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Slight drizzle ruled the landscape.
It painted the world gray.
The sky, the road, the thoughts he had.
Numbing with every step.
The funniest thing was that he wasn’t even tired. All his life he’d been doing cardio, a few hours of walking had had no effect on him yet whatsoever. He was just sooo utterly bored without his phone, god… He couldn’t remember the last time he had left the house or gone out anywhere on foot without listening to music on the way. Or a cheerful dog at his side, for that matter. And far and wide there was nothing to see just crop fields and a few trees. Not that he registered much of them, being too apathetic to even wipe his glasses. He could just fall asleep, but of course moving pretty much canceled out that option.
The curve ended, and an even longer stretch of empty asphalt lay before him than the last one.
He sighed and marched on, defeated. That was when his concerns turned south, too.
Why was he such a failure, again? What had he been thinking… He knew, he knew, this was the moment when he shouldn’t be thinking, because there was nothing to be done about it now, and he was just going to chase himself into another pit of despair and self-hatred, but… fffuck, what was his sister going to say? How do you mend something so idiotic that you couldn’t even come up with a good reason why you’d done it? And why had he of all people been looking like a deer in headlights…
The soft sound of a vehicle behind him put a halt to his downward mental spiral.
A single, weak thought of is it real or am I hearing things crossed his mind before he quickly dismissed it altogether.
He would have recognized the roar of that engine anywhere.
His heart sunk, steps becoming too self-aware, like his legs had suddenly forgotten how to function. No, he definitely wasn’t imagining it; it was getting louder. Closer, approaching fast.
He knew who would be at the wheel.
He never meant for it to happen.
It was a hot day at the Motorcycle Festival; he was filling his tank, careful not to spill it, ridiculously focused on the mundane task so that he wouldn’t have to think about his grandiose fuckup just half an hour ago. He had come last in the stunt show, of course he would. A flash of silver in the audience and his balance had said goodbye. Pathetic.
That was when someone patted him on his back.
Viktor Nikiforov was offering him a bottle of ice cold water.
The memory made him shiver. He’d turned away then, and didn’t hold out his thumb now. He wanted no pity.
The noise would have hurt his ears had he not spent half his life in or near garages. He waited for the beautiful machine to pass him—he knew exactly what it was like up close, it could only be the cruel twist of Fate to make him look at it in an ugly, rainy blur for the last time. Because it would be the last time; he was done making his own heart break again and again, over someone so far out of reach. Over someone who’d seen him embarrass himself to death.
Pulling the straps of his backpack a little higher he hunched his shoulders and braced himself, the painful tug in his stomach growing.
But the exhausts puffed, the rumble lowered to a purr that mixed with the sound of wheels rolling into gravel, a click of the key in the ignition, and the nonetheless familiar slide of plastic on a helmet. Then silence.
“Yuuri?” came a muffled but confident voice. “Yuuri Katsuki?”
Disbelief turned him on his heels.
There it wa… there he… there they were.
Pink, deep purple, and gold everywhere; the tank, the fenders, the rims and the railing in the back, respectively—if he really thought about it, he never understood why he had a backseat, since no one had ever witnessed anybody sitting there—even his whole body riding suit matched the machine from gloves to boots, but somehow it never looked too much. They always looked amazing.
Funny how they were standing in one place—even the rain had stopped—yet it was like looking at a picture behind an opaque glass.
The only thing piercing through was the pair of sparkling blue eyes from under the visor.
And then he took off his platinum helmet, and shook his silver hair back, preventing it from covering half his face. He winked, and his smile was as perfect and wide as on any Instagram selfie ever filtered.
“Going my way?”
“Vi… Viktor?! Why are you here?!”
That was the only reaction his brain was capable of at the moment. That was the only thing he could think about. Why the heck had he stopped?!
“I could take you.”
Is he joking?!
The Biker Prince, the category winner of the fifth consecutive Beauty and the Beast stunt contest, the most handsome bachelor of the entire motorcycle community Viktor Nikiforov was here, asking him…
“What?” was he asking?!
Viktor chuckled at his confusion. Holy shit, he was so hot.
“I said I’d gladly take you from here. To the next town or wherever. You seem a little lost.”
Yuuri had to shake himself several times before his mind was fully functional again, but Viktor waited ever so patiently smiling, his head tilted like a curious puppy’s. He was already offering another helmet—a golden one.
“O-okay…” Yuuri whimpered, and then cleared his throat. His sudden luck wiped away all his bitter worries. He was going to sit on that bike! A surge of courage let him step closer and reach out for the helmet.
“You’ve ridden enough, piece of cake, right?”
“Right. Thanks.”
“No worries. Except…” Viktor put his index finger to his lips in thought. “Where’s your bike?”
Oh boy, there it was; the crushing weight of guilt. Yuuri had been about to gear up, but now he lowered his hands, standing next to Viktor still mounting his Harley, feeling like an utter piece of shit, missing his own wheels.
“I lost it.”
Viktor blinked.
“Wow. How do you lose something that’s… several hundred pounds?”
“On a bet, you idiot.” Yuuri rolled his eyes, and then it hit him; shit. “Oh my god, SORRY, I’m sorry, I’m just… really stressed right now…”
But Viktor just laughed.
“It’s fine, I should be apologizing, I must have forgotten! I saw you racing with one of my club members at the festival.”
“You did?”
“Yes, yes, you had absolutely no chance,” he beamed, and Yuuri only had time to feel hurt for a blink of an eye before he went on. “But I also saw you at the stunt con. The determination you got on your bike with was mesmerizing. It was like your body was one with its power. I couldn’t look away.”
Just like he didn’t look away now, and Yuuri found himself speechless, yet almost bursting with pride. What had Viktor asked to take him on, again? An emotional roller coaster ride, surely? Not that he had any complaints left after the praise.
“But still, what are you doing out here? Why didn’t you take a bus?”
“A bus? At dawn from a festival where everybody supposedly has a means of transport?”
Viktor frowned.
“You have a point, but…”
“Phone’s dead, no cash,” Yuuri blurted, feeling his face getting hotter by the inquiry. He hated questions. Especially when he did stuff just out of either anxiety or impulse. Please, let him be. “I just wanted to leave.”
“Alright, alright,” Viktor beamed, “No need to explain.” Then his smile turned softer. Sincere. It was somehow calming. “I can actually relate, to be honest. So, shall we?”
When he finally signaled Yuuri to get on the bike, he didn’t hesitate; he put on the helmet, then grabbed his driver’s shoulder, and climbed onto the passenger seat with one swift move. Maybe he didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he trusted this man with his life. He had, for a long time.
Before he could let go or figure out what to do with his hands, Viktor took the one from his shoulder, and turning around, no, rather twisting in his seat as much as he could, he kissed his knuckles. The helmet canceled out a lot of the world’s noises, but Yuuri could still hear the words clear as the sky blue eyes holding his gaze.
“I know you’re not, but hug me like you’re afraid to fall off, please?” Viktor said, fumbling with the straps on his own gear. “I like knowing where exactly my passenger is.”
And so Yuuri did; he let himself indulge in the moment, shooing away that little voice that whispered, he’d never even had any passengers, sliding his arms around the tall man’s waist, spooning up flush against his back. Viktor turned the key and when Ludus came to life under their butts Yuuri’s heart beat as fast as it did the first time he had mounted the back of Eros.
He deserved this, goddamnit. He enjoyed how their thighs touched after he pulled his legs up and found the footrests; he reveled in how well they seemed to fit together, their helmets never even knocking. Even the sunshine broke through the clouds; he closed his eyes and inhaled deep, feeling strangely at home and nothing less than amazing as they left miles and miles of dullness behind them.
Yuuri always thought about that a lot. Wasn’t Viktor bored? Just a little bit? Rich kid, a car racer’s son who settled with street stunts after speed had torn his family apart. Then a Russian-American crew had taken him in, their leader only known as “Grandpa,” and a few other influential characters like “The Coach,” and a kid who called himself “Black Blade.” But how was this life enough for someone like Viktor Nikiforov? Yuuri was more than okay with being a mechanic, he loved motorcycles so much; when he was upset, he went to the garage, when he had nothing better to do, he went to the garage, when there was nothing to fix, he took something apart just so he could clean it and put it back together again. And yes, he could drive a little, but anyway, he knew… well, he wasn’t sure, but he just felt like Viktor could do so much more. Be an internationally renowned racer, like his mother had been. Or something, anything bigger scale. He’d heard a lot about Viktor he could access via mass and social media, but there were no pictures, nothing of him even near a vehicle that had more than two wheels, or a potential to go much above one hundred mile per hour. Well, okay, he did sit on a plane when he went on holidays.
His face sure looked like that a lot. Bored. Distant. It was his eyes, and not only when he was standing on the makeshift podiums, but right as he was stepping up onto the top. Yuuri always felt weird watching him in those short moments, and now he was figuring out why. Viktor showing up today was so striking because he’d looked at Yuuri with so much… life. Huh. Yuuri wouldn’t have believed he would look at somebody like him like that, had the difference not been humongous. You just couldn’t miss it.
He wanted to look into those eyes, those changed eyes, more. Although feeling Viktor’s chest rise and fall with every breath under his arms, squeezing him just a little bit tighter when there was a bump in the road, and leaning in perfect sync in turns had been all very nice, they could also talk about so many things. Not that he wanted to pry, but… Viktor had stopped and been kind to him. Surely it must not end so soon…
That was why his stomach curled into a painful knot when he felt the bike slowing down, and looking up he saw they were approaching a roadside inn. Would that be their goodbye? Would Viktor just leave him here and drive on? Why could he never stop his brain from mass producing doubts and questions? That was a question too. Damnit, Yuuri!
Viktor rolled next to a bunch of other bikes parked in front of the roadhouse, and put Ludus to sleep altogether. Yuuri froze for a moment—what did this mean?—but then remembered that he was only welcome aboard until now. Using Viktor’s shoulder again for help he dismounted the bike fast, and they got rid of their helmets.
“You okay?” Viktor asked, adjusting his hair again, and fuck it, Yuuri couldn’t restrain himself. It could still be all over right here, right now. What did he have to lose?
“Yeah, um… I’m a bit sleepy, you know. I actually thought you were going to drive faster.”
He winked.
The effect was immediate and spectacular. Here they were in broad daylight and Viktor Nikiforov was grinning from ear to ear, his cheeks unmistakably pink at his words.
“Okay, Sleeping Beauty,” he chuckled, his gaze stuck on Yuuri, eyes uncovered and bright like the Sun itself, and suddenly Yuuri found it very important to place the loan-helmet carefully in the trunk. “Let’s find accommodation then. I haven’t slept much last night, either.”
***
“That’s totally fine,” Viktor showed a thousand watt smile to the clerk when she’d told them there was only one room left (with a king sized bed), since a lot of people who’d attended the festival were staying there.
“It is?!” Yuuri yelped, ripped from his musings about why that smile looked so different from what he received outside, but money had already been exchanged for a set of keys.
“Yes, yes, we should sleep together!” The nonchalant tone only had Yuuri’s eyes widen further. “Build some trust in our relationship, since I’m taking you home.”
“You’re WHAT.”
“I mean, only if you want me to. I told you, I’ll take you anywhere, you just lost your bike to my crew.” Viktor stepped close and put a hand on his arm. Yuuri was horrendously aware of that arm, tingling hot and frozen in one place at the same time, meanwhile unable to look anywhere but into the warmest blue eyes capturing his very soul. “Where do you want to go from here?”
“I-I’m… not sure yet…”
“Can you figure out soon?”
“Sure…”
“Good. We can…”
“OI VIKTOR! Where the hell did you go?!”
Yuuri stepped back as if lightning had struck him. He knew that voice.
The blond was scowling, his angry eyes flicking back and forth between Viktor and Yuuri.
“What! That loser? There’s no way he could become a member. He’s just a mechanic! He’s awful and his bike is… ugh.”
“Don’t be so hostile, Yuratchka,” the lady next to him said, leaning on Yuratchka’s shoulder with her elbow, checking Yuuri out from head to toe as if she were simultaneously analyzing and challenging him. Yuuri felt his cheeks turn the color of her hair. “Give him a chance.”
“Alright, but I want a speed race with him!” Yuri stomped up to him and pointed at his face, disregarding his personal space for a moment before storming off. “Tiger and I will eat you alive, Fat Boy! And when we do, Eros is mine.”
Viktor’s hand fell from his arm as Plisetsky walked closer, sneering.
“Oh, hi, Yuri! I didn’t know you were staying here, too!”
“What are you still doing with Fat Boy here?”
He turned to face the boy fully and Yuuri couldn’t see his eyes anymore; but what Viktor said next sounded so cold that he could almost cut the tension in the room.
“What you are going to do is give him back his bike. I know you would love to have a four time category winner ride too, but this is not a joke.”
The flush on Yuri’s cheeks was striking against his green eyes widening with rage—it mirrored Yuuri’s, who found himself gaping in disbelief. Viktor knew about his prizes?
“Fine,” Plisetsky growled at last. “But I have to find someone to come back with me to get it here.”
“I’m sure you will.”
The obvious dismissal of any help just infuriated the boy even more. He ran off, but only after deliberately bumping into Yuuri’s shoulder. The loud smack of the door was still ringing in his ears when he followed Viktor—clad with a heart shaped grin—through the backdoor to the bar.
***
Yuri couldn’t fucking believe his luck.
Sitting down in front of the roadhouse, dangling his legs from the porch, he kept cursing under his breath.
He’d won a bike and lost it in one day. And not just any bike, for fuck’s sake, it was Yuuri Katsuki’s Stryker. Damnit! He was this close to be finally sitting on it. Fat Boy didn’t even deserve such a beauty anyway. He was such a nervous guy, it always showed in his stunts. They were sloppy, his wheelies were always too wobbly, and he could only make up for them with his impossibly perfect donuts. But Yuri could have done Eros justice. God fucking dawait a minute.
Someone was standing suspiciously close to Tiger. He squinted against the sunlight and immediately took a deep breath. If anyone else wanted to screw with him today, they were going to get what they deserved and more.
“What are you looking at, asshole?!”
The man turned to face him. He walked closer, slow and casual, until his broad shoulders blocked the Sun, so Yuri could see who he was up against.
Combat boots, leather pants, leather jacket, leather gloves, pfff, a scarf from the previous decade, with a pair of goggles, rocking an undercut…
“I was checking out your bike. You got a problem with that?”
… and a cheeky little smirk accompanied with a deep, earthy voice. Yuri realized he had been holding his breath, but quickly came to his senses, raising his chin. He was not going to be intimidated.
“Guess not. I hope yours is not the one in the back. Any guy who paints his bike red is a douche.”
They both glanced at the guy with the maple leaf tattoo walking up to an Aero at the farther end of the parking lot. Then his company let out just the tiniest huff of laughter, and gestured at the only full black bike in sight.
“No. Mine is the Dark Knight right there.”
Yuri scoffed in return.
“So clean.”
“Oh yeah?” the other raised an eyebrow. “And your mouth is always as dirty as your wheels?”
Bastard.
“You heard me?”
“Yeah. And I kinda wish to never piss you off.”
Yuri decided to like this guy. There was something so effortlessly cool about him… Maybe he could even help.
He held out his hand—
“Yuri Plisetsky.”
“Otabek Altin.”
—and Otabek helped him up. They turned out to be the same height, and Yuri appreciated the calm confidence with which Otabek held his gaze.
“You also drive clean, Mr. Altin?”
“Wanna find out?”
The dark brown eyes glinted with adventure, and Yuri couldn’t repress his own devilish grin. He glanced at the Dark Knight, and nodded, more to himself than to Otabek; in that moment, only one question remained in his mind. Eros who?
“Alright, Batman.”
“Get on!”
***
“I still don’t know if I should even come next year.”
“Do you want a bite?” Viktor offered his freshly served burger, although Yuuri had just got his shawarma, too.
“No, thank you.”
He sighed, ready to give up on emotional support, and reached for a napkin to lay out in his lap—but before he could, Viktor took his hand and squeezed it. His eyes turned serious, a glowing, promising blue.
“Listen, Yuuri. If you join our chapter, you can do anything you want. You can ride with us, compete with us… we can build bikes, we can race, anything.” He tilted his head, his silver fringe falling away from his face, and Yuuri felt his thumb caressing the back of his hand. “But you knew that already.”
“Yes.” he looked down at his untouched food. “This would mean I found my place. But I’m more worried about you, Viktor. Is everything alright with you?”
If he wanted Yuuri to join his club so much, it could only mean one thing; grounding himself, too. Yuuri wasn’t sure he was worthy of taking him away from the world, preventing him from ever becoming something greater. So why was he so insistent?
Viktor waited a few moments before answering. Yuuri could feel they both tensed, yet the atmosphere stayed hopeful. He was met with a genuine smile when he raised his head.
“It will be. I can feel it now.”
“Good.” He smiled back, and laced their fingers together, at which Viktor audibly gasped. He was just a little bit proud of that. “And I will show my stunts to all of your crew.”
***
The sun was setting, they were long finished with their dinner, and the bar was more and more crowded with every minute, but they registered none of that, lost in conversation. Viktor never took his eyes off him, and Yuuri couldn’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable in someone’s company, under unwavering attention.
The intruder came unexpectedly.
“Oh hello, Yuuri, I see you’ve developed a taste for the Prince’s rims?”
“Chris! Hi, um… How is the Intoxicator?”
Giacometti leaned on the back of his seat with his arm, his galaxy pattern biker suit creaking as he moved.
“Oh, he’s ravenous. But so am I! Viktor!” he purred, turning away from him. “I thought we were going to talk about your transfer!”
“I’ve made my decision, Chris.” Viktor smiled, restrained, and remarkably serene again. “I’m not leaving my club.”
Giacometti frowned at that, but after watching the two of them closely for a moment, he just shrugged, as if he were acknowledging something Yuuri didn’t quite see behind.
“Well, anyway, at least I have a ride home, too, if you know what I mean.”
He winked, making Viktor laugh.
“I don’t think there’s one single person that doesn’t know what you mean!”
“I think I’m… gonna go sleep now,” Yuuri interrupted. He took his backpack and practically bolted towards the bar’s exit, not waiting for a reaction.
Oh no.
Oh shit, no.
Oh my god, what had he gotten himself into…
A ride, huh?!
Why were you so fucking dense, Katsuki Yuuri?!
Of course.
One room, one bed, I’ll take you home.
His hands were shaking, he was short of breath, and he only got to the foot of the stairs in the front hall before he realized he couldn’t stay here. He sneaked back to the clerk at the reception, left the room keys with her and made her keep them for a tall guy named Nikiforov, and unlike the other Yuri, he didn’t even wait for the door to close behind him. Damn his bike and damn the playboy. He turned his back and hit the road. Again.
***
He kept a steady, fast pace as the first stars twinkled to mock him from up above.
His breath was getting labored but he didn’t dare to slack. He wanted to get as far away as possible.
At least he had paid for dinner. And he wasn’t staying in the room so he owed nothing to Viktor.
Nothing.
That was what he would take away from this hell of a long weekend. Absolutely nothing but the numbing loss and the feeling of betrayal.
Not that he wasn’t having a hard time believing Viktor would be like that, but… He panicked. So there was no going back now.
The chill of the night was a joke compared to the ice cold grip in his throat when he heard an engine roar behind him for the second time that day. That engine.
He sighed and stopped, defeated.
Viktor braked hard, if Yuuri could judge from the squeal of the tires; and almost fell off the bike in hurry.
“Yuuri!”
His cry was muffled, but he must have been taking off his helmet because a moment later he called out again, loud and uncertain:
“Yuuri! What are you doing here?”
He didn’t turn around. He was too busy fighting the stinging in his eyes. Viktor continued, and he heard him take a step closer.
“You were gone and I was so worried! I looked in our room and…”
“Oh is that right?!”
Yuuri finally broke. His hands curled into fists but the tears were unstoppable, just like his rage. He could see Viktor standing there, stunned and disheveled in the beam of the headlight.
“I’m not sure I…”
“I’m not paying for the lift in any other way so if you expected that, I’m sorry.”
“Wha… NO!” Viktor shouted, rapidly shaking his head. “No, Yuuri, please! I didn’t… I would never! Please, ignore what Christophe said, he was just talking about his long-term boyfriend! I don’t expect anything like that from you, I swear! I’m not like that!”
“I know!”
He shouted back, and it echoed in the dark, followed by his sniffing.
Because he did; well, at least he hoped very much, for as long as he could remember. He had seen Viktor being friendly and flirty with basically everyone he’d meet, he’d read the magazines contemplating who would ever sit in that backseat, he’d heard how popular he was with everyone from all around the racer scene, he’d known he was invited to all the local parties and even to some of the most sophisticated banquets via his mother’s connections. And of course his doubts never left him, but he wanted to believe Viktor so, so bad.
“But I can’t join your club. What about your racer career?”
Viktor’s voice was as low as he’d never heard it before, but all the stronger for it.
“I don’t want a racer career. And what does that have to do with the club? We can still compete against each other, silly.”
Oh. Right.
Why were you so fucking dense, Katsuki Yuuri.
“I do want something.” Yuuri stated firmly, wiping his face.
“Your wish is my command.”
“I’m driving back.”
And as Viktor climbed up in the passenger seat with his bag on his back, squeezing him tight from behind, Yuuri decided this was the best ride he’d ever had.
***
“I just wanted to drive a cool bike once.”
“Well, ask.”
“Ew, are you stupid?! How pathetic is that.”
“It’s not pathetic. You never know if you don’t try.”
“… Okay. Can I drive your bike?”
Otabek frowned so intensely that his brows became one thick confused line. They watched as Mila and Georgi secured Eros on a pickup truck.
“I thought you were talking about Yuuri.”
“Well, maybe I don’t care about him anymore,” Yuri looked everywhere but at his friend. “So what’s it gonna be?”
Otabek smiled and handed him the keys.
***
“Here’s your tea.”
Yuuri stood up and kissed Viktor on the cheek. He put down the cleaning cloth and took the cup from him.
“Thank you.”
“It looks amazing.”
He followed Viktor’s gaze from tailpipes to headlights.
Their new bike stood in front of them in all its glory; all parts were custom made, and assembled by them together, piece by piece. Yuuri painted it—the pattern was purple and blue—and Viktor commissioned them shiny matching gear. It was really one of a kind in the history of motorcycles.
“Oh, and I almost forgot.”
Yuuri walked up to one of the boxes that had arrived to their garage that morning.
“I… well. It’s for me, but I figured… happy birthday.”
He took out his new jacket, and laid it out on the bench so that Viktor could see the patch on the back. It was his club’s logo; a minimalist style drawing of a motorcycle, with snowflakes as the rims. The signature of Winter Wheels membership.
No doubt, that was one of the happiest days of their life. Viktor’s whole face lit up, and he flung himself into his arms.
“Yuuri!!!”