Author's Notes: This AU has been trapped in my head for so long that it's such a relief to finally get it out. This is for all of you who, like me, enjoy the glorious Edwardian era in England, brought alive in large part by amazing series such as Downton Abbey. I love the dynamics of their society, the relationships, and the sheer drama that can come out of a single household. And I can't think of a more perfect setting for some Victuuri hurt/comfort and pining. Also, Yuuri being a ridiculous dearheart.

Without further ado, please enjoy the fic, and I would love to hear your thoughts in the reviews.

Yuuri flies down the spiral staircase, fingers working nimbly at the tie round on his neck. He's vaguely aware that his dress shirt is not properly tucked, white fabric spilling out wildly over rumpled trousers. He ducks a housemaid on the way to prepare the rooms, ignoring the look of surprise on her face.

He has made a terrible error in judgment, and now he's ridiculously, absurdly late, and he's not in his room. The butler of the house is going to have his head on a platter.

Mentally, he runs a list of possible excuses through his mind: he had a nightmare and needed a walk to clear his head; he heard noises and left to investigate; the young master had summoned him for a personal request – no, no, oh, that one is far too close to the truth –

He lets out a squeak when a hand clamps down on his arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"Yuuri, where have you been," Phichit says, concerned, grip tightening, "You've missed breakfast and Feltsman is going mad looking for you – "

"Tell you later," Yuuri says, pushing lightly past his friend to hasten down the stairs to the kitchen.

Yakov is there, barking orders at the kitchen staff. Anya's face is dark with annoyance as she scrubs at the pots in the sink, while Celestino scurries about in his rush to cook breakfast for upstairs.

Hurriedly, Yuuri shoves the fallen edges of his shirt into his trousers and smoothens down his waistcoat, before walking up as calmly as he can to the peevish butler. "Good morning, Mr. Feltsman, I'm so sorry for the delay – "

"Save the apologies, Mr. Katsuki," Yakov snaps, whirling round on him with fire in his eyes. "His Lord Marquess Giacometti and his Lord Earl Popovich will be staying at our honorable estate for the next two days, and as Lord Giacometti's valet has recently left service, he will require your services for the entirety of his visit. I am, however, beginning to question if you can juggle between two lords, given that you appear to have sufficient difficulty managing one."

Yuuri stands tall, chin lifting. Yakov the butler has worked for the masters of the estate for generations – "Centuries," Phichit insists, "Like a gargoyle," – and he is renowned for his disapproval of meek behavior, even in the face of a scolding. Fake or not, confidence is key. "I will manage, Mr. Feltsman."

Yakov snorts. "See that you do. And fix your hair, will you," he growls as he strides past, "You look like a dog that's been through a wind tunnel."

Once the heavy footsteps fade, Yuuri allows himself to sag, dropping his hands to the top of a dining chair to steady himself. The relief is palpable; he didn't have the proper excuse for his absence and the truth would have given Yakov a lethal heart attack.

"Thank your lucky stars he didn't skin you alive," Celestino says, flashing a grin as he bustles by with a ladle. An Italian chef who used to work at a celebrated hotel, Celestino's cooking is second only to his mother's Japanese home cooked meals.

"Sorry if I've made him more irate than usual," Yuuri starts, but Anya sniffs disdainfully at the sink.

"Please, he and Baranovskaya were born irate," the kitchen maid says, her thick country brogue betraying her humble background. "They've both got their knickers all up in a twist with two lords visiting this week."

"Baranovskaya's on the rampage, too?"

"She's upstairs, surveying the housemaids. I don't envy them at all."

"Never you mind," Celestino chides and gestures at the dining room. "Sit down and have breakfast, Mr. Katsuki, you're going to need your strength soon."

Eagerly, Yuuri complies.

At mid-afternoon, with the sun beating down upon them, they assemble at the entrance, awaiting the lords' arrival.

Yuuri takes his place at the end of the line, greeting the rest of the downstairs staff with a smile. Though they return his greeting amiably, Yuuko and Minako sport similar looks of irritation, no doubt a result of Lilia's morning surveillance. Phichit throws him a jaunty wink while the other footmen, Guang Hong and Leo, respond with smiles of their own.

"Where were you," Sara mouths where she stands across from him.

Yuuri shrugs, just as the front door opens to reveal the lords and lady of the estate, accompanied by Yakov and Lilia.

"It's just Georgi and Christophe," the younger lord grumbles. "Must we wait outside in this bloody heat?"

"Lord Popovich and Lord Giacometti are important guests, Yura," the lady corrects, smacking the smaller blond in a distinctly unladylike fashion. Silently, Sara stifles a giggle behind her hands. "Welcoming them is the least we can do."

"I doubt Christophe appreciates being addressed so formally, Mila, though Georgi seems to enjoy it."

The master of the Nikiforov estate, oldest and the most regal in blood and appearance, steps through the doors. His Lord Duke Viktor Nikiforov tosses his head and silver hair flows almost ethereally, shimmering like glints of sunlight over calm waters. Elegant, charming, and debonair, he outshines even his half-siblings; both blessed enough with a sense of transcendent beauty that stuns men and women alike. All three are Russian by heritage, and Yuuri sometimes wishes he could take a trip to Eastern Europe to see if there are others like them.

Those bright, bright turquoise eyes flicker over, and Yuuri swiftly averts his gaze, cheeks growing warm.

"Feltsman," Viktor calls, voice smooth as velvet, "Who will be serving as Christophe's valet?"

"That would be Mr. Katsuki, your Grace."

There is a glimpse of displeasure on Viktor's face before it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. "Perhaps one of the footmen could do it instead?" he says serenely. "After all, Katsuki has his hands full serving out his duties as my valet."

Yuuri flushes harder at the possessive note in the young master's tone. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Phichit's growing smirk and he knows he has to prepare for a barrage of questions when the day is over.

Yakov frowns. "I would advice against that. None of the footmen have any experience serving in the capacity of a valet. I am confident that Mr. Katsuki can fulfill both duties with adequate competence, can you not, Mr. Katsuki?"

Heads turn to Yuuri who feels as though his face is on fire from the scrutiny. "Ah, y-yes, of course, Mr. Feltsman."

"Well," says Viktor, his stare deeply penetrating. "If Katsuki is certain."

It is the younger lord who breaks the uncomfortable silence that follows.

"I don't have a valet," Yura says. "Why should Christophe require one?"

"You don't have a valet because you dismissed the last four," Mila points out.

"Must you always undermine everything I say, you old hag?"

"Only when you speak without thinking, you silly child."

"And your mother was a – "

Feltsman clears his throat loudly, nodding towards a car in the distance. "It appears his lordships have arrived."

"All right, what happened last night," Phichit demands in a hushed whisper.

Eyes wide, Yuuri looks up from polishing Viktor's shoes. The interrogation is not supposed to happen till the end of the day and most certainly not in the presence of so many potential eavesdroppers. Phichit must be feeling impatient today. "Nothing happened," the valet replies in an unnaturally high pitch.

So much for being casual.

"Nothing my skinny Asian arse," Phichit snorts. "You and his Grace were clearly making doe eyes at each other. Don't even get me started on the whole 'my valet' business."

"Phichit," Celestino calls from afar. "Could you bring up the stew, please?"

"The stew, Phichit," Yuuri says, pointing to the kitchen.

"Uh no, you're not distracting me that easily," Phichit huffs. "What. Happened."

Anya pops her head into the dining room. "If the first footman could bother his Grace's valet on his free time before the stew gets cold and Mr. Cialdini busts a vein?"

"Tell Ciao Ciao I'll get right on it– " the maid rolls her eyes and withdraws back into the kitchen " –once someone tells me what happened last night."

Desperately, Yuuri flails with the polish cloth, making shushing noises at his friend. "I'll tell you later, you mad man," he swats feebly at the footman's chest, "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Phichit responds, grinning. He heads out to the kitchen just as Leo descends the stairs.

"Feltsman wants to know where the stew is," Leo says, shaking his head. "His eyes are doing that weird twitching thing."

"It's on the way, it's on the way~" Phichit sing-songs, sweeping up the stairs.

"How's it going upstairs?" Yuuri asks.

Leo leans on Yuuri's chair, shoulders rolling in a shrug. Yuuri rather likes Leo: the footman is sweet, affable, and an incredible source of information. Together with Guang Hong, they know much about the comings and goings of the household, especially the latest gossip from upstairs. "Nothing new, really. Lord Popovich is waxing poetry about his latest whirlwind romance while his lordship and ladyship gag on the side, and Lord Giacometti is still persuading his Grace to find a suitable wife to wed."

"Oh," says Yuuri. He bows his head and resumes polishing with vigorous motions, heart pounding in his ears. Of course Viktor would have to find a partner; the great Nikiforov estate needs an heir worthy of the title. He would have to be a fool to even consider the alternative – if there even is an alternative at all.

"You all right, Yuuri? You've gone all pale," Leo says, eyebrows furrowing.

"Just fine," Yuuri says quietly.

"Good heavens, are those shoes I see on the dining table?"

Yuuri leaps to attention at the shrill voice, shoes cluttering off the table in his haste. "Mrs. Baranovskaya, I was just – "

"Out," Lilia snaps, the lines on her face growing sharper in her fury, "Out of the kitchen with you. And you, Leo, don't you have a dish to serve upstairs?"

Snatching the shoes, Yuuri hurries out of the kitchen to the sound of Lilia lecturing poor Leo for his lackadaisical attitude and slipshod work ethic.

At Viktor's request, Yuuri heads to Christophe's room first at the ring of the dressing gong. He knows the Swiss noble is a handsome man with the reputation of flitting from lover to lover, pleasuring any lady that happens to stumble across his path. The irony of a lady's man trying to convince the Duke to settle down doesn't escape Yuuri's notice, but it's certainly not for him to comment on. Not aloud, anyway.

"Ah, you must be Katsuki," the Marquess drawls. He's sitting on the edge of his bed with his bowtie undone, legs spread open in a lewd fashion.

Suddenly, Yuuri thinks he knows what it feels like to be one of those ladies.

"I'm, um, I am here to assist with your dressing, your lordship," he stammers nervously.

"You mean my un-dressing," Christophe suggests, lips curling.

"Um," says Yuuri eloquently, frozen in place as the noble's eyes rove down his figure lazily, sensuously. This is familiar, all too familiar, and the very tips of his skin prickle in trepidation at the dark sensation.

Christophe laughs then, rich and throaty, and the tension drops a notch. "No need to panic, I'm only teasing you." He rises from the bed, stretching his arms out. "Go on then, assist me."

After some hesitation, Yuuri walks over to remove the lord's jacket and reach for the buttons of his waistcoat.

"How long have you been working on this estate, Katsuki?"

"Just a year, milord," Yuuri replies, consciously willing himself not to stare when Christophe removes his dress shirt to reveal hard abdominal muscles underneath. "His Grace was generous enough to offer me a position when we met at the outdoor rink in London."

"Rink?" asks Christophe, inhaling deeply.

Yuuri's eyes dart away from the Marquess's chiseled stomach. "Y-Yes, the, um, the ice skating rink."

"Oh yes, one of Viktor's quaint little pastimes."

There follows a lull in their conversation, which Yuuri is grateful for. He's not quite sure why he divulged that information about his first meeting with Viktor, but there's really no point in crying over spilt milk. He is picking up the sleepwear he has prepared when Christophe speaks again.

"Are you any good at skating?"

When Yuuri sees Christophe's reaching out, feels fingers stroke at his cheek, it takes a few seconds to register the sensation, then a few more to hastily evade the touch. "I, I skate well enough not to fall," he stutters, holding out the pajamas, stretching his arms to their full length and as far out as possible.

"How modest," says Christophe, eyes at half-mast. He takes the sleepwear slowly, somehow still managing to brush against Yuuri as he does. "You know, Katsuki, I couldn't quite fathom why Viktor was so vehemently against taking a bride." Slipping on the clothes, he gives a salacious smile. "Now I believe I understand."

Trembling, Yuuri begins edging to the door, hands clasped tightly behind his back. "Will you, uh, will you be in further need of my services, m'lord?"

"Hmm," Christophe rumbles. "If I were to say yes?"

"It depends on the exact service you're requesting…"

"Perhaps the very one Viktor has been enjoying since your employment?"

Yuuri's breath catches. "I'm afraid I don't – "

"Katsuki, are you finished? I do need sleep at some point tonight."

When Viktor emerges at the door, Yuuri resists the strong urge to throw his arms round the man's neck and thank him profusely for his fortunate timing.

"Sorry," Yuuri gasps, darting out of the room like a mouse sprung from a trap.

As he sprints down the hall to Viktor's quarters, he hears the master's voice behind him, sharp as a knife. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing you haven't already done, I'd wager," says Christophe.

The next few minutes feel like years.

Yuuri spends it standing awkwardly by the closet in Viktor's bedroom, fidgeting with the sleeves of his livery and hoping to the gods above that Christophe hasn't actually figured out his relationship with the young Duke. It will absolutely destroy Viktor's reputation and reputation is everything to a person of his status. Terror, guilt and shame grip his heart at the very idea of being the reason for Viktor's ruin.

When the noble in question finally returns to his room, Yuuri braces himself for the inevitable reprimand for letting the cat out of the bag and his lack of propriety with a man of status. Instead, Viktor is silent, pacing up and down the room in mute agitation.

"Your Grace?" Yuuri ventures after a while.

"That is why I didn't want you serving Christophe," Viktor spits out abruptly. "Much as I like the man as a friend, he's an incorrigibly sexual being."

Yuuri chews on his bottom lip. The gods had answered that much of his prayers at least: the Duke's rage seems centered on the Marquess's impropriety rather than his. His last employer hadn't been as kind. All the same, luck has its limits. "Does… does his lordship know?"

Viktor pauses. "Know what?"

"About, um… about…" Yuuri swallows as Viktor tilts his head to the side questioningly. Somehow, it feels wrong for him to say it aloud. "Are you seriously making me say it?" he blurts out in frustration.

Viktor studies him for a moment. Then, with the grace of a panther, he advances, tugging his tie off with one swift movement. The look on Viktor's face is hungry, almost predatory.

Yuuri backs into the wall, just in time for Viktor to slam two hands on either side of his head, pressing against him in a way that shoots a bolt of lightning straight down his spine. The young master has the body of a trained athlete, lithe and trim in a way that is entirely surprising for an aristocrat of his class, and the feel of those hardened muscles alone is enough to force all of Yuuri's senses to take leave. But it is Viktor's mouth – dropping feathery kisses across the line of his jaw, down his neck, and sweeping up again to claim his lips, hard and possessive – that drives him positively mad.

"I would've liked for you to talk about our dalliances," Viktor purrs when they finally part for air.

"You haven't answered my question," says Yuuri, flushing.

"No he doesn't know," Viktor presses his lips on Yuuri's ear, breath hot against his skin. "At least, he believes this to be nothing more than another hobby of mine."

Yuuri breathes. "You mean it's not?"

"Oh my Yuuri," Viktor chuckles softly, and Yuuri feels tendrils of joy coiling warmly within his stomach, "You are far, far more than a hobby. You are the Juliet to my Romeo, the Ophelia to my Hamlet…"

Yuuri laughs. "So I'm due for a tragic death in the near future then?"

"Cheeky," Viktor nips admonishingly at Yuuri's skin. "I'm going to insist to Feltsman that Christophe have one of the footmen instead, starting tomorrow. Have you any objections to that?"

Boldly, Yuuri leans up, brushing his lips lightly across a fair cheek. "None whatsoever."

"In that case, my darling valet," Viktor murmurs then, low and deep, "Isn't it high time you stopped shirking your duties?"

"Yes, your Grace," Yuuri sighs, hands gliding under Viktor's jacket.

For a noble of his class, Viktor is also far quicker at removing clothes than a trained valet.

"You've been shagging Viktor Nikiforov!?"

Yuuri flings a bolster at Phichit. They're in their shared room in the men's quarters with paper-thin walls; the entirety of Leo and Guang Hong's conversations can occasionally be heard in the next room. "By all means," he hisses, "Say it loud enough for the rest of the staff to hear."

"Blimey, Yuuri," Phichit slaps both hands to his face in a shocked gesture, dropping his exclamations (thankfully) to a whisper. "This whole time I thought you might finally have something going on with his Grace, but apparently you've had it going on! I am so happy for you!"

"Thanks," Yuuri says, feeling somewhat abashed by his friend's enthusiasm. "Honestly, we've been together a while now… today's just the first time I've slipped."

"So your tardiness this morning…?"

"Was because I made the mistake of falling asleep in his arms the night before, and he, well…" Yuuri blushes at the thought. "He let me."

Phichit looks as if he's about to burst at the seams with pure delight. "To think I've never noticed you sneaking back in the middle of the night! My best mate – and a Duke no less – !"

Yuuri smiles weakly. "Yes but nothing can be more scandalous, can it?"

"What do you mean?"

"For a start, our status couldn't be further apart."

"You do know Lord Popovich fancies Anya, right?"

"What," says Yuuri, blinking.

"He's in the kitchen every time he visits," Phichit explains, smirking impishly. "You probably don't know this because you're with his Grace whenever Lord Popovich comes downstairs."

"But his 'whirlwind romances'?"

Phichit scoffs. "Just a façade. The only 'whirlwind romance' is Anya's constant rejection of his advances, which, honestly, are a shade away from disturbing sometimes."

An Earl openly courting a kitchen maid; a Duke dallying in secret with a valet. Both disasters waiting to happen, but nothing is more catastrophic than his relationship with Viktor, who is of higher rank and the same gender. Yuuri recalls the first time Viktor kissed him in the shadow of the trees behind the skating rink, his mind reeling from pure elation: he's like me, this beautiful man is just like me, an impure, an abomination, an unwanted – just like me –

And he recalls the revelation right after – the alarm – of Viktor's admission of his title that sent him crashing back to reality.

"Be that as it may," Yuuri sighs, "The fact that his Grace and I are both men – "

"Shhh." Phichit pushes a finger to Yuuri's lips, effectively cutting him off. "Cross that bridge when you get to it. For now, enjoy what you've got." The footman pulls away with a grin. "It's the only way we common folks can get by, eh?"

Yuuri laughs. When he took Viktor's offer and returned to service, he never imagined he would meet someone like Phichit Chulanont. They were cordial at first, unsure of what to make of the other, until the night Phichit walked into Yuuri with his hands in his trousers, coming to a strangled gasp of Viktor's name in their room. In place of the looks of pure disgust Yuuri had come to expect, the Thai-born's simple, empathic reaction – "We all have needs!" – had sealed their friendship forever. Really, Yuuri cannot remember a time in his life without his infectiously optimistic, accepting best friend. "Thanks, Phichit."

"Anytime, mate." Phichit flops back onto his bed. "How am I to sleep with that knowledge now? Hardest thing I'll ever have to do in my life."

Yuuri lies down, hiding a smile in his pillow. "Don't be so dramatic."

~oOoOoOoOoOoOo~

Their routine solidifies as the seasons change. They share stolen kisses when they're alone, soft, intimate conversations with each dressing, and rounds of blissful lovemaking at night.

The Duke is a passionate lover: tactile and affectionate at best, thoughtlessly driven by emotions at worst. More than once Yuuri has had to remind him, breathlessly, against leaving marks that can be seen, against touching him in public – those sinfully talented fingers trailing for just a little too long on his shoulder, his wrist – even against, oh, looking at him like he is the very air that gives life. The struggle is neverending as Viktor defies him time and again, seeming to enjoy making him squirm.

("You'll be ruined," Yuuri moans.

"My solnishko," Viktor rolls up and forward, mouthing at the bruises scattered beneath a sharp jawline as Yuuri keens above him, "You have already ruined me.")

Phichit turns out to be a formidable ally in Yuuri's apparently solo mission to keep the sordid relationship a secret – "I told him to keep it below the neck," Yuuri grouses over Phichit's sniggers, yanking his collar up as high as it can go – and the valet wonders why he didn't tell his friend earlier. The wily footman is swift to cover for Yuuri whenever there's a slip.

That one time Viktor decides to feel extra raunchy before breakfast, Phichit manages to distract Yakov's tirade on Yuuri's disheveled appearance with the shattering of a very expensive piece of china. When Yuuri develops a limp from banging his hip against the heavy dresser in Viktor's room, Phichit lies to Lilia about kicking him in the ankles by accident. ("Yuuri, you filthy animal," Phichit shrieks in glee later that night and Yuuri has to spend most of next morning fending off Leo and Guang Hong's questions.)

Lapses aside, Yuuri hopes to repay Phichit for his kind loyalty someday.

It is in winter almost a year later that the gears of fate start to shift direction.

"The Season is upon us," Viktor announces to simultaneous groans from his half-siblings. "It is a privilege to be invited to Buckingham Palace," he continues mildly, keeping his gaze fixed on the gathered servants, "And we shall leave for London in three days. As you'd imagine, we will require some of you to come with us. I have left the decision in the capable hands of Feltsman, with the exception of Ms. Crispino and Katsuki. They will accompany Mila and me, as they always have."

Next to him, Phichit nudges Yuuri with his elbow, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Yuuri nudges back, silently telling his friend to keep calm.

"One more thing," Viktor adds. "We must be dressed in our finest wear when we appear before the King and that's not likely when one of us seems to think that suspenders are appropriate dinner attire."

"Ex-cuse me?" Yura growls.

Smiling brightly, Viktor turns, ignoring the blond. "Feltsman, perhaps Chulanont could serve my brother as he had with Christophe?"

Yakov nods. "Certainly, your Grace, I don't see why not – "

"Oh no," Yura snaps, rearing up to full height and looking taller than he actually is. "If you're going to force a valet to play dress-up with me, I'm not getting some wretched footman to do the job." He jerks a head at Yuuri, whose eyes widen in surprise. It's the first time the young lord has addressed him, even indirectly. "I want him."

"Katsuki?" says Viktor, eyes narrowing. "Why on earth would you want Katsuki?"

Yura crosses his arms. "Because he's the only real valet we've got."

"Christophe was quite satisfied with Chulanont's services."

"Ha! Christophe would've been satisfied with anything warm with a hole." Sara looks absolutely scandalized, while in the back row, Anya begins to quiver with suppressed snickers. Unfazed by the servants' reactions, Yura gestures at Viktor's pressed suit. "Besides, Katsuki dresses you well enough."

"Is that an actual compliment?" Mila chimes in with a mock gasp.

"No one asked you, crone."

"I am only three years older, you know." Mila glides over to lay a hand on Viktor's shoulder. "What's the harm, Viktor? You'll only have to make allowances for a couple of days. Surely even Katsuki can handle an unruly teenager in that time."

"I'm standing right here!"

Yuuri keeps his stare locked onto his shoes, determined to stay out of the siblings' bickering. He feels Viktor's eyes on him, lingering for just a scant few seconds.

"All right," Viktor relents, sighing, "But you will heed Katsuki's advice on your dressing without complaints."

"Fine," says Yura, looking smug to have won the battle.

"In fact, let us start with the arrangement tonight, so the two of you can become acquainted with each other before the trip."

"Fi – Wait, tonight?" Yura says, looking much less smug.

"Good luck to you," Mila says to Yuuri, before she barely dodges her brother's vicious high kick.

Vikor clicks his tongue. "Feltsman, I believe we're ready to proceed with dinner now."

"Very well, your Grace."

The new change results in a flurry of excitement thrumming through downstairs staff, particularly among the housemaids. Tittering, they surround Yuuri the minute he enters the kitchen.

"Lucky you, serving two of the handsomest lords in all of England," Minako says, stars in her eyes.

"And to be handpicked by his lordship," Yuuko swoons, clasping her hands together in reverence, "When he's dismissed all his past valets!"

Yuuri rubs nervously at his neck, uncomfortable with the attention. "Steady on, ladies, he might just dismiss me too before we're done."

"I highly doubt that," Leo remarks, breezing past with a dish of seafood.

"Lord Yuratchka's previous valets were nasty pieces of work to begin with," Guang Hong adds, following after his friend with another plateful of food.

"Ah," says Yuuri, impressed as ever by the pair's endless breadth of knowledge, before he startles at the sight of the maids watching him with wide, watery eyes. "I-Is there anything else you wanted…?"

"Since you asked, yes," says Minako, beaming.

"Do you think you could nick something of his for us?" Yuuko asks sweetly.

Yuuri blinks owlishly. "What?"

"Oh, something small, you know, something he's not likely to miss."

"An unused cufflink," a maid suggests eagerly.

"Or a loose thread," says another.

"Or a lock of hair," Minako says.

"A what?" says Yuuri.

"Are you quite finished with your nonsense?"

As the tall shadow of Lilia falls over them, the maids disperse instantly, muttering about chores or errands they have to run. Yuuri smiles feebly at Lilia when she turns her glare on him, lips curling. If Yakov Feltsman is the guard dog of the Nikiforov estate, his bark worse than his bite, Lilia Baranovsky is his companion with a bite that sinks deep and festers as time progresses. Even Yakov himself has shown fear in the face of her ire.

"How is your ankle, Mr. Katsuki?" she asks, looking past her nose with disdain.

"Better," Yuuri replies, catching the grin Phichit tosses at him as the footman ascends the stairs with a plate expertly balanced on one hand.

"Good," Lilia sniffs. "We certainly can't have an invalid serving both our young masters now, can we?"

"No, Mrs. Baranovsky, we cannot."

"Oh, leave him alone, Phichit's the one who injured him," Sara says at the dining table where she's mending a tear in Mila's dress.

Scowling, Lilia sweeps out of the kitchen, keys jangling ominously down the hallway.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Yuuri pulls up a seat next to Sara. The lady's maid is a beauty, with her tanned skin and long, dark eyelashes, dampened only by the modest black dress she wears for her station. She's a mentor of sorts to Yuuri, having trained him immensely on the duties of serving the Duke. As his last employer was a mere Baron with a small mansion and less than five staff, he would've been utterly lost without Sara's assistance.

The maid prods at him gently. "You really should stand up to them. You're of equal rank as his Grace's valet, if not higher."

"They've been in service for so long, it doesn't feel right." Yuuri smiles. "And I'm not as brave as you."

"Silly," says Sara, a tinge of fondness in her voice. "You're taking on the young lord for the next few days. I'd say that takes more courage than a soldier going into battle."

"It's not like I have a choice in the matter."

On the panel, a bell rings, sharp and insistent.

"Speak of the devil," Sara giggles. "I'll be here, praying for your survival."

"Very funny," Yuuri laughs, but he makes sure to walk at double speed to the young lord's room.

Clink, goes the gears of fate.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOo~

Lord Yuratchka Plisetsky Nikiforov is moody, foul-mouthed, and prone to explosive tantrums – the polar opposite of Viktor. Yuuri struggles to maintain his composure at times, especially when the young lord rejects every single one of his dress selections, persisting obstinately with his own choices. The more time they spend together, the more Viktor's concern about his brother's fashion becomes apparent. They're not terrible choices by any means – albeit a little garish for Yuuri's personal taste – but they are certainly not appropriate to any formal occasion.

"You agreed to heed my advice, m'lord," Yuuri lets slip once, frustration getting the better of him.

"I agreed to heed it without complaint," Yura says, smirking, "But I never said I'd take it." He raises his arms and flaps them impatiently. "Quickly now, I'm going to be late for breakfast."

"Your lordship, you're to wear a single-breasted morning coat to start the day," Yuuri holds up a long black coat lined with golden double buttons down the front, "But this is a, a, um, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure what this is – "

"This is my fashion style," Yura snaps. "Now are you going to dress me, or do I have to dismiss yet another incompetent valet?"

Yuuri bristles, and with great reluctance, obeys.

"He's impossible," Yuuri huffs later in Viktor's room, jerking a little too hard at the other man's waistcoat.

"Easy, solnishko," Viktor murmurs, amused. "That nearly took a button off."

"Sorry," says Yuuri, slightly ashamed by his outburst. He straightens the waistcoat with less vehemence, before reaching for the coat hanging on the closet. "Where does he even buy his clothing?" he continues, holding the piece steady as Viktor slips into the coat and shrugs it on with practiced ease. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I suppose that's the point," Viktor says, checking his reflection in the mirror. "My brother's fashion and temperament suit his purpose of shocking others into submission, almost like a defensive armour of sorts. It has been that way since our father left."

Yuuri pauses in his laying out of Viktor's hunting wear for the afternoon. "Oh," he says softly, feeling like a demon then. From what he had heard from Guang Hong, the siblings' mothers were completely absent, while their shared father, a drunken English lout who never cared for the responsibility of managing an estate, had passed his inheritance to Viktor and vanished without a trace.

"Still, it doesn't excuse his behavior," Viktor cuts into Yuuri's reverie, drawing the smaller man closer to him. "Shall I tell him off for you?"

"Thank you but no." Yuuri clenches his fists, recalling Sara's words. "This is my battle, not yours."

"If I had known how feisty he'd make you, I wouldn't have worried when he asked for you," Viktor breathes, and Yuuri feels teeth on his neck, hands cupping his behind.

"I just dressed you, Viktor," Yuuri sighs.

"Then we'll just have to find a way to do this without undressing," Viktor purrs.

They do find a way, but Yuuri decides he doesn't quite like it, after he's forced to go about his duties for the next few hours with the perpetual feeling of having pissed in his trousers. Phichit practically falls off his bed in hysterical laughter when he finds out.

Three days fly by, and they are soon on the train to London with Yuuri dreading every minute of the journey. He has had no success in persuading the young lord to dress appropriately and the pressure of this responsibility remains a heavy weight on his shoulders. Thankfully, Phichit has been chosen for the trip along with Yuuko and Minako, so they share a car together, the cheery conversations helping to relieve some of Yuuri's anxiety.

The London mansion is smaller, less spacious, but no less grand. Celestino heads straight for the kitchen to check the stock and set up equipment, while the housemaids rush around the home, dusting, sweeping, and putting on the bed sheets. The footmen have their hands just as full, carrying up suitcases and preparing the dining table.

Instinctively, as it has always been done, Yuuri stands by Viktor's side, ready to follow the master to his room – seconds before the nightmare begins.

"Katsuki, come help me dress," says Viktor, just as Yura calls, "Katsuki, I want to change."

The brothers stare at each other in surprise, but Yura is quicker to react.

"I said it first," the blond says.

"I believe I did," Viktor says, frowning.

"No, I did."

"May I remind you that he is originally my valet."

"So what? You've always let me go first."

"Yes, but I am tired from traveling and wanted – " Viktor hesitates, eyes flickering over to Yuuri, " – wanted to change as quickly as possible."

"And I don't?" Yura snorts, disgruntled. "Fine, let's do it this way: Katsuki, you choose who you'd like to dress first."

In unison, the two lords turn to Yuuri.

If the valet thought he had nerves on the train, he was badly mistaken; the horror he feels now is churning his insides, threatening to shoot bile up his throat. If he chooses Viktor, Yura will be intolerable for the remainder of the trip. If he chooses Yura, Viktor will be hurt, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Viktor. He wishes Sara were here to help him, but the maid has already withdrawn with Mila to help her lady out of her travel clothes.

If only his life were that simple.

"Katsuki?" says Viktor.

"Katsuki," Yura snaps.

Cornered, bile rising, Yuuri blurts out the first thing that enters his mind. "I could dress you both at the same time!"

There's a beat of stunned silence, before Viktor lets out a burst of hearty laughter. "I'm afraid that was rather unfair of us, Katsuki," he says warmly. "You may dress my brother first."

"Could've done that in the first place," Yura grumbles.

As Yuuri follows the young lord up the stairs, he hopes to come out of this ordeal in one piece.

"Your lordship, please – "

"No, no, it's hideous and dull and I won't be caught dead in that thing!"

"It's a Court function, so you must be in formal wear – "

"Can't I wear that with my suspenders instead?"

"Suspenders are not formal wear, milord, and that… is a giant plaid bowtie."

"Are you giving me cheek, Katsuki?"

"I would never give you cheek, milord."

Yura flings a book at Yuuri, missing his head by inches. "You've got cheek written all over your face," the young lord snarls.

"I can't help how my face looks, m'lord," Yuuri responds, gritting his teeth.

They are three hours away from the social event of the year, Viktor has yet to be dressed, and Yura is still refusing all his suggestions. The young lord lounges in silk robes on an armchair with nary a care in the world, while Yuuri is on the verge of yanking his own hair out in frustration.

Taking a deep breath, the valet pulls on the reins of his temper. Maybe he needs to take a step back and attempt a different tactic. "If I may ask, your lordship, why are you so against proper dressing?"

Yura raises his eyebrows. "Isn't it obvious? There's no colour to the bloody things for men, no life. It's all shades of black and grey, like some sort of funeral attire."

"Is that really the only reason? Surely you could endure the hideousness for one day and be done with it if that's the case."

"Is it so hard to believe that I'm a man who keeps to my principles?"

"It wouldn't be hard if you could help me understand what those principles are."

"I just said – "

"His Grace said you dress a certain way in order to protect yourself."

Yura sits up then, frowning. "Viktor said that?"

"Not quite in those words, but yes."

"Viktor actually talks to you about us? A valet?"

"Doesn't he always?" says Yuuri, surprised.

"Viktor doesn't talk about family, period."

"He seems quite open with me."

"Is he now."

For a long while after that, the young lord is silent; Yuuri can almost see the cogs spinning beneath the beautiful golden hair. Then, slowly, Yura sinks back into the cushions, mumbling something too faint to be heard.

"Beg pardon, your lordship?"

Yura shoots him a withering look. "It's because my father rejected this life," he mutters.

Carefully, Yuuri hangs up the formal wear. He can't tell why the lord has chosen to disclose, but he's not about to spoil the opportunity. "What do you mean?" he probes gently.

"To participate in this foolishness is… is to be a part of everything my father rejected." Sulking, Yura crosses his arms, though it looks more to Yuuri like he's trying desperately to fold himself in and away from the world. "A part of everything he left behind."

Yuuri's eyes soften. In that moment, all the annoyance he feels for the blond evaporates, replaced by sadness and a great deal of sympathy. The feeling of abandonment, of rejection, is one that Yuuri knows all too well. "I'm sorry, m'lord. I wasn't aware."

"Yes, well," Yura says. "Now you know. That's why I need some colour in my clothes."

And then something clicks.

"Some colour, you said?" Yuuri clarifies.

"Uh, yes?"

"So then… your lordship would be willing to wear the dress coat if there were some colour in it?"

Yura pauses, before he rolls his eyes. "I see what you're doing, Katsuki, but yes."

Turning back to the formal attire, Yuuri considers the options, taking his bottom lip between his teeth in contemplation. A coloured cravat will stand out too much, whereas pins and badges will wreck the delicate materials of velvet and silk. Patterned cufflinks might work, but he doubts Yura would be satisfied with so little.

His gaze falls on the bowtie the young lord had pointed out earlier – the plaid pattern brought out by a bright splash of periwinkle blue – and, suddenly, the beginnings of an idea start to take form. "Might I make a suggestion, your lordship?"

"Why not," Yura shrugs. "Can't be anything worse than dressing me and Viktor at the same time."

Yuuri resolutely ignores the jibe. "How would you feel about adding colour to your hair instead?"

Yura blinks once.

Then a grin spreads slowly across his face.

That night, Phichit regales the staff with tales of Lord Yuratchka's metamorphosis, the awed reactions from the esteemed guests at the ball, and the Nikiforov family's triumph during the event, their combined charm and good looks glowing with inhuman radiance above the rest. Pleased, Yakov allows Phichit's extravagant performance, even toasting Yuuri's success at the start of their celebratory dinner – a feast Celestino prepared specifically for the downstairs folk.

Though Yakov retires early, the party carries on far past dinner.

"Using the bowtie as a hair piece," Phichit cheers, clinking Yuuri's glass with his. "Brilliant, bloody brilliant!"

"I can't believe our little hairstyling sessions came to use after all," Sara says happily.

"Just getting his lordship in a proper dress coat is a feat on its own," Celestino says, clapping Yuuri on the shoulder. "Well done, Yuuri."

Yuuri beams at them, wine sloshing as he sways dangerously on his feet. He cannot for the life of him recall how many glasses he has had, but he feels too good to care. "Thank you, thank you all."

"Wish you could've served with me, Yuuri!" says Phichit. "You'd have seen all those lords and ladies fawning over your handiwork on his lordship… he looked so embarrassed! Probably wasn't used to the positive attention."

"Her ladyship had her share of admirers as well," Sara adds proudly.

"To Sara and her ladyship!" Phichit agrees, taking a swig from his glass.

"Let's not forget his Grace," Minako pipes up to the giggles of Yuuko and the other housemaids. "In full military regalia with the badges of honour and rank and a sword. I'll bet the ladies of the Court couldn't keep their hands off him."

Past the alcoholic fumes, Yuuri sees a haze of red. He doesn't like the thought of hands on his Viktor, hands that don't belong to him. He knows the dress uniform the maids are talking about; he's the one who chose it after all. It's a pity Yura had yet to serve in the army or it would have been far less difficult to dress the young lord in the Russian military uniform: that brilliant blood-red a stark contrast from the English dress coat of black and white.

Viktor had looked magnificent in his uniform, and now, more than ever, Yuuri craves the feel of that magnificence under his hands, if only to rub off the touch of others. Resting his glass on where he approximated to be the dining table, he storms upstairs, tripping several times on the way up. Vaguely, he hears Phichit calling his name, but he's set on his path, the mix of alcohol and adrenaline fueling him with single-minded determination.

Upon reaching Viktor's door, he knocks once, twice – because it's the polite thing to do – before bursting into the room without waiting for an answer.

Viktor's on the bed, reading, and he bolts upright when Yuuri enters and slams the door behind him.

"Yuuri, what – mmh!"

Yuuri swallows the rest of Viktor's words in a hard, open-mouthed kiss, shoving the older man roughly onto the sheets. The Duke is fully naked as he always is, and Yuuri relishes in the heady feel of that taut body melting into his, the role reversal inflaming his desire to heightened levels.

"Well this is a lovely surprise," Viktor murmurs against Yuuri's mouth. "Is that white wine I taste?"

"Viktor," Yuuri presses a kiss, then another, and another. "Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…"

"Mm, what is it, Yuuri?"

"I want you."

Viktor hums low in his throat. "So take me."

"But I can't have you," Yuuri replies then pauses, startled by his own admission before the words belatedly take on meaning in his alcohol-riddled mind, old voices surfacing:

He will never be yours.

A rush of sadness fills his chest, cutting air, choking him. "I can't have you and I want you so bad."

Chuckling, Viktor cups a hand against Yuuri's cheek. "You're not making sense, my drunk little solnishko," he says fondly. "You do and have always had me. You have me right now."

"Right now," Yuuri chokes, the voices swarming in like vultures, circling, "I have you right now, but – "

But don't you see: you never had him; you will never have him, because you are a scandal, a horror story – forbidden in the world of nobility; unnatural in the eyes of god and man –

"Yuuri."

– but the women, the ladies with their gowns and ruffles and feminine trimmings, they can have him; they can live with him, love him, bear him an heir: everything you will never have with him –

"Yuuri."

A vision of Viktor's worried expression swims back into view, blurry and unfocused.

Yuuri draws in a shaky breath, the sensation of Viktor's warm hand returning to his cheek.

"Solnishko, you went completely rigid the last few seconds. Are you all right?"

Solnishko.

Sunshine.

Sometime in the past few months, Viktor had made him impossibly happy with the term of endearment, just as he caved to Viktor's insistence on addressing him by name.

Yuuri looks down at Viktor, those handsome features soft with concern and something that looks almost like love, and an overwhelming sense of despair washes over him.

Unnatural, a voice whispers.

"No," he says, quivering, "No I'm not all right. Can I stay with you tonight? Please?"

"Of course." Brushing a kiss on Yuuri's forehead, Viktor draws the covers over them, encasing the smaller man in his arms. "You never have to ask."

~oOoOoOoOoOoOo~

Yuuri hates the thumping and clanging and shouting and why on earth is there so much noise. He's at the dining table downstairs, nauseous and clutching at his throbbing head, desperately wishing someone would just put him out of his misery.

"Yuuri!" Phichit shrieks shrilly down his ear. "Are you still sitting there like a lump? We're due to head out for the skating rink in Regent Park!"

"Stop yelling," Yuuri groans.

"No one's yelling," says Phichit, though it sounds like he's hollering his lungs off.

There's a loud sound of a cup being placed in front of Yuuri. He looks up blearily, squinting at the contents.

"Drink," says Celestino firmly. "It's my mother's home remedy for hangovers."

"If it'll stop you all from screaming like stuck pigs," Yuuri sighs, downing the drink with a large gulp, before nearly retching it back out. "Ugh, that's disgusting."

"You have to swallow for it to work," Celestino points out helpfully.

Yuuri is scrubbing at his tongue, frantic to get rid of the foul taste, when Yuuko pulls out a chair next to him with scraping noises like nails on a chalkboard. "Yuuri! Where on earth did you run off to last night?"

"Yes, you went upstairs and never came back down," Minako says, plopping down on the seat on Yuuri's other side.

Oh, Christ on a stick. As if this bloody hangover wasn't enough.

"I uh, I just went up for some air, that's all…"

"Well where'd you end up sleeping?" asks Minako shrewdly.

"Um," says Yuuri.

"Mr. Katsuki, are you still here?"

For once, Yuuri is glad for Yakov's presence.

As one, the servants rise to their feet upon the butler's entrance – or, at least, Yuuri tries. As Yuuri sways unsteadily to standing, he catches Yakov's appalled stare. "Good grief, man, how much did you drink last night?"

"Too much," Yuuri responds honestly to the sniggers of the staff.

"This won't do," Yakov snaps, right eye twitching furiously. "The Lord Duke and his lordship are heading out to Regent Park this very moment and I cannot allow an inebriated valet acting like an imbecile by their side. Minako, Yuuko, hose this man down with cold water, then help him to look respectable again. Mr. Cialdini – "

"He's had a cup," the chef says.

"Give him another," Yakov says sharply. "I want Mr. Katsuki well and truly sober before he sets out with the young masters."

"I managed to dress them well enough in this state," Yuuri objects.

"The masters might be generous enough to let this by, but I will not have you embarrass the Nikiforov name in public."

Yuuri flinches; Yakov has no idea how close he hit to home. "No, we can't have that, Mr. Feltsman."

"I'm glad we're in agreement," says Yakov with a nod, before Yuuri's hauled off by Minako and Yuuko, too eager to turn the hose on him.

By the time Yuuri arrives at the park, dry in every sense of the word, Phichit has set up a picnic spot near the edge of the rink, chairs and tables laid out with baskets of food on top. Meanwhile, Sara stands on the other end, watching her lady with trepidation. Mila is skating at a leisurely pace with Yura, who looks more relaxed than he typically does back at the house.

"Feeling better?" his friend asks, grinning.

"Never get drunk," Yuuri grimaces. "Celestino's family remedy is the most foul tasting concoction I've ever tasted."

"I'll keep that in mind," Phichit snickers.

Far in the distance, Viktor is skating with a bevy of ladies, tittering coquettishly around him. One of them pretends to stumble, and Viktor being ever the gentleman, catches her in his arms, eliciting screams from the others.

"His Grace is certainly popular," Yuuri says bitterly.

Phichit eyes him, arching an eyebrow. "You can't seriously be jealous. You spend every day with the Duke."

"As his valet," Yuuri mutters.

"As his lover," Phichit corrects. "Really, Yuuri, you need to look at the forest and not the trees for once."

"It's hard not to look at the trees when one is about status and another is the sheer abnormality of our relationship."

Phichit opens his mouth for a retort, but ends up coughing loudly instead.

"What's the matter, Phichit?" Yuuri says, frowning.

"I'd imagine he's just a little shocked by my presence."

Whirling round, Yuuri finds himself face-to-face with Christophe, cutting a smart figure in his dark winter suit. "Y-Your lordship," Yuuri gasps, backing away instinctively. "I wasn't aware you'd be joining us today."

Christophe tips his hat. "That's because I'm not. I happened to be in the area so I thought I'd stop by to say hello."

"Oh, well, let me I call for his Grace then – "

"No need," says Christophe, lips curving. "I was hoping to say hello to you."

"Me?" says Yuuri, eyes wide.

"I do believe I've forgotten something for the picnic," says Phichit swiftly. "Excuse me, your lordship."

As the footman strides away, Christophe chuckles. "He's very smooth, isn't he? I quite enjoyed his services as my valet, however temporary."

Yuuri clasps his hands behind his back. "What did you want to talk about, my lord?"

"Not keen on banter, I see," the Marquess says, leaning lightly on his cane. "Very well. I hoped to speak with you about Viktor."

Inhaling, Yuuri lifts his chin. "What about his Grace?"

"As you know, I have nothing against a little dallying here and there. Unfortunately, you and Viktor seem to have far more than just a physical connection."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Katsuki," Christophe laughs, "Give a man some credit. I am Viktor's closest friend, after all, and I can easily recognize the signs of a fool in love."

Yuuri's heart stutters, and his veil of bravado falls, just a little. "Love?" he breathes softly.

"Love," Christophe affirms, nodding. "But you see, therein lies the problem."

Forbidden in the world of nobility; unnatural in the eyes of god and man –

Yuuri lowers his eyes, swallowing. "I'm holding him back."

"Well," drawls Christophe. "It seems this conversation may be briefer than I expected." The Marquess drops a hand on Yuuri's shoulder, patting it gently. "I don't mean to be unkind, Katsuki. It's just that, unlike the dying Giacometti estate, the Nikiforov estate is still making substantial earnings for this day and age. That makes it doubly essential for Viktor to maintain his reputation among the upper class and his tenants, as well as to have a – "

"A suitable heir to inherit his title and property," Yuuri continues. He tracks Viktor's motions on the ice as the Duke teaches one of the ladies how to skate, holding her tightly by her gloved hands. "Would things be different if I weren't a servant?"

Christophe squeezes Yuuri's shoulder. "I'm afraid not. Scandals of masters falling for servants are common enough; we have Lord Popovich as a fine example. No, Katsuki, it's not the class difference that would ultimately bring Viktor's downfall but the, shall we say, similarities you both share."

– but the women, the ladies with their gowns and ruffles and feminine trimmings, they can have him –

"I suppose you find me disgusting, your lordship," Yuuri murmurs.

"On the contrary, Katsuki, I find you absolutely charming and I only wish Viktor hadn't gotten to you first."

"But you are the exception to the rule."

"Indeed I am."

On the ice, Viktor says something that makes the ladies blush and giggle.

"If you love him," Christophe squeezes the valet's shoulder another time, "You will let him go."

Yuuri doesn't respond, barely noticing when the Marquess silently takes his leave. It's taking all of his effort to keep his composure, even as his eyes burn with unshed tears. He knows he can't have Viktor; he has known that since Viktor revealed his nobility in this very park that fateful day. He was just so determined to live in blissful denial – god knows Viktor certainly is – but now, hearing his worst fears confirmed by the Duke's good friend no less, the illusion has finally shattered.

Alcohol must have dampened the pain of his despondency last night, because in sobriety, it feels as though someone has twisted a sharp blade in his belly and dragged it up and across his chest.

"Katsuki," someone bellows, before he feels a hard blow to the side that sends him flying.

When he looks up, ears ringing, Yura is looming over him with a scowl on his face. "Didn't you hear me call for you? I must've yelled your name three times!"

"I, I'm sorry, m'lord," Yuuri says, swiping at his eyes. "What can I do for you?"

Yura's scowl deepens. "What did Christophe want from you?"

Alarmed, Yuuri fights to keep his expression neutral. If the young lord had heard any part of their conversation, there would be consequences. "He just wanted me to pass on his greetings to his Grace."

"Rubbish," Yura says. "Unless you mean to tell me that his greetings made you cry."

"I'm not crying."

"Your eyes are red and you look like a kicked puppy with its tail between its legs."

Shaking his head vigorously, Yuuri forces a smile. "I'm not crying, m'lord, really."

Yura sniffs. "You're a terrible liar, Katsuki, but fine. I shan't force the issue, much as I'd like to teach that filthy man a lesson."

Yuuri allows a small, genuine smile in spite of himself. After their breakthrough last evening, Yuuri has come to see the young lord in new light: behind the brusque exterior lies a kindness and sensitivity that may surpass even Viktor's. "Thank you, your lordship."

"Anyway," Yura says, straightening. "That's not the reason why I wanted to speak to you."

Perhaps it was a good thing Yakov forced sobriety on him; he wouldn't have been able to deal with having this many conversations otherwise. "What is it?" asks Yuuri, bracing for the worst.

"I would like you to be my valet," the young lord proclaims.

"Oh, but I am your valet – "

"I mean beyond this trip."

Yuuri feels his heart stopping for the second time that day. His last employer was so glad to be rid of him, especially after that incident with a certain lecherous Earl. Yet now, he has two lords vying for his services. He never felt more undeserving. "I'm very honoured, your lordship, but his Grace – "

"Let me deal with Viktor," Yura says fiercely. "Mila's on my side, for once, so I won't be alone in this fight. And we'll increase your wages, of course, since it wouldn't be at all fair for you to serve double-duty under the wage of one."

"I…" Yuuri chews on his bottom lip, "I don't suppose you'd take no for an answer?"

"What do you think?" Yura bares his teeth.

"Then if his Grace agrees, I will gladly be of service."

"Good," Yura says then, face shifting into a smile so bright that Yuuri can't help but return it.

As Yura cheerily rejoins Mila in the rink, Yuuri turns his gaze back to Viktor, who is now entertaining a different lady, twirling her about the ice, laughing.

Just as he's considering the thought of closing a door, a new one opens – one that leads to an entirely different path, but a path with a real future. The only problem left to overcome is his foolish wish to keep that first door open as long as he possibly can.

Perhaps it is time to take the hand that fate has dealt him.

"All that setting up and no one's eating," Phichit says grumpily, coming up to stand by Yuuri's side. "So what did our lovely lords want?"

"A lot of things."

"Things you can handle?"

"I honestly don't know."

"You have that look on your face," Phichit peers at him. "You're not about to do anything stupid, are you?"

"Actually, Phichit," says Yuuri softly, "I'm about to do the wisest thing I have done in my entire life."

Clink clink, goes the gears of fate.

~oOoOoOoOoOoOo~

"How on earth did you manage to get in Yura's good graces? Not even Mila and I know how to talk to him and we're family."

Shrugging, Yuuri gathers Viktor's clothes in his arms. "His lordship is unpredictable."

"Yes, that much I can agree with," Viktor chuckles as he drops into an armchair. "Are you quite sure you'll be fine serving both of us? I can always put my foot down, you know."

"I'm happy to."

"Very well then." Viktor pats at his thighs. "What are you doing standing way over there? Come sit with me."

Yuuri's eyes dart to the ground.

If you love him, you will let him go.

"I'm afraid I have a lot more work to do – "

"Oh let me hold you for just a few minutes?" Viktor pleads softly, and Yuuri feels his insides twist painfully. "I'm exhausted from having to keep up appearances all afternoon when I would have much rather skated with you."

"Do you mean that?" Yuuri asks quietly. "Because it looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Years of practice," sighs Viktor, before he taps at thighs again. "Now what does a Duke have to do for his valet to respond to his summons?"

Yuuri hesitates. Then, laying the suit down carefully on the rack, he crosses the room to settle on Viktor, who wraps strong arms round him with a noise of delight.

"Finally," Viktor breathes, burying his face into the crook of Yuuri's neck.

"Viktor," Yuuri starts. "What…" he trails off, worrying at his bottom lip. "What, um…"

"What is it, solnishko?" Viktor murmurs, tender and so filled with affection.

A fool in love, Christophe had said.

"What are we?" Yuuri forces out, stomach coiling.

"Hmm," Viktor vibrates against him in quiet bemusement, "After two years, I would've thought that obvious by now."

"Is it really?"

Yuuri feels the Duke shift, lips pressing on his neck. "If it's about my behavior with the ladies again, my jealous solnishko, you know very well why it has to be done."

"It's… it's not just about the ladies."

"What is it about then?"

Yuuri pauses, before he takes a deep breath and turns to face Viktor. "What do you see in our future, exactly?"

"Well let's see," says Viktor, smiling gently, fingers tracing patterns round the buttons of Yuuri's waistcoat, "You and me, together, living and loving till death do us part."

"So a happily ever after?" Yuuri says, throat burning. "Do you really think that's possible for us? A Duke and a valet, both male and so far apart in class?"

The fingers cease in their motions as Viktor stiffens against him. "Christophe's spoken to you, I see."

"Yes, but don't you think he's right?"

"The man is a good friend but he's rarely right." Viktor frowns. "Is this what last night was about?"

Yuuri flushes in mortification. "I've always been concerned. Alcohol just brought it out of me."

"And Christophe has somehow given you reason to take action."

"Good reasons," Yuuri points out sadly. "If our relationship is exposed, it will destroy the Nikiforov name."

"Listen to me." Hands hold his face steady between them; blue-green eyes searing into his. "Christophe may seem open-minded but he's a traditionalist at heart, more so now that his family has gone bankrupt. His warnings are but a mere projection of his wish to preserve the old ways."

"And you don't intend to do so? You can't just toss away your reputation and fortune – "

"My father did," says Viktor sharply. "Why can't I?"

Quaking with emotion, Yuuri rises from the Duke's lap, barely suppressing the dam threatening to break within him. He's angry, sad, and downright terrified. It's their first fight and he's never heard Viktor express anything beyond mild irritation. Not with him. "Is that what this is about? Some sort of petty rebellion against your father?"

"You know that's not what this is," Viktor snaps, rising with him to grab his wrist. "I simply mean that I don't care about the Nikiforov reputation as much as you think – "

Yuuri jerks out of Viktor's grip. "Then why bother with appearances?" he demands, voice wavering, "Why bother flirting and teasing the ladies if you didn't care? Why not skate with me as you had two years ago?"

"That's…" Viktor flounders then, stunned. "That's different…"

"You do care," Yuuri plunges on, "And our relationship cannot go on, not when I've become the obstacle to your happiness – "

"YOU ARE MY HAPPINESS," Viktor roars, grasping the valet abruptly by the shoulders.

There's a beat as Yuuri freezes, eyes large.

And then Viktor is kissing him, fiercely, deeply, and Yuuri responds in kind, hands sliding to Viktor's shoulders, through silky, silver strands. They kiss until they run out of air, and then they kiss again, Viktor's hands sliding down to Yuuri's hips, pulling him in. The Duke's intoxicating scent fills Yuuri's senses and he allows himself to drown in it, to wash aside his worries and fears –

His fears –

"Stop," gasps Yuuri, pushing at Viktor's chest. "I can't. We can't."

"Solnishko," Viktor begins, but Yuuri closes his eyes and heart, disentangling out of the man's embrace.

"I can't," Yuuri says again. Gathering Viktor's clothes from the rack, he moves shakily to the door.

"Yuuri, don't do this. Please."

He makes the mistake of turning back to see Viktor's face twisted in confusion, in hurt, and Yuuri wants to die on the spot.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri chokes out before he bolts, the sound of the closing door like a death knell to his soul.

He manages to hold it in until he reaches his room, and it is Phichit's mute look of worry that is the final blow to his fraying sense of control. He falls apart then, unraveling fully in his friend's arms.

"You've gone and done something stupid haven't you," Phichit says quietly.

"Clutching tightly to Phichit, Yuuri sobs harder between heavy breaths.

Somewhere, the gears of fate shift with a note of finality.

Notes

For those interested, the following is the hierarchy of an important household in the Edwardian era:

Upstairs (Upper Class)

Duke - to be addressed as 'your Grace' while siblings are 'my lord' or 'my lady'
Marquess - titles from Marquess downwards are to be addressed as 'my lord' / 'my lady'
Earl
Viscount
Baron

Downstairs (Servants)

Butler / Housekeeper - manages and cares for the estate and staff; typically the butler is also the liaison between upstairs and downstairs; all housekeepers, regardless of marital status, are addressed as "Mrs."

Valet / Lady's maid - cares for the lords and ladies of the house, which includes dressing them, running errands, accompanying them on trips, and responding to any requests their masters may have; lady's maids also style their ladies's hair, provide accessories, and mend/adjust clothes when necessary (may have as much power as the butler/housekeeper, depending on who they're waiting on)

Footman (First footman is the highest rank) - sets the dining table, polishes the silverware, serves at meals, carries heavy items when called upon, and runs any tasks assigned by the butler (If the valet is indisposed, it's typically the butler or first footman who takes over his duties)

House maid - cleaners of the house

Chef - as the name implies, cook of the house

Kitchen maid - assists the chef in cooking and cleaning

Extra

Typically, an upper class family owns two homes: one in the country and one in London. When the family travels to the London house, they will bring a number of servants with them to serve out their duties as they have in the country house.

The Season is a debutante ball in which young ladies of marriageable age and suitable status are presented to the Royal family at Buckingham Palace. High-ranking families and members of parliament tend to be invited every year, regardless of whether they have a lady to present or not.

In this period, homosexuality is very much frowned upon and even seen as a mental illness (aka abnormal).