There was nothing more beautiful than the color of blood.

That was a truth long imprinted into Yuuri's heart, a truth that opened the door into the deepest, most frightening part of himself. He couldn't say when it was that he began to think so, but it was probably half a lifetime ago, surrounded by the screams of those boys in the warehouse. Or perhaps it was later, somewhere in the muddled, violent memories of his youth, somewhere before Nikita destroyed the last of his innocence.

Or maybe it was when Viktor, his everything, finally fell still in his arms. The blood soaked through Yuuri's clothes, into his skin, into his very soul, trying to leave its final mark on his body.

Don't forget, it whispered. Don't forget that this blood was spilt for you.

A red like the last of the setting sun. A red like the darkest night.

Nothing was more beautiful, because the icy blue warmth of Viktor's eyes would never shine again.

Mari sighed heavily against the car door. It had been two days since she'd last been able to smoke, and it was heaven to finally inhale the acrid, familiar taste of her favorite brand. She closed her eyes, allowing her mind to fall silent for the first time in what seemed like eons.

"How are you feeling, kumichou?"

She grunted in reply.

"How do you think, Jirou?" she said irritably from the back seat. "I've only been hospitalized for the last day and a half."

Her right-hand man chuckled as he started the car.

"You came out relatively light, ane-ue. I was surprised, you were bleeding so much I thought you were going to die."

"I'm not that fragile," she scoffed, glancing out the window. It was starting to rain, giving the town of her youth a somewhat melancholy air. She wondered if her mother was hurrying to get the laundry inside. "It was just a couple of head wounds, so they bled more than normal. They had me in there just in case of head trauma, but I'm fine."

"I still think you should have stayed longer," he said, his light brown eyes catching hers in the mirror. Minami Jirou was easily the eldest man in Mari's confidence. He had been around her father's age, back when the clan fell apart. It was only by luck that he hadn't been in the house the night that it burned down, and he was the only person who had had faith that Toshiya's daughter had the makings of a kumichou.

"It would have been a waste of time," she said. "Besides, I have a job to do."

Jirou gave an irritable huff.

"I don't get where these rosuke get off thinking they can tell you what to do. You're not their personal chauffeur."

"Yuuri is my brother," she said firmly, chewing on the end of her cigarette. "I'm merely doing him a favor."

Even Jirou had nothing to say to that; he'd seen enough to know that the Russian leader was in no state to go anywhere just now.

Vitya had never been good in a crisis. His past spoke for itself; when things went badly, Viktor Nikiforov ran. He ran and ran until there was nowhere left to go, and then he fled into himself. It had taken him many years to come to terms with it, but he knew he was weak. He was a coward, a child, and as much as he hated it, he could not help but run. It was the only way he knew how to protect the heart that broke so easily within his chest.

But that night, though his heart was in tatters and the tears would not dry, Vitya could not run away.

He had killed a man.

He had killed a man he'd known his entire life, a man who had been like an uncle, a man whom his father trusted beyond all else. He had killed a liar, a murderer, a rapist, but that didn't change the fact that someone was now dead by his own hand.

And yet, that was something Viktor could still run from. He could pack his things and vanish, he could hide himself so thoroughly that not even his father or all the bratva's power and wealth could track him down. He had not been idle in New York. He'd heard stories, he'd learned tricks, he'd made connections. He could do it, if he wanted to.

God, how he wanted to.

He wanted to say it was love and concern that made him hesitate, but Vitya couldn't lie to himself in that awful, terrible moment. Yuuri was his little brother, but Viktor knew, deep inside, that this was all his own fault. Vitya had distanced himself from Yuuri, Vitya had failed to be there, to listen. He'd ignored the subtle little cries for help since he was a boy, and that, that was unforgivable.

I may as well have raped him myself, he thought in horror as he sat at the edge of Yuuri's bed, trying to steady himself. He felt sick, dirty, and not just because of the blood on his face and clothes. If Yuuri hadn't been there, so thoroughly broken as he cried in Vitya's oversized sweater, he would have vomited.

He couldn't say why he didn't, truthfully. Perhaps it was pity or guilt, but the sight of Yuuri shrinking away from him, crying out his own rapist's name like a lifeline, was enough to remind him that someone else deserved to run now, and that Viktor owed him that small relief.

He opened his mouth to say something, but he realized it was pointless; Yuuri couldn't hear him, and nothing he could say would mean a thing. What was most important just now was clearing the room. For Yuuri's sake.

Have to get rid of the body, he told himself, his stomach churning as he looked at the remains of Nikita's corpse on Yuuri's rug. It didn't look much like a human body anymore; Vitya had stabbed into his throat and face so much that it merely resembled some sort of sick, mangled piece of meat attached to a doll's chest and arms. One blue eye was open, the other punctured and half-torn from its socket. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his strength, but even then the grisly image was burned into his retinas.

"Get a grip, Vitya," he muttered to himself through clenched teeth. He had an idea of how to handle these sorts of things, but he'd left the bratva far too early to remember all the details.

The bleach, he thought, getting up. His legs shook as he made his way to the hallway. His mother always had bleach on hand, just in case bloody clothes got on anything. He knew enough to know that bleach wasn't enough to completely remove blood traces, but it was always the first step.

I'll have to toss the rug completely, he thought once he was away from the room. The bleach would clean up any splatters that got on the bed frame or furniture, and the body...

"Fuck, how am I supposed to get rid of a body from the second floor?!" he cried, slumping down against the wall. Dragging it would only make a further mess, and he wasn't even sure he could handle touching it. "I can't do this... Mama, help me," he sobbed, wrapping his arms around his knees. He felt so small, so useless; surely Katerina would know, surely someone as accomplished and ruthless as his mother... but Katerina couldn't find out. It would destroy her, break her to pieces to find out what had been happening under her own nose. And if his mother couldn't handle it, surely his submissive, hesitant father couldn't either. There was no question about which parent had the stronger stomach.

But... there was someone. Someone who was just as talented and cold-hearted enough to follow the orders of the pakhan's son without question. Someone who could be sworn to secrecy.

At least, that's what he hoped as he pulled out his phone and dialed Antona's number with shaky fingers.

"Mari Katsuki?"

The woman who approached them was so utterly foreign that Mari could have laughed at her poor attempt to imitate her. Dark red hair, bright blue eyes, and a young, intelligent face that obviously belonged to someone under twenty years of age, she could not have been more Russian if she tried. Clearly, the Russians had not been lying about their obshchak's youth either. Had she not been wearing the same type of black suit they all wore, Mari might have dismissed her as a normal girl.

"Mila Babicheva, I presume?" Mari said as she stood from the uncomfortable airport chair. She held out a hand and Mila shook it.

"Where is Yuri Mikhailovich?" she asked immediately. Her accent was pronounced but not overbearing.

"The hospital," Mari grimaced. She meant to explain in more detail but was interrupted by a dark haired man carrying several suitcases just behind Mila.

"Why is Papa in the hospital?!" he demanded, his fierce expression undermined only by the ridiculous amount of luggage he was juggling.

"Georgi, shut up," Mila ordered, and the man fell silent, eyeing Mari suspiciously. "Please ignore my dog, he is an idiot," she said, clicking her tongue impatiently. Mari couldn't help a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Yes, we'll get along well, she thought.

"Don't worry. I will explain everything on the way there," she said. She snapped her fingers at Jirou. "Help them with the luggage," she barked. She didn't wait to see if he would obey before she began walking toward the terminal exit. "How much do you know already?" she asked, her shoes pleasantly clacking against the floor.

"Only what Antosha told me over the phone. That Viktor Mikhailovich was shot, and I was needed to replace him immediately."

Mari nodded, clenching her teeth slightly.

"Yes, I suppose that about sums it up. You are Yuuri's left hand, yes? That is how his men referred to you."

"It can be translated that way, yes," Mila said. "I am the person in charge of the... how do you say... the money...?"

"The accounts?"

"Da. It's more complicated than that, but the idea is the same. I oversee business matters, and Viktor oversees security matters. Fighting, information, and the like. I am more of a... hidden presence. But I do dirty my hands," she said suddenly, as if she did not want Mari to think her soft. "People sometimes need to be... convinced."

Noted, Mari thought, raising an eyebrow. The fierceness in Mila's eyes was proof enough that she was not suited to a desk job.

"Forgive me for being so blunt, but you seem rather... young. How is it that you came to work under Yuuri?"

Mila gave her a calculating sort of look.

"You should know better than to ask that sort of question. But I will answer it, because you are Yuuri's sister." She glanced at her watch, a thick, heavy piece that looked out of place on her slender wrist. "My father was Yuuri's father's obshchak, and so I am Yuuri's obshchak. I trained my whole life to do this, and I have known Yuuri since I was a small child. We are... family, of sorts."

Mari paused, a strange feeling in her stomach as the terminal doors slid open automatically.

"I see... You are close?" she asked carefully.

Mila gave her a rueful sort of smile. "In a way. Yuuri is... a private person. I think only Viktor Mikhailovich could count himself as truly close to him. Still, I know Yuuri enough, perhaps more than he realizes. I will follow and protect him no matter the cost."

Mari did not miss the fact that Mila wasn't using the usual Russian forms of respect with Yuuri's name, and the strange feeling seemed to intensify.

"Hmm," she managed to say.

"Tell me, he hasn't been hurt, has he?"

There it was, the question Mari was at a loss for how to answer. She scratched her hair in mild frustration as they came to a stop at the curb, waiting for Jirou to bring the car around for them.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked suddenly. Mila shook her head.

"Not at all."

It was only when the tobacco was in her system and she exhaled deeply that she found the words she needed.

"It depends what you mean by 'hurt,'" she said grimly.

"Viktor Mikhailovich... what have you done?!"

He faltered, completely shaken. It was not the reaction he had expected from his mother's infamous protegee. Antona never showed emotion on her face, and yet, there she was, mouth open in horror, clutching the door frame behind her for support. He had not explained the details over the phone, merely asked her to come and not to tell a soul. He'd managed to get Yuuri to stay in the bathroom, though he was sure it was more out of fear than anything else that his brother had obeyed.

"Is... is that Nikita?!" she asked in a hoarse whisper. Her face had gone deathly pale.

"D-don't you dare call the police!" he cried shakily, hand unsteady on one of his mother's hidden revolvers. He'd found it in a cabinet in the kitchen and thought he might need it, for protection. Just in case. "I'll kill you if you tell anyone! I'll kill you, just like him!"

He knew his threat sounded childish and ridiculous, but he was so afraid he could hardly stand.

She was silent for so long, her eyes firmly on Nikita's corpse, that he thought she might have frozen in place. It was only a few minutes later that she turned to him.

"Viktor, did Yuri Mikhailovich do this?" she asked, her voice steely and composed once more. He stared blankly at her, not at all understanding what she meant.

"Yuuri? Of course not!" he said wildly, completely lost.

"You don't have to lie for him," she said almost gently, as if trying to soothe him into telling the truth. Viktor was so unnerved by her certainty that he nearly dropped the pistol.

"Yuuri didn't-! He wouldn't-!" he began, but the sudden, sharp memory of Yuuri covered in gore nearly choked him with a renewed wave of horror and disgust.

He is a killer too, he reminded himself. And that's also my fault.

"He didn't do it," he managed to say shakily, completely forgetting about his threat and lowering the gun. "He... he was being... Nikita was... I walked in on..."

He couldn't say it. He bent and retched all over the hall, heaving as the tears burned his cheeks. To his surprise, Antona bent down to meet him at eye level.

"Did... did Nikita hurt Yuuri?" she asked urgently, an almost motherly look of concern in her eyes. Viktor found that he could only nod.

She looked like she wanted to ask more, but instead she bit her lip, thinking hard.

"I will call Pyotr," she finally said. "He can help."

"No! He'll tell everyone!"

Antona gave him a blank sort of look.

"You are naive, Viktor Mikhailovich, if you think either Pyotr or I would ever betray Mikhail Yemelyanovich's sons. No matter the circumstances."

Warmth. Gentleness.

All of it was gone. It was over, everything was at an end.

Why did he ever lull himself into thinking it was alright? How did he ever delude himself, how did he manage to close his eyes to the only truth that mattered?

Was he fucking insane?!

Perhaps he was. Maybe he'd always been a little insane, thinking he could ever play along with Viktor's games. It was so easy to forget, so easy to just get swept along by it all. He'd always longed for those days of his childhood, Viktor at his side, always protecting him, always there when he needed him. He let that nostalgia poison his senses.

What a foolish creature you are, Yuratchka.

Yes, he had always been a fool. A disgusting, broken shell of a human being. He'd let someone pity him, clung to them like a parasite and drained them of everything, everything.

You fancied that it was love, didn't you, you poor, misbegotten thing? You thought, perhaps, just maybe, there was something small and real at the core of this whole farce. You forced him to play that part. You forced him to be yours.

Of course he had. No one in their right mind would willingly love a tainted, corrupted soul like his. From the very beginning, it had always been a lie, and Yuuri had been too selfish to let it go.

And now the lie was dead and cold, the truth victorious over all.

You are a poison, Yuri Mikhailovich. You should not exist.

Yes, Nikita. Yes, you were always, always right.

Pyotr did not say a word. He arrived and went straight to work, no questions asked. Together the three of them managed to carry the body downstairs and somehow packed it into Pyotr's old car. Neither Petya nor Antona would tell Viktor where they planned to take it, and he found that he would much rather not know. It was enough, at the moment, to get it out of sight.

They spent the rest of the night cleaning every surface of Yuuri's room and the hall as meticulously as they could. It was well after three in the morning when Antona declared the place free of evidence, though she insisted on returning the next day to ensure no blood had dripped down the stairs.

"We will buy you a rug tomorrow," she said as she finished inspecting the furniture. The sharp smell of bleach was strong in the air; the windows would have to be kept open for days, though thankfully his parents would not be home for another week. "Knowing Katerina Ivanovna, I know exactly where she bought it."

"Th-thank you," Vitya said tiredly. It seemed like the wrong thing to say, and yet he didn't have any other words to describe how much he appreciated what they'd done.

Petya gave him a sympathetic sort of grimace and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"There is nothing to thank us for, Vitya. Nothing happened here tonight."

Viktor dug his nails into his palm nervously.

"But... They'll wonder..."

"Nikita had his share of enemies, Vitya," Antona said simply. "Tonight, he was accosted by one and stabbed to death. His assailant was injured and died nearby of blood loss. That is all you need to know."

They left soon afterward, and Viktor found that he was so exhausted he could barely hold himself up. He wanted nothing more than to head upstairs and hide under his covers for an eternity, but there was something more important to deal with first.

He made his way upstairs, feeling far wearier than his twenty years.

"Yuuri?" he asked hesitantly, knocking on the bathroom door gently. His brother had not emerged once during the whole operation, but his sobs had quieted down at some point, and Vitya suspected that his brother had fallen asleep. When there was no reply, he found a lock pick in Yuuri's desk and managed to force the door open.

As he'd suspected, Yuuri had passed out on the bathroom floor. He looked far younger than sixteen, a small boy with stark dark circles under his eyes and crusted tear stains down his pale cheeks. He was so still that Vitya was afraid he might have died, but he was thankfully still breathing. He was in such a deep sleep that he didn't stir at all as Vitya pulled the bloodied sweater off him and did his best to wash the stains off his skin with a wet towel. He had to burn the clothes too, after all, before he went to sleep.

When that was done he found another oversized shirt for Yuuri to wear and carried him to his bedroom across the hall.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he settled Yuuri in his bed as quietly he could. "I didn't think you'd want to sleep in your room tonight, so I hope you won't be too shocked when you wake up here instead."

Yuuri's slow breathing continued, innocent and defenseless. He could not hear the apology, but it didn't matter. It still needed to be said, for Viktor's own sake.

I failed you, Yuuri. I should have been here, always, but I wasn't.

He had always been so small, so fragile. This was the Yuuri that Viktor remembered, the Yuuri he'd loved so much, but it tore him to pieces, knowing that it was this part of his brother that had been so cruelly taken advantage of. The other Yuuri, the Yuuri in the bratva, that had nothing to do with this battered little boy. This was the Yuuri that Viktor had once promised to protect with all his heart.

"I will keep that promise until I die," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly.

"Ane-ue. Mila Yakovlevna. Welcome back."

"Antona," Mari said in return. The assassin had not moved from her position in front of the hospital room for days. "How is he?"

Antona merely shook her head slightly, her face as inscrutable as always. Mari had to admire the efficiency and speed with which Antona and Pyotr took charge. From the moment Viktor was shot, they immediately dragged Yuuri away from danger, ignoring his cries. Since then they'd been working like a well-oiled machine, keeping the other avtorityets under control and ensuring that the pakhan had some privacy with his grief. Of course, Mari knew it was more than that, but she was sure that their quick thinking and swift countermeasures had prevented the truth from leaking out.

"Ina Bauer?" Mila asked casually.

"Yes, ma'am."

Mari had no idea what the exchange meant, but Mila did not explain. She pushed open the door without asking permission.

It was as if time hadn't passed at all since she'd been there earlier that morning. Yuuri didn't seem to have moved an inch, hunched over in a chair facing the bed, face hidden in his clasped hands, as if in prayer. His lips moved feverishly in whispered Russian, repeating the same string of unintelligible sounds over and over.

As Mari closed the door behind them, a voice spoke off to the side.

"He can't hear us."

Pyotr was standing by the wall, arms behind his back. His demeanor had changed drastically from the friendly, overbearing attitude he'd worn over the past few weeks. He was all business now, eyes cold and calculating. Mila glanced over at him and nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, I was warned that could happen," she said simply. "Still... this is my first time seeing it."

She took a careful step toward Yuuri, as if she were half-expecting him to look up as she drew close. Nothing changed. She raised her hand to his face and waved, but he took no notice.

"I suppose you can't understand what he's saying, Miss Mari?" she asked, sighing as she pulled away.

"No need for formalities; just call me Mari. And no, I don't. Sounds like prayer or something."

"Yuuri doesn't believe in prayer," Mila said as she found a chair and pulled it toward the bed. She indicated that Mari should do the same. "Neither do I. People like us rarely do," she added cryptically. "Prayers are merely empty words. Words are powerless, when they don't reach anyone." She crossed her legs and rested her elbow on her knee, her face cupped in her palm. "Still, there are times when that's all you have. Words, I mean."

"I don't really understand," Mari frowned. "Is he praying or not?"

"Not really, not in the... competent...? No, convent?" Mila paused, clearly wracking her brain for the word she lacked.

"Conventional, commander," Pyotr supplied.

"Ah, yes, that," she said, waving him away. "Conventional sense. He is merely repeating the same words."

"Which are?"

"'You should never have touched me.'"

She did not elaborate. She didn't even seem to notice that Mari was confused. Her eyes were on Yuuri, but her thoughts were clearly somewhere else as the steady beeping of Viktor's life support system echoed throughout the room.

Notes:

After a much delayed break (of sorts) the suffering finally resumes! For those of you who have not been keeping up with me via twitter, here's what's been going on.

-The project is nearly complete, after many mishaps and crying on my part. Batch 1 (aka, the only batch) will close in a couple of weeks, so I strongly recommend you check that out now if you are interested. For more information, please check out my twitter (okaeri_kairi) or tumblr (limitofquestions). It's like the first post on both, you literally cannot miss it. More interest lets me know you guys want more suffering and a continuation of the project, so at LEAST signal boost for me, please! Go post on facebook or instagram about it or something, just help a struggling author out, I beg. oTL

-There are several side stories now available for this series! Check them out on my profile, if you haven't already.

-There's probably something else that I'm supposed to say but I pulled an all-nighter so I'm a bit dead here. I'll come back to it if I remember.

Thanks for being so patient with me, and I hope you will enjoy part 2 of SepAnx! As always, leave me your thoughts, I swear I'll get to them soon!