*KICKS DOWN DOOR* ROMAN HOLIDAY AU
HOLD MY BEER WRATH -CRACKS KNUCKLES-
His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Yuuri Katsuki of Japan is floating.
He’s not sure exactly what Minako had put into his tea. His housekeeper (minder, Yuuri thinks vaguely) had sworn it was a tonic for his nerves, but it tastes like alcohol and it burns through him like alcohol, and maybe he’d wrested an entire bottle of whiskey from her because there is a Jack Daniels bottle discarded at the foot of his bed. And at some point he’d given up on a teacup.
He wants out of this stuffy hotel room, wants to drink in the night lights of the city below. His Eastern European diplomatic tour had taken him from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, and from there he’d eventually go on to the Ukraine, Romania, Bulgaria, and a list of other countries and cities that he can’t be arsed to remember right now. It’d been nothing but meetings and greetings, hand-shaking and ribbon cutting and baby kissing until his lips felt chapped and his fingers ached. The only time he’s had to himself were the ten-minute respites driving from location A to location B, and these lonely nights in penthouse suites of fancy hotels in the heart of cities he was never meant to explore as an ordinary person.
His penthouse suite has access to the roof. Yuuri stumbles along, telling the bodyguards that he needs some air. He can hear them following at a distance, though, as he climbs the stairwell up to the roof of this grand hotel.
Out on the roof, Saint Petersburg spreads out below him, a brisk sea breeze blowing wildly as he breathes in the night air. His hair stirs in the wind; it’s getting a bit long, but he hasn’t had the heart to cut it in a while. Below him the bright glow of streetlights accentuate the cars speeding along the streets, accompanied by buses and trams. Yuuri longs to be one of those people on the streets, driving the cars, sitting on the trams. Ordinary, easily lost in a crowd.
Instead, he shivers in his t-shirt and sweats, his hands gripping at the railing of the roof as he looks out at the distant green-blue dome of a cathedral lit in the night, and all the surrounding elegant buildings that feel like bars in an elegant gilded cage. He needs just a day off. One day without people shepherding him into place and speeches about ‘peace and prosperity’ and ‘fostering good relations between Japan and Russia’. He has lunch with President Baranovskaya tomorrow, a tour of the new Mitsubishi plant on the outskirts of the city, a meet and greet with the press corps. And yet just the thought of each of these things makes him want to scream.
He sways slightly on his feet, and then he notices the staff stairwell on the other side of the roof, and he has an idea.
Viktor Nikiforov is late on his story for the History Maker gossip tabloid, and based on the near-emptiness of his bottle of vodka, he knows that fairly well.
The problem is, this is his only bottle and it’s not nearly enough. So he puts on a light coat, nearly tripping over the slumbering form of his poodle Makkachin on his way out his apartment.
Just down to the corner store for another bottle. Not even a big bottle. He just needs to be the right amount of buzzed for this article to get out of him. Never mind the fact that when he started out in journalism he hadn’t needed to drink to do his damn job.
(Never mind the fact that when he started out, he had been writing for publications of actual repute. But that’s neither here nor there.)
Once he reaches the bottom landing, however, just nipping down for a bottle and then returning to his apartment of solitude suddenly feels like a terrible idea. With the sudden urge to take a walk along the embankment of the Fontana burning brightly in his mind, he rushes back up to his flat to wake his poodle, clipping on Makkachin’s leash and leading him out the door.
Makkachin’s tail wags cheerily as they head out into the brisk city night. There are no stars visible out here, but Viktor pretends that they are wheeling overhead as the two of them make their way through familiar cobblestoned streets. He’s content to let his dog do most of the leading, and Makkachin is just as eager to wander down trails of interesting new scents.
Their joint meandering takes them to the front steps of the local church with its spires and domes topped in gold. There’s a man in the park out in front, fingers scrabbling against one of the benches as he sways, humming a tune to himself. Viktor pulls at Makkachin’s leash, trying to lead him away, but the man’s face breaks out into a wide grin at the sight of the poodle. And Makkachin has always been a sucker for friendly-looking strangers and the prospect of pets.
“Your dog is adorable,” simpers the stranger with a giggle. “Can I pet him?”
Viktor nods, since Makkachin is already upon the stranger anyway, licking him all over. The stranger doesn’t seem to mind; his hands come up, fingers curling in Makkachin’s fur with a giggle. “His name’s Makkachin. He’s a standard.”
“I have a toy poodle,” says the man. “He’s back… back.” He gestures vaguely in a direction Viktor’s not quite sure of. “Home,” he finishes. His English has a soft American twang to it. Viktor likes it.
(He then stops that train of thought, because surely it must be weird to think that some random drunken stranger one stumbles upon in a park in Saint Petersburg while walking one’s dog is cute with a cute voice.)
(The man is still very cute, though.)
“I’m Viktor,” Viktor offers. “And you seem like you need help getting home.”
“No,” says the man vehemently. “Don’t wanna. I live here now.”
“Here? At Vladimirskaya Church?” Viktor’s eyebrows arch. “I doubt it.”
“Don’t wanna go home,” repeats the man, punctuating it with a giggle and a determined rub along Makkachin’s back. “Not tonight.”
“Well, I can’t just leave you out here,” says Viktor. “The police will come fetch you. You wouldn’t want to spend the night at the police station, I assure you.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” says the man, grinning.
Viktor’s first instinct is to refuse. He’d just met this guy, after all. Number one on the ‘list of things not to do in order to stay alive’ would definitely be ‘let a stranger into your house’. And yet there’s something in this man’s expression that makes Viktor’s resolve crumble like a deck of cards.
Really doesn’t hurt that the man is adorable. It’s a bad idea to think of him that way, yet it’s an irrefutable fact. This man is clad in sweatpants and a loose tan jacket over a black t-shirt, a light blue scarf lightly draped around his shoulders. His shock of messy black hair is barely contained by a cat-eared beanie, and he has blue-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. And he is adorable.
“Well, my mama always told me not to let strangers into my house,” Viktor says, “so you should tell me your name, so we’re not strangers anymore.”
“I’m Yuuri,” says the man, drunkenly shaking Viktor’s hand.
Viktor makes sure he makes it all the way to his apartment.
In the morning, Viktor wakes up to the blinding light of the morning sun in his face. He stretches, and yelps in pain when his head collides with the arm of his sofa.
Frowning a little, he swings himself up into a sitting position on his sofa, wondering how he’d ended up here when he clearly knew better from other drunken nights that his couch is the worst place to sleep on. And then he notices an unfamiliar coat discarded in the hallway, and suddenly everything comes rushing back.
Yuuri had discarded that coat. And that scarf. He’d stumbled, like a newborn giraffe trying to do ballet, into Viktor’s arms just short of the bedroom, and Viktor had to carry him to the bed and tuck him in with an aspirin and a glass of water.
That’s why he’s on the couch.
“Shit.” Viktor scrubs at his face before clambering to his feet and padding down the hallway to his room. The door is closed; so he slides it open a peep. Makkachin immediately comes out, panting for his breakfast. Viktor sighs, and pokes his head in.
Yuuri is asleep still, lashes long against his pale cheeks. Viktor feels his heart seize a little in his chest at the sight, which is all he needs to close the door and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen to fill Makkcahin’s bowls and start breakfast.
He’s halfway through making toast and eggs when his phone pings with a message from his editor, Yakov. He nearly drops his phone when he reads it:
The press conference with HIH Crown Prince Katsuki is cancelled due to his sudden and unexplained illness.
It’s followed by a picture of the Crown Prince. And Viktor would recognise those eyes anywhere.
Those are the same eyes belonging to the man currently sleeping in his bedroom.
(He had no idea Crown Prince Katsuki usually wore glasses.)
Viktor’s throat is dry; his hands are shaking. At this rate he’s going to burn breakfast. He quickly scrambles to plate the food, rushing everything to the counter just as Yuuri Katsuki (Crown Prince of Japan) comes shuffling into the room, rubbing at his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” says Yuuri after a moment. “But where am I?”
Viktor sets down the spatula and frying pan into the sink, and then slowly turns around to face him. “How much of last night do you remember, Yuuri?” he asks.
The man startles a little, as if he’d expected Viktor to call him something else. But then his cheeks flush pink. “I didn’t… do anything untoward, did I?” he asks.
Untoward. Viktor’s insides are squirming with glee at how adorable this man is. “No, you were just insistent on not going home,” he says. “Makkachin and I took you back here, to my place. I took the couch.”
“Makkachin,” says Yuuri, and then the poodle insinuates himself by Yuuri’s knee as a reminder. The prince chuckles at that, reaching down to pet the poodle. “A standard. How cute! I have a toy poodle back… at home.”
Viktor nods. “You told me that last night,” he says.
“Oh.” Yuuri bites at his lip. “Well. Um. Sorry. For that, and for imposing. I won’t be troubling you for much longer. I need to return –”
“Home?” asks Viktor. “You seemed pretty adamant about not returning last night. But then I guess you were drunk, so…”
“Yeah. I…” Yuuri trails off. “What time is it? And what was your name again?”
“Viktor,” says Viktor. “Viktor Nikiforov. And it’s actually ten.”
Yuuri stumbles onto one of the chairs at the counter, putting his head in his hands. “Can I… borrow your phone? I need to make a call.”
Viktor nods, handing over his phone and opening it to the keypad. He then turns on the TV, just in time to catch a broadcast about the unexpected illness that had struck the Crown Prince of Japan, and how he had cancelled his lunch with President Baranovskaya.
Yuuri freezes with his fingers on the dial key, turning around to see his own face splashed across the news.
“What… happened to that guy?” he asks, gesturing to his own photo as if pretending he just bore an uncanny resemblance to the ‘sick’ prince. “I don’t speak Russian, so…”
Viktor hides a smile. “He’s sick,” he replies. “They’ve cancelled all of his public events today.”
Yuuri nods then, chewing at his lower lip. “I see,” he says quietly. He then sets down the phone and picks up his fork, raising an eyebrow at the plate of toast and eggs.
“Help yourself,” says Viktor. “Do you want tea, too?”
Yuuri nods. Viktor puts the kettle on, then, and it boils in moments. He serves up two cups of tea, then, and Yuuri gratefully takes his with a cube of sugar and a tiny dash of milk.
Viktor then takes his phone, firing off a message to his photographer friend Chris to ask him to stop by. He then sends another to Yakov about getting an exclusive interview with the Crown Prince, before going over to sit beside Yuuri with his own fork.
“So, what brings you here to Saint Petersburg, Yuuri?” he asks.
Yuuri fidgets with his fork a little. “Work,” he says vaguely.
“What sort of work?” asks Viktor.
“Family business,” mumbles Yuuri.
Viktor smiles. “No time for sightseeing?” he wonders.
Yuuri ponders it for a moment. “Well,” he says, “I think my schedule might have just freed up.”
Viktor’s smile broadens. He gets a message from Yakov at that moment: Everyone says they’re going to get an exclusive interview with the Prince. Try again.
He frowns as he replies. No, I mean a really exclusive interview. The Prince as a person, not a crown. I bet other people would kill for a story like that.
Yakov’s answer is almot instantaneous. Can you guarantee this interview?
Viktor looks over at Yuuri, who has raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Work,” he answers.
“What sort of work?” asks Yuuri, a little smile twitching at his lips.
Viktor chuckles. “Boring work,” he replies. “And I just freed up my day, too. So if you want to go sightseeing, we could definitely do that.”
Yuuri’s eyes sparkle, and Viktor’s heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” agrees the Prince almost eagerly. He sounds so earnest, so trusting, so determined to make the most of his situation. Viktor can feel his gut twisting at the question burning into his phone, and it takes all he can to make his smile reach his eyes.
“Then let’s finish up breakfast and get ready,” he says cheerily, and when Yuuri nods and tucks back into his eggs, he fires off the answer:
I’ll have it on your desk in the morning.
(basically viktor used to do investigative journalism for another magazine/newspaper higher up in the pecking order, but after a scandal or a lawsuit he loses that job and now works at a tabloid. he sees this interview as his chance to regain his reputation. but as the day progresses, he falls more and more in love with yuuri, and realises he can’t sell this story.
chris is his photographer buddy who gets roped in, and also goes along with not selling the story when he realises how much viktor and yuuri love each other.
yuuri, in the meantime, has actually loved viktor’s earlier work for journalists without borders and so when he realises that viktor is actually a journalist he’s caught between awe at having met an idol of his and dismay that viktor was probably spending time with him to write a story on him. but then viktor convinces him otherwise by not selling his story to the tabloid after all.
they part ways but they also stay in touch and viktor gets a job at a better publication with a branch in japan…. and then they become an item and it’s like the biggest news ever 😉 also ofc there’s an army of bodyguards that get completely beat up at a dance 😉)
