Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is a beautiful day in Detroit. The sun is out, people are milling around in their too thin jackets, holding hands or laughing while children chase after piles of leaves on the ground. Victor breathes in the fresh air that always accompanies autumn and smiles; it is indeed a beautiful day to be in love.

"You’re being a creep," Yuri snorts from his side of the bench they’re sharing.

"No," Victor protests calmly from behind his newspaper, "I’m a besotted man, Yura, there’s a difference." 

"So it’s normal for besotted men to spy on chubby little pigs across the street?" Yuri inquires, arm’s crossed and with one sharp eyebrow raised. His hood is drawn up to spare him the mild discomfort the daylight brings and the black chain around his wrist is a stark contrast from the pale skin underneath.

Victor ignores him and looks up from behind his sunglasses—designer, Gucci of course—and into the quaint little bakery across the street. It looks cozy from what he can see through the window; a well lit pastry display to showcase all the little treats that are sure to taste divine (not that Victor would know) and a small seating area for those who feel like enjoying their purchase surrounded by the smell of newly baked bread. It has a strategically favorable placement in the middle of a busy shopping street, and they never lack customers from what he’s observed so far.

But what truly elevates this establishment from its competition though, are the employees—or in Victor's case, the employee. 

"What time is it?" He asks, unbothered to look away.

"Eleven forty-five."

"Perfect."

And just as clockwork, Katsuki Yuuri emerges from the back and goes to put on his apron—a forest green color with the name of the bakery printed elegantly along the top, right over his name tag and with an assortment someof pastry pin that’s too small for Victor's enhanced vision to discern. Blue rimmed glasses rests on the bridge of his nose and makes those brown, doe like eyes of his look even bigger; along with those full cheeks and the messy hair falling across his forehead, Katsuki Yuuri is the equivalent of a cupcake smelling angel.

"You’re disgusting," Yuri says, deadpan. "I can't wait to be free from you once Georgi gets back."

"Now, now, Yura, that’s not how you treat your elders is it?" Victor glances at his companion and holds back a chuckle at his slumped form—he looks like a sulky teenager, and that’s ironic. And the only reason Yuri wants to go back to Georgi is that he’s easier to bully into letting him off early.

"You’re being unusually grumpy today; is this because of that DJ friend of yours? If you ask nicely I’m sure Yakov would lift your compelling ban so you can go back to sneaking into those clubs."

"Fuck off."

Victor shrugs and goes back to staring lovingly at the bakery. "Suit yourself, then."

"Sunglasses Guy has totally got the hots for you."

Yuuri freezes in the middle of a purchase, then continues bagging the croissants with stiff movements. Phichit gloats behind him because he has zero chill, the asshole. He should technically be in the back, enjoying his lunch break instead of teasing him.

"That’ll be $11.50, Miss," he says and hands over the brown paper bag, smiling because that’s how you lure customers to return with their friends and earns him his paycheck. As soon as the door shuts behind the customer he spins around and pins Phichit with a friendly fuck-you smile.

"Please stop."

"No, no, Yuuri, I’m sure," PHichit says and tilts his head across the street, "He's definitely got the hots for you."

Yuuri rolls his eyes and takes a quick stock of what they have left in the display case. He should fill up on croissants, at least, and perhaps the raspberry tarts and macrons—the afternoon rush is always merciless against their sweeter goods.

"Okay, reason number one!" Phichit continues and holds up a finger, "I never see him outside of your shifts!"

"A coincidence," he answers and goes to the back. "We might have a similar schedule." Phichit stays where he is—they can’t leave the counter unmanned in case a customer shows up; they have a reputation to uphold after all—but his voice carries just fine to the back.

"He showed up every day that week you went to visit your parents, but he only stayed for like, fifteen minutes tops."

"Maybe he had a cold." Yuuri loads a tray with croissants, raspberry tarts, a rainbow of macrons, blueberry coffee muffins and some lemon shortbread cookies.

"He’s been sitting there reading the same goddamn newspaper for an hour!"

"Get back to work, Phichit," he sing-songs. He might’ve overfilled the tray a little, but it’s fine. He places it carefully on top of the pastry display, thankful when nothing tumbles down, and starts refilling. The process is all routine and oddly calming, but food has always had that effect on him. He reaches for the last tart and accidentally jolts the tray a little so the little note they have on the counter about gluten free bread slips down over the edge and down on the floor.

Yuuri sighs and walks around the counter to pick it up. Phichit snorts when Yuuri bends over and he sees Sunglasses Guy visibly straighten up from across the street, newspaper crumpled in his hands.

"He’s totally got the hots for you," he sighs and puts his apron back on.

Victor would have stuck around for a while longer if Yakov hadn’t called about a fight between a witch and a shapeshifter just a couple of blocks away, and asked—cough, demanded, cough—that he fix the problem before it escalates and draws unwanted attention.

"Come on, Yura," he says and dusts off his slacks, "Duty calls."

He throws the newspaper in a passing thrash can and throws one last lingering look at the bakery. One of these days he’ll get enough courage to go inside, he’s sure of it, but for now he’ll have to settle for this.

When they arrive at the scene—a back alley in between two apartment complexes—the situation has mostly resolved itself. The fight in question is apparently more of a lovers quarrel than anything else, and there’s even a familiar face involved.

"Miloshka," he greets and tries for a somewhat chastening tone, but looses all edge as Mila whips around and grins at the sight of little Yuri sulking behind him. Sara Crispino stands by the side of the road with her arms crossed, carrying a steely conversation in crisp Italian with someone who might be her infamous brother.

"Did Yakov chase you down here again?" Mila asks and sidles up behind Yuri, hands grasping his shoulders uncaring of the aggravated hiss he responds with.

"Let go, hag!"

"Hm-hm, I’m afraid so," Victor drawls. "You know how he gets when Lilia is in town."

Mila snorts and rolls her eyes—they all know how he gets, there’s no way around it.

"Where are you headed now?" She asks, "I don’t think those two are gonna finish anytime soon, and we’ve got reservations later tonight anyways, so I might as well tag along with you."

"We’re going home," Yuri shoots in before Victor has the chance to propose anything. "Straight home, no pit stops."

"Ah, how selfish, Yura," Victor says, pout on his lips as they make their way into the sunlight and join the other pedestrians again. 

"I’m tired of listening to you whine about that stupid pig all day!"

Mila tilts her head with a knowing smile, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as she says casually:

"And how’s things going with that bakery boy of yours?"

Yuri tears himself away from her and sneers, "Don’t start! He’ll never shut up again!" 

"Aww, is little Yura annoyed that Victor has a crush?" Mila croons, "You know, I’m sure I could set you up with someone, though it’s too bad you got turned before that growth spurt hit—"

Yuri's face turns a very interesting shade of red that reminds Victor distinctly of Yakov; which is interesting because Yakov is centuries old and should by no means have that much blood left in his system, but still manages to practically explode whenever Victor steps a toe out of line.

It’s a gift, truly.

"Fuck off," Yuri spits, and when Mila tries to ruffle his hair he turns on her and actually hisses, fangs and all. Before anyone can see, Victor grabs him firmly by the neck and tugs his head down.

"Yuri. Not here." 

Yuri wrenches himself free from Victor’s slackened grip and glares darkly at him from behind loose blonde strands.

"Fine."

He picks up his pace and continues a few steps ahead of them, hood pulled down low and hands shoved deeply in his pockets. Victor smothers a sigh and turns back to Mila, still with a cheerful smile on his face.

"Working on it, but I’m still waiting for the right time, I’m afraid," he says. How long has it been since he felt nervous talking to a pretty boy? It’s ridiculous. 

"I think I know one of his friends; she’s in the same coven as me," Mila says. "I could ask her to lay in a good word for you."

"No thanks, that won’t be necessary," he says. As if his pride would allow it. "I think I’ll make it at my own pace."

Mila smirks knowingly at him and elbows his ribs, playfully.

"Fine. Let me know if you a need a love potion."

Victor blinks, surprised, and bursts out laughing.

"I want a muffin."

Victor's plan to slowly build up courage and wait for the right moment goes to hell exactly one week later. Perhaps he overestimated how long it would take for Yuri to get fed up with his mooning, because one moment he’s next to Victor on the bench, being his typical, sulky self—the other he’s halfway across the street and through the bakery door before Victor even puts his paper down. 

He’ll blame his absent mind on the fact that Yuuri's looking very soft in a slightly oversized knitted sweater, looking very comfortable and even more huggable than normal. What he wouldn’t do to just cuddle him like a poodle.

And, well, he can’t risk Yuri accidentally or not so accidentally offending someone, now can he? He makes it across the street just in time for the only customer ahead of Yuri in line to leave with his purchase and catches the door as Yuri opens his mouth, probably with the intention to kill any chance Victor might’ve had with the bread selling man of his dreams.

"Oi, other Yuri, I want a muffin."

Yuuri blinks behind the counter and luckily just looks confused, if not a little put off. This is the closest Victor has ever been to him, and he can count the little pins on his apron now: all cutesy desserts, as if he isn’t sweet enough in his own. 

"Uhm, okay? Blueberry coffee or spicy dark chocolate?"

"Blueberry."

"Sit here or to go?

Yuri's about to answer when Victor clasps his shoulder and smiles as charmingly as he can at Yuuri, begging a god he doesn’t believe in anymore for him to. Not. Mess. This. Up. "To go, please."

Yuuri rings up the purchase and places the brown paper bag on the counter. "That’ll be $4.50, please."

Victor pulls out his wallet and gives him a ten. Their fingers brush as the bill changes hands, and if Victor was just a century younger his face would be aflame; Yuuri's hands are undeniably soft, he must use some kind of moisturizer. Victor could get him a better one. And a bouquet. Yuuri looks like a man who appreciates flowers. Victor accepts his change and donates it straight to the tip jar, finding himself very satisfied with the passing expression of surprise on Yuuri's face.

"Thanks." It’s probably Victor’s imagination, but his voice comes out a little breathless. 

"You’re welcome."

Yuri snatches his bag without thanks and they leave. It’s painful.

"Are you gonna go back to drooling over the pig now or can we go home?" He asks sourly and bites into his muffin. It must be good, because he barely finishes his first bite before he chomps down on the pastry again.

When there’s no reply he looks back at Victor and rolls his eyes at the dazed, giddy look on his face.

"You totally had a five in your wallet, didn’t you?"

Victor sighs and swears he can still feel the smell of bread and pastries and hand moisturizer lingering in his nose.

"He smiled at me..."

Yuri crinkles his nose. "Gross," he says around a mouthful of muffin.

Phichit finds Yuuri on the floor in the back room, knees curled up to his chest and face buried in his hands. The remains of a blush taints his ears and eases the worry growing in Phichit's chest. Her crouches down to Yuuri's level and says gleefully:

"You totally want him to have the hots for you, don’t you?"

"He’s so pretty," Yuuri whines, "You know I can’t handle pretty boys."

"Well, I’m sure if you put on those jeans I got you, you wouldn’t be the only fumbling mess—"

Yuuri's head shoots up, looking mortified and reverent at the same time. "You didn’t see his ass, Peach. I can’t compete with that."

"Katsuki Yuuri. Your thighs could bring a nation to its knees," Phichit protests. He kneels down on the floor, presses their cheeks together and sweeps out with his hand.

"Imagine. You’d have the best ass-thigh combo in the world."

"I hate you."