Chapter Text
Viktor sits on a flat rock just out of the ocean's spray and listens to the waves crash in. Out of sight of their rented estate and its responsibilities, alone for the first time in months, he takes a moment to breathe in the salt air.
Nihon is... not what he expected, despite the exhaustive preparations taken by his tutors. He knows the customs well enough, and can speak the language better than most Rus merchants, but the reality of this country across the sea is entirely different than the one he grew up in. People in the street stare openly at his long silver hair and strange foreign clothes in Hasetsu, where Viktor is still a novelty: the port only recently opened up to foreign trade.
He picks up a dark stone and flicks it into the waves, where it splashes and falls.
Viktor is fourteen years old, not quite an adult but certainly not a child. His parents have been grooming him to take up the family's merchant business, securing his place in the upper levels of society. He's lucky, set up by fortune of birth to thrive, and should be thankful.
Viktor's fingers itch. This is the longest he's gone without using magic since he manifested his gift.
Something small, he decides. Simple. Snowflakes, the same ones he's been able to summon since he was a toddler. He grows the crystals between his palms, using the moisture from the ocean air, and swirls the delicate flakes over his fingers to watch them glitter in the moonlight.
He could do this in his room if he liked, of course; his guards did not notice him sneaking out, and would be unlikely to scold him for such a small thing even if they did. But Viktor is performing for them as well, the role of a competent and obedient son, and he can't let it slip.
The beach is empty under the moonlight. He breathes in the familiar salt air and lets his magic reach out further, creating a large crystal structure, multifaceted and intricate, first as big as his palm, then as big as his head. It melts in the warm air when he releases the spell.
It feels good to use magic, to create for the joy of it alone.
Viktor unties his cloak, and stretches his arms high above his head, trailing ice from each fingertip. He smiles as he steps along the beach, dancing through his typical practice forms, leaving a brief frozen shimmer in his wake. Each movement of his body is smooth and purposeful.
If he had a different life, a different family, one where he could make his own choices, magic is what he would choose. He could attend an arcane academy and learn to control his powers, then do something useful for the world. Ice magic can be used for both offense and defense, and represents a path to help people outside of the black-and-white lens of profit and loss.
Viktor flicks his wrist and a shower of ice shards rains down on the beach in a precise row.
A crash startles him, rocks falling from a small ridge down onto the beach. Terrified he's been caught, Viktor turns towards the sound, snowflakes around his hands melting into nothingness.
It's just a child, no older than ten, staring at him with wide and frightened eyes. Not one of his guards. It looks like he tumbled down the short distance, causing the rock slide.
"Are you hurt?" Viktor asks, unsure about what he'll do if he is.
The child shakes his head, still staring, and Viktor doesn't see blood or any obvious injuries. Like most people in Nihon, he has black hair and brown eyes, and is wearing the plain blue yukata of a commoner child. He must have been watching his little magic show and tumbled off the ridge in surprise when something got close.
"Do you like magic?" Viktor asks, recognizing something in his expression.
The child nods mutely, still on the ground. He's cute.
Viktor weaves his magic into a small crystalline rose and offers it; a trick he'd worked on to try and charm his mother into letting him pursue magic. It hadn't worked on her then, and it doesn't seem to work now. He simply transfers his stare to the rose, then back to Viktor again.
"Ah, no good?" Maybe he's hurt from the fall. He lets the rose fade and kneels down, so they're closer in height. "Here, let me help you up."
This is the part that will repeat in his dreams, bubbling up again and again in the dark of the night: the boy, this beach, his offered hand.
The first touch of their skin is all it takes, as a glowing mark blooms to life, starting at Viktor's wrist and curling up towards his elbow. Strong, ancient magic hits like a flash of lightning and Viktor—lets go, as if burned.
"Oh!" Viktor says, leaning back on his heels as his heart pounds like a drum in his chest. The child is clutching his own wrist, looking even more frightened than Viktor feels. "We don't have to— It doesn't have to mean anything. Okay?"
Viktor knows the soulmark's outline is still on his wrist without looking, from the sensation of heat. He's heard in stories that it sometimes glows when a pair first meets, before settling in as a solid design. It seems like they interrupted it before completion.
"Okay," the boy agrees after a moment, barely loud enough to be heard over the waves. He's no longer staring at Viktor, but at his own hand, where his incomplete soulmark must be.
"Are you hurt?" Viktor asks again, guilty, wishing he'd never left his room. He rubs the inside of his own wrist absently, a habit he will carry for the rest of his life.
"I'm not hurt." The boy stands on his own, apparently telling the truth.
"Good." Viktor puts his heavy cloak back on, tying it tightly. "It's okay. Do you need me to walk you back to town?"
"No," the boy says. Now that he's standing, he looks a little older than Viktor's original estimate, but still so young. "I can get home on my own."
Viktor should at least offer his name, and ask for his in return, if this is really his—
His tongue feels heavy.
"Anything you saw tonight, can you keep it a secret? Please?" He asks instead.
"Okay. I'll keep it a secret."
Good. That's good.
"Thank you." Viktor swallows and offers the silver ring on his finger; a gift from someone who'd tried to curry favor with his parents. Guilt and confusion swirl in his stomach. "Here, you can have this in exchange."
The ring's design is simple: a bird, wings stretched in flight, with a pearl flower in its beak. It's big in the child's tiny palm when he accepts.
"Thank you." Viktor smiles, bright and fake.
Without another word, the child climbs deftly back up the ridge, apparently quite familiar with the terrain, and out of sight.
The joy he felt from using his magic is long gone, and his head is a mess, trying to process what just happened. Viktor returns swiftly to his borrowed estate, sneaking in past the same guards, and curls up on the floor, knees to his chest, awake and miserable.
On one hand, he's glad to have dodged an unbreakable bond to a stranger, especially to a child in a foreign land. So much of his life has already been chosen for him, and a soulmate is yet another choice taken away. He's not interested in those kind of things right now. On the other hand, he can't get the child's sad expression out of his mind. He's younger than Viktor and likely just as shocked and confused; it won't have felt good to be rejected.
Viktor sleeps poorly that first night, and the next. But it gets easier not to think about it as their business concludes and they leave Nihon.
If his parents notice the missing ring, they don't comment. The soulmark didn't have a chance to complete, so the only reminder of their meeting is the faint outline on his inner wrist, easy to conceal.
Years pass, where Viktor rarely thinks of it at all.
"It's not fair," Chris complains, taking a big sip of his drink with a dramatic flair that would be more at home in the theater.
"You could have done the same," Viktor says, unruffled. He takes a much more sedate sip from his own glass.
"I will next year," Chris says, levitating the wine bottle and refilling both their glasses with a flick of his hand.
Even after all these years, the casual use of magic still charms Viktor. His parents' business fortunes took a tumble around the same time the kingdom started offering large payments for talented mages to join the Crown's ranks, alongside room, board, and training in the capital. Viktor was finally able to attend an arcane academy, and his parents were able to build their business back up with that windfall.
Now, nearly thirty, he's been awarded a prime placement in the far western part of the kingdom: the port city of Vodoroslisk, newly rich from renewed trade with Nihon and an important city for the Crown. Viktor is especially suited to that location because of his ability to speak the language, alongside his unparalleled skill with ice magic, useful in stopping or even shredding vessels when needed.
"You can visit me anytime you like," Viktor says. It's an empty offer; Chris has his own placement in the capital, much too far for casual visits. "I'm quite looking forward to the hot springs."
"You've been there before, haven't you?" Chris asks.
"I have," Viktor says, mood turning darker. That trip was half a lifetime ago, but he's been thinking of it more often recently. "And to Nihon itself, too."
"Must have been nice." Chris leans in on his elbow, chin in hand. "That's where you met your soulmate, right?"
Chris is one of the only people who even knows that detail; Viktor certainly doesn't make a habit of bringing it up, but he'd let it slip when he was drunk and melancholy.
Viktor closes his eyes and resists touching the incomplete mark.
"Yes," he says, and leaves it at that.
Katsuki Yuuri has a pretty good life.
His family runs an onsen, which has grown from a run-down establishment into a prosperous and renowned business since Hasetsu opened to foreign trade. This newfound wealth affords him both stability and security. Although Yuuri always struggled to make friends, his parents and older sister don't complain about his strange and reclusive nature, and are loving and kind. He spends his days working at the onsen, using his water magic to help clean the stones and manage the outer tubs, and at night he performs on their tiny stage for guests, combining magic and traditional dance.
Guests always say that he is worthy of a far grander stage, in the entertainment district of the capital city itself. The flattery is nice, but Yuuri knows he's not good enough for that; despite spending almost all of his time practicing his art, it's never perfect. Real performers in the capital, all known for their beauty as well as their skill, would surely turn their noses up at plain Yuuri.
Back in his room after one such show, Yuuri rubs off the heavy dance makeup onto an old cloth and thinks through his plans for the rest of the night. He'd finally purchased the instruction book he'd been saving up money for years to get, and he's eager to practice some of the spells inside. With a full moon overhead, he should have no trouble reading the diagrams outdoors, even with his poor eyesight.
The weather is still sweltering hot after dark in the peak of summer. Yuuri condenses some of the humidity in the sticky air down in his palm, and then uses magic to wipe the sweat off his bare neck and back with it. Without a breeze, the water only provides minimal relief, but it's better than nothing.
He folds and hangs up many layers of his dance costume, and then slips into his much more lightweight practice clothes. The precious book he tucks into his sleeve.
"Don't stay out too late," Mari reminds him, sweeping the front step as he walks past.
"I won't," he promises.
Yuuri walks the short distance to the rocky beach, a familiar path he could do in his sleep, and starts working on the first new form. It involves adding his own magic to the energy of an ocean wave, making it bigger. Timing is critical: too slow and the wave doesn't have enough time to grow, too fast and you can cancel it out. While not very useful on its own, the skill is helpful for learning control, and can be built upon to do much more impressive things.
Most of the skills Yuuri knows are related to dance, like summoning orbs or ribbons of water as props to move with. The new, rare book he hopes will let him use more practical skills, and perhaps help him adapt new water magic into dance forms.
The air is still oppressively hot as he works to get the spell right. After some exertion, and secure in the knowledge that no one else is on the beach at this time of night, Yuuri strips down to his underclothes to keep working.
Despite living and working in an onsen, Yuuri never disrobes in public; he uses the baths during off-hours, when he's sure he can be alone. It's not to keep his soulmark a secret, because that story has long since spread around town, but to avoid the looks of pity he gets.
Yuuri's soulmark is massive, curling up his entire arm and over his shoulder in deep black strokes. He wasn't able to hide it for more than a day after manifesting, when his concerned parents noticed. They'd been excited: soulmates are rare, especially a large display like Yuuri's, which is a fortuitous sign.
At the questions, Yuuri began to cry, fat tears streaking down his chubby cheeks, refusing to say who he'd met or where it had happened. Even at that young age, he'd been stubborn. His family didn't press him after making sure he was alright.
Without much wind, the waves are gentle, sluggish. Yuuri breathes in deeply and pushes his magic outward at just the right moment, feeling a brief triumph when it swells to double its original height.
He's so focused on the waves that he doesn't notice the two men until they're almost on top of him. Then it's too late.
It's hard to judge how many days have passed since Yuuri was taken, because they keep him bound and blindfolded a majority of the time. There was definitely a period on a boat, because Yuuri had gotten so terribly seasick and weak from vomiting that his captors worried he might die, and had been forced to hand-feed him sips of water. But eventually they reached their destination on solid ground.
"Why isn't it working?!"
Yuuri's captor slaps him with an open palm; stars burst behind his eyes as his head jerks to the side. Unable to see, he'd been unable to brace for it. They've avoided his head until now, but as their frustration builds the temptation became inevitable, matching bruises to he ones on the rest of his body.
"Maybe we got the wrong person." They speak to each other in the Rus language, which he's not sure they know he understands.
"Shut up. I paid a lot of money for that tracking spell." He slaps Yuuri's head the other direction; he can taste blood. "It's a fucking match."
Yuuri's ears are ringing. The man lets go of his collar, and without support he collapses to the ground, a mess of hurt, frustrated at the utter pointlessness of it all.
He can put the pieces together: the beatings only began when they reached this new location, presumably close to his soulmate. It's an attempt to use Yuuri as a tool to manipulate and hurt him, intending the pain to travel along their bond. They must think it's complete.
There's no point, he wants to explain, he doesn't want me.