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2018-03-27
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2018-03-27
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The Night Garden

,

Summary:

They planted sakura at every house they’d ever owned, but they had to leave the last one before they ever flowered. He knew it broke Yuuri’s heart to never see them blossom, but it was better to move on and plant another garden elsewhere than to be found out and never plant anything again.

Viktor heard the patio door slide open and watched Yuuri come out of the house, Makkachin trotting out beside him. He pulled off his gloves as Yuuri nudged the door closed with his hip and headed towards him, bearing a large coffee cup in each hand. Yuuri sat down gracefully beside Viktor, handed him his cup, and leaned in for a quick kiss. He smiled as Yuuri pulled away and took a small sip from his own mug, dark lashes lowered over his pale cheeks. Viktor couldn’t help but smile. Yuuri was still as beautiful as the day he died.

Welcome to undead domestic bliss.

Notes:

Written for Live and Love Big Bang. We're doing smaller prompts at the moment, bings rather than bangs, to help us warm up for the main event. This time around, I was matched with another author, the wonderful Salty_Caramel. I wrote the first chapter of this tale, they wrote the second one. The lovely art for this piece was done by Taiga and you can find more of her amazing work here!

You can read more bings and see more wonderful art here.

Comments are water for my dying crops...

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: The Night Garden

Chapter Text

Viktor sat back on his heels and rested his gloved hands on his thighs, feeling accomplished.  The last of the sakura saplings was finally in the ground. He knew it would be several years before they grew enough to bloom and fill the air with their sweet fragrance, even at night.  Hopefully, they would get to experience it this time.

They planted sakura at every house they’d ever owned, but they had to leave the last one before they ever flowered.  He knew it broke Yuuri’s heart to never see them blossom, but it was better to move on and plant another garden elsewhere than to be found out and never plant anything again.

At the entrance to the garden, Yuuri had planted wisteria next to the arbor.  It would take even longer for the wisteria to reach maturity and bloom, if it ever bloomed at all.  Wisteria vines were finicky. If they were lucky, it would eventually cover the arbor and create a fragrant canopy for them to sit under and watch the moon rise.  Viktor knew Yuuri missed wisteria almost as much as he missed the sakura. When Yuuri said he wanted to plant one in the garden, Viktor sighed, but hadn’t contested.  Wisteria spoke of Yuuri’s hope that they would be in this house long enough to see the woody vine flower. Viktor hoped he was right.

Most of the garden was designed to come alive at night, when they could appreciate it.  Star jasmine grew up the trellises that marked the borders of the garden and shielded it from prying eyes; painted ferns and dusty miller lined the paths.  Magenta-hued four o’clocks and pale pink night phlox filled the beds, along with tall, fragrant spikes of lilac.

There were also a few plants that only flowered in the daytime.  Poppies in shades of scarlet and saffron and buttery yellow daylilies were interspersed among their nocturnal cousins.  Just because they couldn’t admire the flowers that bloomed during the day didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate the beauty they brought to the garden.  Besides, it threw people off the scent, so to speak. They didn’t need to arouse suspicion.

They grew a few edible plants as well.  There were squashes and melons, which practically grew themselves, as well as a small assortment of culinary herbs.  They gave them away to neighbors, always saying they’d grown too many and couldn’t possibly eat them all. As a joke, they even grew garlic.  They gave that away, too.

It was a small garden, really.  They didn’t get to spend as much time in it as they would have liked, but on the nights they could come out and enjoy it, it was well worth it.

Viktor heard the patio door slide open and watched Yuuri come out of the house, Makkachin trotting out beside him.  He pulled off his gloves as Yuuri nudged the door closed with his hip and headed towards him, bearing a large coffee cup in each hand.  Yuuri sat down gracefully beside Viktor, handed him his cup, and leaned in for a quick kiss. He smiled as Yuuri pulled away and took a small sip from his own mug, dark lashes lowered over his pale cheeks.  Viktor couldn’t help but smile. Yuuri was still as beautiful as the day he died.

He took a long pull from his cup, enjoying the rich, full flavor.  Makkachin flopped down between them, her head in Viktor’s lap and her tail happily thumping against Yuuri’s thigh, content to be with her masters.  Viktor scratched her belly and laughed as she rolled over to give him better access, tongue lolling out of her mouth in happiness. She was such a wonderful and loyal dog; playful when they were awake, watching over them when they slept.  He didn’t know what they would do without her.

Viktor watched as Yuuri took another sip from his own mug and made a face.  He shook his head and sighed.

“It’s not that bad, is it, love?”

Yuuri shrugged and gave him a small smile.  

“You know I only like it when it’s fresh,” he said quietly.

“Picky,” Viktor teased.  Yuuri merely shrugged. There was no use denying the truth.  Viktor took another drink from his cup and sighed. Yuuri was right, fresh was best, but this wasn’t a bad substitute.  

“Hey, do you want to go for some take-out?” Viktor asked.  “I’m sure we could grab a quick bite.” They’d hardly been out since they started working on the garden a couple of weeks ago.  He didn’t know about Yuuri, but he was itching to get out of the house, even if only for a little while.

“Ooh, that would be nice,” Yuuri replied.  Viktor was about to get up and go get his shoes and keys when Yuuri put his hand on Viktor’s thigh, stilling him.

“I don’t think we can go now,” Yuuri said softly, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he looked towards the east.  “Sunrise isn’t far off. Do you think we could go tomorrow?”

“Sure!” Viktor replied brightly.  “First thing, right after the sun goes down.  Sound good to you?”

“You’ve got a date,” Yuuri said, smiling into his cup.

Viktor laid his hand over Yuuri’s and took another drink, warmth blooming inside of him that had nothing to do with the cup in his hand.  

Once, in a rare moment of introspection, Chris had asked him, “Do you ever miss the sun?”  They had been walking on a moonlit beach in Spain, Yuuri and Phichit a few feet in front of them, the sea lapping at their toes.  How many years had it been? How long had they risen with the falling night and retired with the sunrise? How many years had he only known the warmth of the sun as it faded from the rocks?  Viktor stopped counting long ago, before he ever met Yuuri.

With Yuuri by his side, he didn’t need the sun to warm him.   And the sun had never thawed the ice in his soul or melted his heart the way Yuuri did.

“No,” he’d replied honestly.  “I have Yuuri. I don’t need the sun.”

It was still true.  He didn’t need any other light in his life besides Yuuri.

In the east, the sky was lightening, a glowing band of sapphire just beginning to shine on the horizon.

“Come on,” Yuuri said as he rose from the ground in one smooth motion.  “We need to water the garden before we go to bed.” Viktor drained his cup and got up, dusting off the back of his pants.  He took Yuuri’s mug and walked inside to rinse them out as Yuuri grabbed the hose and turned it on, heading into the garden.   

Viktor filled the mugs with water, watching the dark dregs at the bottom of the cup tint the water a rosy pink, almost the exact shade of a sakura blossom.   He set them down in the sink and looked out the kitchen window, watching Yuuri as he watered the plants, smiling and talking to Makkachin as he went from flowerbed to flowerbed.  Almost as if he realized Viktor was watching, Yuuri looked up at him and smiled, soft and warm.

No, he didn’t need anything else in this existence but Yuuri.  Yuuri was his sun, his moon, and all the stars in the heavens. Yuuri was everything he ever wanted or needed, and he was glad they would get to spend forever together.

 Victuuri in the garden

Chapter 2: Spring Day

Chapter by ,

Summary:

The story of how they meet.

Notes:

Hi there! Salty calling. ♡

Sorry for the lateness of this Bing. I'm endlessly grateful to Anne and Taiga for being so patient with me... I struggled a lot with finding inspiration to write this, until Anne showed us the first part! This second part is entirely inspired by Anne's lovely writing! ♡

While this part is slightly historical, I have put no research into this, which I usually wouldn't do... (It is therefore quite vague, sorry.) I hope you'll still enjoy it, despite the liberties I've taken!

Regarding this chapter, most of the warning tags you see are relevant to this one. Please heed the tags before reading! (I promise it has a happy ending though).

Chapter Text

 

When he first begins travelling, Victor had never imagined he would make it so far East as to the Forbidden Kingdoms. Ironically, the lands where the sun rises calls out to him every step of the way; it is this call that leads him not to boarding a ship bound for the new Promised Land in the west, along with the many other souls searching for new way of life. Instead, he turns the other way and follows the long, winding Silk Road to its very end.

Before he knows it, the high rise of mountainous isles towers before him on the last leg of his journey; he passes the gates of the hidden lands, laid out for him to explore. And explore he does.

He sees the forests and the mountains, explores their secrets and their old shrines; he visits the settlements, everything from the small coastal towns to the large impressive cities with their slanted roofs and rice paper walls; he drinks and tastes of the many delicacies he finds, and grows especially fond of the many teahouses that are filled to the brim with companions that will drink with him and keep his company through the long nights.

The language is strange, but he manages to gain a tutor in a French missionary (again, the irony). After a month of interacting with the locals, to whom he is but a strange foreigner with a deep thirst for adventure and even deeper pockets, he has grasped much of the basics. Another month passed, and his aptitude for the language has risen drastically.

And although, as exciting as it is, discovering these hidden lands and all the pleasures they might hold, that, too, begins to lose its charms—and so, he begins to wonder why he chose to come.

He decides he needs to find out. In the morning he will set out and see the rest of this country, and find what had brought him there in the first place—if it exists.

He spends a last evening in his new, favourite teahouse, observing and interacting with the entertainment of the night and the many men and women who accompany the patrons, always making sure no one’s cup is ever empty. The ones at his side are already lamenting his departure and making promises of waiting for his return (as well as his wallet’s).

Amidst the chatter and clanks of cups and plates, a new dancer takes the stage; a man or woman, Victor can’t tell, for while their robes are elegant and feminine he has long since learned that these extravagant hairdos and painted faces are donned to create whoever their customers wish them to be. All it takes is some time and work of a practiced artist to make even the most unassuming flower bloom into something magnificent.

In the midst of all these beautiful creatures, the dancer is nothing special, really—until they move, that is.

At once, it is as if a melody a human shouldn’t be able to hear thrums through the room. It is as if breath and heartbeat merge in a synchronised dance of vitality and life, and Victor is left watching as the dancer performs, graceful and beautiful, seemingly effortless in keeping the attentions of the room entire… until they misstep and tumble inelegantly to the floor.

There are gasps, of both empathy and ridiculing glee, but before anyone can as much as offer the dancer a hand to get them back on their feet, they are already fleeing the room.

Excusing himself from the companions, who have already wrapped themselves around his arms, proposals of enjoyment whispers on their painted lips, Victor rises and follows the dancer, feeling drawn to them in the same way he had been drawn to this strange land to start with.

It does not take him long to find them in the garden.

It is a quiet space this evening, filled with green-leafed cherry and plum trees and a quiet pond. It is vacant except for the dancer and him, the eavesdropper. He stands there, in the doorway, listening as the dancer laments their failed performance, the pitch of their voice revealing him to be a young man, his breaths short as if he is choking heavy sobs before they can come to fruition and breed disappointed, bitter tears.

Victor is uncertain what to do at this point, deciding how to approach when suddenly the dancer rises, his breathing evened out once more, the paint on his face barely smudged—and he dances again, performing for himself only, not a step out of place as he turns and moves to a melody only he can hear, and in those moments he is the most breath-taking thing Victor has ever witnessed.

By the time this private performance ends, Victor is already drawn too far out of his hiding place. So far, in fact, that he stands not three feet away from the dancer, close enough to touch his slowly rising and falling shoulder; so close that when the dancer turns, he startles and nearly trips again, and would have fallen spectacularly into the pond had Victor not been there to catch him first.

“I’m so sorry—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

They both speak at once, the moment the dancer is upright and back on his feet, and Victor can’t but snort at the silliness of it all, smiling at the dancer in an attempt to ease the tension that has frozen his limbs.

It doesn’t really seem to help, the dancer’s expression displaying wariness and confusion as he watches him, but Victor presses on.

“My name is Victor,” he says, formally, tilting his head in a light bow that the dancer returns two-fold.

“I’m Yuuri. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Yuuri. Victor hums as the dancer straightens again, the elegance of this movement practiced to the point where it seems innate. He smiles again. “You dance beautifully, Yuuri.”

His white painted face makes it impossible to tell, really, just how red Yuuri’s face turns with his words, but Victor can yet tell by the sudden loudness of his rapidly beating heart.

Yuuri bids his gratitude, and truly, that should be it. He should excuse himself and go back to his work, insist on Victor returning to watch the entertainment in the banquet room. They should part ways and their paths should unlikely come to cross again.

Instead, this is what happens:

One remark leads to a question which leads to another. Before any of them knows it, they have engrained themselves in a long conversation of travel and worldly pleasures, which soon breaches other topics, from family to politics. At one point, Yuuri bids him sit as he collects some tea from inside, and so they sit in the garden that summer eve, and talk.

They talk, and they laugh, perhaps long after the occupants of the teahouse have gone to their separate rooms. They find common ground in their appreciation of the arts and of dance, and Victor even demonstrates his scarce upbringing in social dance, which Yuuri quite naturally picks up as they go, his hand steady in Victor’s own.

The night passes far too quickly, and Victor knows he needs to rest before he is to go. He won’t cancel his long made plans for a simple night of acquaintance, but even so… he does not leave without a promise that he shall return.

-

And Victor returns, as he said he would. First, he travels the country far and wide, all the way to its eastern and northernmost coast and sees the sights to be seen, tastes the flavours to be tasted, but for the first time in years whatever has pulled him to these lands in the far, far east no longer acts on him in this manner. Rather, the same pull now pulls him westward...

So he returns but a month later.

But things have changed.

He finds the teahouse easily, lively and recognisable once evening falls, but when he asks at the front for Yuuri all he gets are pitying looks that make him consider that the worst has come to pass... until he is finally shown to a small room in the back of the house.

There sits Yuuri, sans extravagant robes, hair and painted face, yet somehow still breath-taking in his subtlety. The sliding door leading to the garden is wide open, letting in slowly cooling air of the late-summer night.

A warmth fills Victor’s chest in a way he hasn’t experiences in a long time at the sight of him, and he is about to call out to him when, as if on cue, Yuuri bends over and his chest rumbles something terribly he struggles to catch his breath.

And Victor knows. Years spent at the side of the ill, watching them pass with the unwavering current of death, has taught him what to look for, what to listen for, and now, looking at Yuuri, he knows.

This cough is not the sort one recovers from.

-

“You came,” Yuuri rasps once Victor has come to his side, pouring the dancer some tea for his throat which he accepts gratefully.

Victor huffs a soft laugh, trying not to let it show just how his chest is aching, now that he has found Yuuri here, like so. “Of course I did,” he says instead. “I promised I would.”

He isn’t granted a reply, but the way Yuuri’s eyes glistens in the moonlight and his smile widens just a little says enough.

“You shouldn’t be so near me,” Yuuri tells him then, his smile slipping off his face as the hard truths of the situation comes over him. “It might be… contagious. You could fall ill as well.”

Victor shakes his head softly, reaching out even as Yuuri shies away. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t catch colds.”

Yuuri frowns. “This isn’t a cold.”

“I’ve worked with the sick before. I have yet to fall ill with anything,” he argues, a gentle reassuring hand on Yuuri’s warm one. “And I said I would tell you of my travels… if you will listen.”

He will, Yuuri assures him, and hangs on to every word and every gesture Victor makes while he tells of the splendours of the eastern cities, to which Yuuri has never been, and to the far north and its strange ways of life, of which Yuuri has only heard tales. He fancies that he will have the chance, once he recovers. Victor doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise, and goes along with his fantasy, proposing the many things he should try and the sights he should see. The night is still young and they haven’t spoken long before he sees that his companion is struggling to keep his attentions on him.

“You should rest. I’ll stay with you.”

Yuuri hesitates, but the sickness has worn on him, his eyelids heavy with need for sleep. He lets Victor guide him to lay down on his futon, eyes fluttering closed as a gentle, cool hand runs through his hair.

Victor watches him drift asleep. He stays until the first hint of dawn rises on the horizon.

-

Autumn is soon upon them, its cool rains and freezing nights stripping the leaves off of the trees. Victor frequents the teahouse as often as he can, but his purpose has much changed since his first visit. Where before he has shared in on its pleasure and riches, drunk its delicacies and tasted its secrets, he now sits at a dancer’s bedside and tells him of the wonders of the worlds, and listens to Yuuri’s own stories when he finds the strength to tell them.

Another doctor arrives with the first snowfall, and while Victor is not there for the examination what Yuuri tells him once he visits that night is only what he had already known.

“The doctor said I won’t make it past winter.”

Once the words are spoken, steady and calm, Yuuri’s carefully constructed mask betrays him and cracks. Tears spill down his cheeks and his face scrunches up as if a sudden pain has seized his chest, and Victor pulls him close and lets him shake apart in his arms for long, long moments until he can gather himself again, apologies on his lips as he dries his tears on his sleeve.

After a moment of quiet, Yuuri says, “I… I want to prove him wrong. In the spring… I want to watch the sakura bloom. One last time.”

The determination on his face is both inspiring and heart-breaking.

Victor says nothing. But he stays.

-

Yuuri lives for a long time, longer than even Victor had expected. The nights are longer in winter, so he keeps his company, even while he drifts away into restless sleep.

In the end, winter begins the pass, and the snow finally starts melting… but Yuuri’s condition worsens each day. His coughs are rougher, his face always pale. His eyes have become sunken and lifeless, his once strong dancer-body now thin and frail. His handkerchiefs are always stained red. The bright temptation on his lips is no longer the work of lifeless paint.

Some days he wonders why he is still there.

-

Victor has witnessed death. He knows how it creeps in, slowly eroding away at the body of the sick and frail. He knows its sounds, its smells, its visage. And he knows the moment he sees Yuuri that evening that this night will be his last.

He hardly answers when he greets him, voice raw and quiet, eyes unfocused and heavy as he bids Victor good evening. There is a constant tint of diluted red on his mouth; a sickly visage. Death’s parting kiss.

And all at once, his hesitations from the months passed, the gates that have hindered an urgent desire to do something, anything, the selfishness to take this soul from among the thousands like him, on their way to face their fate—they open, and a proposal slips passed his lips, and once it’s there, he will not retract it.

“Yuuri. I can grant you your wish, if you’d like.”

He prepares tea, the one the doctor has prescribed that is unlikely to do any good, and brings a knife to his wrist. A few, deep-red drops break the surface of the water and blend into the light tea, for a moment colouring it in the shade of the petals of the cherry blossom trees, before it turns darker still.

He presses the cup to his lips.

“You need to drink it all, Yuuri.”

And Yuuri obliges. It takes work but Yuuri is determined and Victor is patient, keeping him steady and tilting the cup just right at all times. Sip by sip, every last drop is swallowed.

Yuuri is relieved to be laid down, then; the simple act of drinking far too strenuous for his weakened body.

“Sleep now, sweet Yuuri. When you wake up, we will watch the sakura bloom together.”

Yuuri does. Not a moment later his laborious breathing evens and his consciousness fades.

Almost done. Victor leans over him and pulls his robes aside. The neck, he knows, will be too visible. It is a teahouse, yes, but Yuuri hasn’t seen any clients in a very long time. He can’t leave such an obvious sign that will lead someone to ask unwanted questions. So he searches lower, finds the weakly pulsing artery beneath the thin skin on the inside of a pale thigh. He bites down.

Life ebbs away beneath his teeth.

He carefully redressed him and leaves him there, asleep in the eyes of anyone passing. He goes to call the doctor so that they may pronounce Katsuki Yuuri dead.

-

The bodies of those passed away from harsh illness are to be burned.

Finding a substitute whose face is painted and body covered with white isn’t very hard.

He had attended the funeral only from afar to make sure the last evidence is burned away. Once certain, he leaves. Only, he doesn’t go alone.

He feels the change happening.

And then he wakes.

He turns to Yuuri, just as the man rises, his lovely face yet pale, but no longer from sickness. He is still thin and worn out from his long, slow journey towards death. His eyes, once so dark Victor was certain he could see the stars reflected in them, are tinged red. But they are vivid. Alive.

He looks around, illuminated by the pale moon and the lantern Victor has brought.

Around them, pink and white petals fall like snowflakes, covering the ground.

“They’re beautiful,” he gasps, and Victor can’t but smile.

-

“I didn’t think I would ever return here,” Yuuri remarks from his side where they are settled on the bench outside the castle in Hasetsu. Their darling Makkachin has stretched herself out over their laps, tail waggling and yipping happily when she receives the belly rubs she has begged for. Above them, the cherry blossoms have bloomed in full. It’s a beautiful spring evening.

Victor hums his agreement, but says nothing else, content with simply enjoying the company of his most treasured persons, watching the petals dance in the soft streetlights along the walk.

A pair of soft lips press momentarily against his cheek, somehow warm despite their cool touch.

“Thank you, Victor,” his beloved whispers softly against his skin. “Thank you for granting my wish.”

No Yuuri, he thinks, but doesn’t say aloud, instead turning his head to meet those same lips with his own, laughing softly as a stray fang pricks his lip and a soft tongue carefully licks away the blood. Thank you for granting mine.

Notes:

Thank you all so much for reading! Comments are gold and are appreciated! You can find us on Tumblr at PaintingWithWords, Salty_Caramel, and Taiga. Come say hello. :-)