in his stomach – not knowing what to do or say – how to comfort -

"You should sleep, Victor," he says, uneasy about teasing the hot subject. They need to talk about the shape-shifter theory, but right now, they are just too tired.

"I can't. I'm not sleepy."

Yuuri doesn't want to pressure him, but Victor needs to sleep. The rate he's going, he'll soon hurt himself if he doesn't rest.

"Maybe I can bore you to sleep." Yuuri tries innocuously.

Victor laughs at that – even if his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"You don't have to be like that with me, you know," Yuuri tells him, more solemnly this time. Victor looks confused as he continues, pointing at his own face, "You know, the thing. The thing you do with your face when you pretend you're okay. When you smile without feeling like it. It's okay not to feel okay, Victor. You aren't alone in this."

That's all the cue Victor needed. His expression falls, and he practically leaps into Yuuri's arms. Yuuri wraps his arms around him as tight as he can, caressing his hair while he digs his face into Yuuri's shoulder. "The police looked at me like I was scum," Victor says, his breath wavering, "It was gross. It was humiliating."

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Victor," Yuuri whispered, desperately trying to hold Victor from spiralling out of his mind, "It wasn't your fault."

He feels Victor shaking, his fists clutching handfuls of Yuuri's sweatshirt. "When the police told me I'd get you into trouble, it felt like a warning. Whoever did this – for whatever reason – whoever's after me is probably after you too and I just – I don't know how to stop it, I don't know who to fight –"

"We have each other. We'll protect each other. I'm not scared of anything if I'm with you."

"We have each other," Victor repeats, more to assure himself than anyone else. He looks up; he isn't crying but his eyes are red from exhaustion, tinged with fear. Then he smiles – it's the bleak, cheerless kind – but at least it's real.

They kiss like there's no tomorrow. For all they know, there really might not be one.

Suddenly, Victor breaks apart and says, "I have a silly question."

"Okay..."

"I was in the lock-up and I had nothing to do," he continues, playing with Yuuri's fingers, "I was thinking back at the times when we didn't know our identities... when I didn't know you were you. I just wondered, why did you reject me if I was just being me?"

Yuuri smiles, because it's not a hard one to answer. "Were you?" he asks teasingly, cocking his brow.

Victor is slightly taken aback. "Was I what?"

"Being yourself?" Yuuri kisses him on the chin; Victor laughs, and then cries out in a mock-accusatory tone, "I was! Yuuuuri."

"Ice Daddy? Really?"

Victor sinks into the curve of Yuuri's neck, embarrassedly mumbling, "Now I may have made some mistakes..."

"You were trying so hard to look cool," Yuuri giggles, still teasing.

"Pun intended?"

"Pun intended."

"It was literally your TV persona, just without your name, Victor," he gently combs through Victor's hair (who is practically shrinking from embarrassment by the minute), "It's not that I dislike it, not really. But I had fallen too deep with the other Victor back then – you know, the one that was sprawled out on the couch having a bad day and who cleaned the apartment with me and called it a friend-date. You know, the one who talked me through my freak-outs and wanted to be my first customer. So I closed off all other possibilities."

Victor stares at him, soft. It's like he wants to say a million things, but doesn't have the right words. Victor, out of all people, is running out of words.

"That's smart... real smart," this time Victor is the one teasing; he tickles Yuuri and they both fall back onto the bed, giggling, "My Yuuri is the smartest." He's undoing the buttons of Yuuri's shirt one by one, even as Yuuri cocks an eyebrow, "You are supposed to go to sleep."

"I will," Victor's done by now, pulling the shirt away from Yuuri's chest. Yuuri blushes a bit when he finds Victor's eyes fixated on it – he wonders what's going on in Victor's head – and blushes some more; but Victor's too tired to do anything tonight, he simply crashes on Yuuri's chest like a heap of cards, sighing. "Ah. I just needed my pillow."

"Cheesy!"

"You know you love it."

"You are right, I do. Let's sleep now."

"I love you."

"And I love you."

"You... you understand what I'm saying, right?" Victor persists, his eyes shut tight and words spacing out in drowsiness, "I only have... you. Losing you is... is my worst nightmare. You understand, right?"

Yuuri feels a lump in his throat. "I do, Victor," he assures him.

"I do," Victor grins, nuzzling his nose against Yuuri's neck as he begins to drift off, "I do. In sickness and in health. Until death parts us. I do..."

Yuuri holds him until he falls in deep slumber, unmoving, unthinking of the promises he's just made. Once he's sure Victor is dead to the world – and so is Yakov, in the other room – he looks for his black suit. He puts it on and climbs on the window ledge, and casts a last glance at Victor's peaceful, sleeping form, guilt knotting in his stomach. Then he jumps.

Victor is not going to be happy about this. But Yuuri has to try his luck.

"Here, let me help, babe."

Isabella senses her fiancé over her shoulder, gently taking the plate out of her hand and putting it in the sink. She stares at him sideways; they haven't spoken a word since he came home (that was an hour ago). He looks lost – it's not new – he's often distracted, especially over the last few months, since that... that incident. It's not just that. Every now and then, something new pops up and the dust never settles. He has lines under his eyes – and he looks for excuses not to go to work – when JJ used to love his job –

Regardless, she puts on a bright face. "How was your day?"

He doesn't look up from the sink. It's as if asking was a mistake. "It was... iffy." He trails off, pulls out a can of fresh juice and goes for the couch. Usually, he'd watch TV, but he sits repulsed from the remote, spaced out into the distance.

She feels guilty. She's a part of the problem, isn't she. He never gets a breather with the weird cases popping in the office and a wheelchair-bound girlfriend at home. She's had her bouts of depression, breakdowns, medications – and she's trying really hard to get better – but they're never getting back to square one, and it's a bitter pill they had to swallow.

To be honest, there were never such long silences in this house before. She hated – and loved – what people used to say about them behind their backs: how narcissistic and loud and self-obsessed this couple is, this couple sure loved the sound of their voices, he's an egomaniac and she's a bitch, they sure have really loud sex, who'd even want to be neighbours with them –

"Bella, I'm really tired," JJ falls back on the couch, "Let's go to bed."

She wheeled herself to the bedroom without another word, and helps herself to the bed, before she notices him at the doorway, watching. She dislikes being coddled, and thankfully, he understands her.

He takes up the other side when she teases a subject. "I think we should postpone the wedding."

He whips his head in her direction. "What are ya saying? It's already been postponed once."

"I know, I just..." she looks away, switching on the bedside lamp, "I think you deserve more time to think about it." There it is, she said it – ripped it off like a band-aid, and now the wound is out and in the open.

JJ genuinely seems confused. "Think 'bout what?"

"Oh, c'mon JJ, you know what I'm talking about!" she says, getting impatient, "I know you love me and I love you, but sometimes that's not enough. You have to think about it – you have to know full well what you're signing up for. You have a stressful job, and on top of it – all of this – my physiotherapy sessions, my depression – I'm not guilting you, not a bit! I'm not guilting you, I... truly, deeply want you to put some time thinking whether you're up for this marriage, JJ."

"The first time I laid eyes on you I knew I wanted to marry you. I don't think anything has changed."

"JJ, please –"

She pauses at the sound of a ding. It's the doorbell, and this late at night, it can only be a duty call.

"I'll go check," JJ says, briskly making his way to the door, low-key relieved that the conversation was interrupted.

Isabella stares at her fingernails. He is stubborn. She knows what he'd do when he returns to the room: he'd get his gun and leave for the precinct, or he'd lay and loudly yawn and turn his back to her, not-sleeping. He'd persist until she relents, until she switches off the table lamp and turns the other side, not-sleeping either.

She hears the creek of the front door but cannot make out any voices. It's then that the lights in the room go out.

Her heart jumps. Coincidence, isn't it? It's a coincidence, it's a coincidence – it's not a coincidence because she can hear a certain shuffling noise in the dark, and JJ's footsteps are not this quiet – she desperately palms at the bed switch, the lamp – nothing works – she gropes blindly for the wheelchair but it slides out of reach –

"JJ! HELP!" she screams as a last resort, clutching at the headboard.

A moment later she hears JJ's hurried, stumbling steps. "Bella, what – what happened? The main switch short-circuited, I think. Are ya alright?!"

"There's... there's someone else in the room."

She hears a rustle; it's JJ shielding her – and the cocking of a gun – the sound was too familiar to her ears so she figures it belonged to her fiancé as well – good thing JJ has his gun on him, she thinks. She isn't even halfway through the thought when there's a loud bang bangbang. Her heart nearly stops; near her, she senses JJ shaking. With rage or fear, she doesn't know. He is the one who fired. He isn't holding back this time.

"Quit blowing holes in your ceiling, JJ. You know they can ricochet and hit you."

Isabella recognises the fierce static of the monotone. It's slightly different than she remembers (from TV, mostly) but still quite characteristic. She relaxes a bit, but the apprehension never dies. What could the Eros vigilante want from them, and why would he shut out all the lights?

JJ seems to have similar questions in mind. "What do ya want?" he spits angrily. He is still stiff, alert, and might shoot at the slightest movement.

"I need to have a conversation."

"About what?"

"About Victor Nikiforov."

JJ laughs. It's humourless, derisive. "Done with your so-called social service, are ya? Ya up for hire to celebrities now?"

"He's innocent. You know it. He didn't kill that man and the woman. You must've seen their post mortem reports. The woman shot herself and the man chewed a poison pill. I saw it. Victor – Victor Nikiforov was never there."

There's a split-minute of silence. JJ hesitates. "The reports haven't arrived yet. But let's say I believe you. I did see the foam marks on the man. But I also witnessed Nikiforov shooting their faces off. He came back to finish the job. There is no way he isn't affiliated to this – this cult. He can't escape prison either way. You realise this cult is listed under domestic terrorists now? And so will you, soon."

"For fuck's sake, Officer, that was not Victor. You found him at his own apartment for crying out loud! That's the last place you'd find someone on the run!" The vigilante seems to be running out of patience. Even through his pitch-distorted monotone, he sounds wilder, more desperate. "Look, I can't explain this to you because I haven't reached the bottom of it. I believe there's a shape-shifter loose in the city. Someone who can take other people's appearances. Right now, there isn't enough evidence –"

"It's evidence enough for me. To file an official complaint against you again. Looks like one of the city heroes has finally caught the crazies!" JJ snaps. "He openly backs criminals now."

"Alleged criminals," Eros hisses at him, barely managing to keep his temper. "Look, this is just a request. I just need some time and I'll prove it you – that it wasn't Victor. I just need fifteen days, or just a week. I just... I just wish you'd stall the investigation for a while. For just a week."

"You expect too much of me, vigilante."

"I have another offer."

"Go on."

"If you stall the investigation by a week, I will surrender to the police by the end of it. I will convince my partner to go into retirement. He hasn't been long in this after all. You'll have my identity. And you will have your law and order back."

"All this for one guy? D'ya know him personally, eh?"

"Just trying to save an innocent man from getting a life sentence. One week, that's all I ask."

There's a long, pregnant pause. Isabella waits, unease nagging at the pit of her stomach. She knows the media sensationalises JJ's animosity towards the vigilantes, but he has never truly hated them. Never really liked them either. She usually guessed he's fine with them unless they interfere with his direct course of work. Which is exactly what Eros is asking for.

"Alright," JJ huffs disconcertedly, "You got a deal."