Chapter Text
Yuuri wakes to the voice of a child calling his name, frantic.
"Yuuri, Yuuri, hold on! The doctor will be here soon!" Some type of cloth is shoved over his eyes, cutting out the white room he'd only briefly seen and adding to his confusion.
"Viktor?" Yuuri tries, but the syllables come out garbled, his tongue swollen and not moving like it should. His panic spikes higher. He tries to remove the cloth but his hands have no strength.
The last thing he remembers is falling asleep next to Viktor. He struggles as best he can, hating feeling this out of control; the swelling in his mouth and throat makes it hard to breathe. Yuuri is reminded of the first and only time he ate buckwheat as a child, and had an immediate allergic reaction that had sent Mari running for their parents.
The air he does manage to suck in smells like vomit, and there's the sour taste of bile on his tongue.
"Tsvetok Yuuri, apologies for the imposition. Do not try to speak." An unfamiliar older voice, terse and deep. There are new hands on his shoulders, holding him down, and a weight over his legs; he struggles harder.
The man pries open Yuuri's mouth by force and inspects his throat and tongue with his thick fingers, unruffled.
"Bring me fresh water," he barks, and removes his hand. "It's harassment, not poison, be thankful for that."
"Yes, Doctor. Right away." The first voice, the younger one, sounds terrified. The weight over Yuuri's legs lifts as they presumably get up to obey.
"Drink this." Something glass is pressed to his lips and he isn't given a choice but to swallow the bitter liquid inside, thick with an aftertaste of honey. It coats his throat on the way down.
"Where am I?" Yuuri demands once he's able, enunciating as best he can, although the syllables are still rough. "Where's Viktor?"
The doctor sighs heavily. "You're the same place you'll always be, Tsvetok Yuuri. Now, do not lie to me: did you do this to yourself? Was this a bid for attention?"
Tsvetok?
Yuuri shakes his head. His heartbeat thumps in his ears.
"For your sake, and for your attendant's sake, I hope so. Our lord may not have much time for his garden, and I understand that your rank means you see him even less, but listen to me well: stunts like this will not impress, nor give you the attention you seek."
None of this makes sense, but at least the inflammation in his throat slowly begins to recede. Yuuri searches for his phone, and finds nothing familiar within reach. He tries to displace the fabric in front of his eyes again.
"Do not disgrace yourself further," the doctor scolds sharply, and he freezes. "When your attendant returns with the water, drink all of it and then wash yourself thoroughly. You've been exposed to another alpha's pheromones. A traitorous act in itself, that will be investigated and punished, but if you did not orchestrate it as you say, the good news is that this was only meant to scare you, not kill you. Was it in your food? Your drink?"
"I don't—I don't know," Yuuri says.
A heavy sigh. "I'll speak to your attendant. Let this be a lesson not to get involved in the garden's politics."
Dreams don't have so much physical pain, in Yuuri's experience, nor feel so real, but if this isn't a dream, what is it? He nods again, hoping the doctor will leave so he can look for Viktor.
A door opens and closes. "I've brought the water."
"It's your duty to care for Tsvetok Yuuri, Mikhail. Make sure he drinks a full pitcher and cleanses himself thoroughly. If even a hint of another alpha's scent is on him when our lord performs his daily stroll, I'm sure you can imagine the kinds of unpleasantness that will occur. I'll inform the guards about what has happened. Is this the tray of food he was eating from?"
"Yes, Doctor." Mikhail sounds dejected.
"I'll be taking it, then. Ensure this does not happen again."
There's a shuffle; the clattering of dishes. The door opens and closes, and presumably the doctor leaves. Yuuri sits up, finally successful at throwing the cloth over his head down to the floor, only to be pinned to the floor again by a small boy.
"I'm so sorry, Tsvetok Yuuri!" Mikhail—his attendant?—sobs, crawling into his lap. He has curly blonde hair and eyes full of tears. "I thought I checked everything, but I wasn't good enough!"
Viktor may not be good at people crying, but Yuuri isn't either. He swallows, wondering how to proceed. They're both on the floor, beside a low wooden table.
"It's alright," he says eventually. Very tentatively, he pats the top of his head.
The room they're in is very strange. The walls and even the bed appear to be carved out of something crystalline and semi-transparent, bright white and faintly glowing. It brings to mind an ice hotel Yuuri saw on a travel show once. Light colored furs and thick woven mats cover most of the floor, and tapestries of flowers line the walls, alongside bookshelves and a large wardrobe.
The only window he can see is a horizontal slit near the ceiling, covered by interwoven crystal bars, cage-like.
"Please, drink this." Once Mikhail has calmed down a bit, he offers Yuuri a glass, eyes enormous and red-rimmed. "We'll have to be quick."
The water does feel good on his throat. Yuuri drinks, unsettled by the whole situation. What is an 'alpha' and why would he be allergic? He feels like he's in some anime-style plot from a derivative show: I Traveled to a New World Just to Have an Allergic Reaction!
"We'll need to get you clean as well," Mikhail says anxiously, pouring him another glass before hurrying to a side room. "It's almost time for the lord's visit."
If Yuuri can get out of this room, maybe he can figure out what's going on. "Okay."
Mikhail urges him from the floor the moment he's finished drinking, and begins to untie the sash on the strange robe-like outfit he's wearing. It's made of deep blue gauzy fabric, with embroidered flowers and shiny glass beads along the neckline; very elaborate.
"I can do it myself," Yuuri protests.
Mikhail looks distraught. He can't be more than ten years old. "Please don't dismiss me, Tsvetok Yuuri. I really didn't do it on purpose, and I won't ever let anyone get a chance to sneak something into your food again! I promise! I promise!"
Tears again.
"I won't dismiss you," Yuuri says, helpless against that.
"Thank you. I won't let you down."
Mikhail strips him down to nudity in moments, apparently used to this task, then urges Yuuri to a side room with a large empty bathtub. He stands inside the basin as Mikhail scrubs his skin with a soapy cloth in a small bucket of water and then dumps small handfuls to rinse away the suds. Yuuri has to kneel down so the child can reach his head and shoulders.
The body he can see, between embarrassment and floral bubbles, is notably different from what he would expect. Yuuri is far thinner and weaker than he should be, all the muscles he trains so hard for are completely absent. His clavicles stand out harshly, as do his hip bones. It's unnerving and alien for a man who's always had difficulty with his weight to suddenly be wraith-thin.
"Whoever did this was probably trying to make you late," Mikhail says, drying him swiftly with a rough cloth.
Late for what?
"Let's hurry, then," Yuuri says.
Mikhail dresses him in a different gauzy, embroidered blue robe with practiced hands, tying a series of laces that cinch at his waist and wrists. It is awfully feminine with the beaded flowers sewn throughout, but still cut unmistakably for a man.
Yuuri has to lean down so that Mikhail can comb his damp hair. To his surprise, his attendant swipes red pigment from a small pot over his lips, frowning in concentration all the while. Right before he rushes Yuuri out the door and into the hallway, he affixes a thin, lace-edged veil over his face. At least he can still see, unlike the cloth from before.
"Good luck, Tsvetok," Mikhail whispers, standing beside and slightly behind him, small back against the wall.
Yuuri looks up and down the hallway and finds that it's built from the same strange crystal as the room before, with the same high, barred windows near the ceiling. It must be night, because only darkness is visible beyond them; the light comes from lanterns along the wall, each in a cage of intricately carved metal. Flowers and vines.
Yuuri looks from side to side, his thoughts of escape guttering. On either side there are many doors, each with well-dressed, veiled men and women dressed similarly to himself, with their own child-size attendants. Is this 'garden' some kind of harem? Has he truly jumped into an anime plot?
Despite being unable to see their faces, he gets the strong feeling he's being both watched and mocked. As if to punctuate his thoughts, the short man at the door to his direct right laughs behind the elegant sleeve of his robe.
Harassment, the doctor said. They wanted you to be late. Unwilling to give these strangers the satisfaction, Yuuri tries to mimic their pose with as much confidence as he can, eyes straight ahead. Even in this situation his pride won't allow him anything less.
Everyone in the hallway goes completely silent when the large door at the end opens and three people walk through, one in front and two following behind. Yuuri watches from the side of his vision, not wanting to draw attention to himself and thankful that the veil obscures his face. Is one of them the 'lord' Mikhail and the doctor spoke of?
They proceed leisurely, and as they pass, each of the veiled people and their attendants bow their heads. As the group gets closer, the back of Yuuri's neck aches sharply.
Without his glasses, Yuuri can't see far-off details clearly, but when they come into focus he gasps. With shaking hands, he shoves the veil off his face and rushes forward.
"Viktor!" Yuuri yells, ignoring Mikhail's attempts to stop him. "Viktor!"
Silver hair, blue eyes like a clear sky—Yuuri knows every angle of his fiance intimately. So when Viktor regards Yuuri with a frozen, polite blankness, it chills him down to his core.
"Halt!" The man who had been standing behind Viktor gets between them and draws his sword. Now that he's closer, Yuuri notices he looks an awful lot like Georgi without his hair gel.
"Viktor?"
The Viktor in front of him holds up a hand, signaling for the Georgi-like guard to wait. There isn't a trace of warmth or recognition in his expression as he looks at Yuuri. He cocks his head and his silvery hair slides to the in a familiar way, silken and perfect.
A physical blow would be less painful. All the strength in his body leaves him in a moment, and he sucks in a wounded breath, more despairing now than in any moment since he woke up in this place. That's not my Viktor.
Yuuri hangs his head, shocked and empty. The Georgi-like guard glares at him. "S-sorry. I'm sorry. I was mistaken."
Mikhail tugs at his hip, crying again, trying to drag him back to his place, and then kneels on the floor when he's unable to, prostrating himself in terrified apology. "Tsvetok Yuuri is ill, my lord. Please forgive this worthless servant for allowing him out when he should have stayed in bed to rest. We apologize for disturbing you."
After a beat, Yuuri does the same, kneeling on the floor beside Mikhail, head bowed and buzzing with static.
Not-Viktor's dispassionate gaze slides between Yuuri and Mikhail, then back to his guard. He doesn't look angry, still politely neutral, but that doesn't mean anything. He gestures for his guard to stand down. "Has the doctor seen to him yet?"
"Yes, Lord Nikiforov. But I'll call for him again at once," Mikhail vows.
Not-Viktor nods. "See that you do."
For Yuuri, it feels like a thick blanket of unease has descended from the ceiling and smothered everything, as every event experienced since waking finally hits in full. Utterly disconnected from his body, he watches Lord Nikiforov walk away.
Please let me wake up. Please.
Each lord has a garden, and Viktor's is bigger than most, not that he had much to do with its cultivation. Political alliances, money-grubbing scheming—his family arranged each match, often long in advance, each Tsvetok befitting his station as heir to one of the richest holdings in the kingdom. Viktor's own mother had a garden 20-strong, of which his own birth is a fruit of.
Georgi waits to speak until they're back in the main building. He has more leeway to be honest, as both Viktor's guard and his cousin.
"If you attended to your garden more, events like these would be less likely. I feel sorry for the poor things," he laments, ever-dramatic.
Viktor wants to sigh. He does not. "I care for them well, do I not?"
Clothing, attendants, food, protection; the Nikiforov family hosts an entire building for their sake, half-full and ringed by high walls and spiked ironwork. It even boasts a secondary nursery attached to its side, which has remained closed and empty since his parent's death. While most of his peers focus on filling their own to bursting with official and unofficial children, the thought of farming heirs that way, as he had been, turns Viktor's stomach.
"You give more thought to your dog than any of them, and they know it. If you picked even a single favorite, I think they'd understand and settle." Georgi frowns. "But like this, none of the poor omegas don't even get to share their heat with you."
A servant opens the door to Viktor's office and they both step through.
"They don't have heats," Viktor reminds him, tone still mild. The garden's chefs ensure that each omega consumes suppressants in their meals.
"Still." Georgi has his own omega at home, one he dotes upon dearly. His perspective is colored by that.
"Has a report arrived from Alexi?"
A servant steps forward, written report at hand. "Yes, Lord Nikiforov. Here it is, if it pleases you."
The report is brief. It concerns Tsvetok Yuuri, an omega added to his garden last summer as a gift from a trading partner in Nihon. Viktor remembers the ceremony only vaguely.
Harassment, likely from within the garden. Tsvetok Yuuri suffered a reaction from the pheromones of an unknown alpha, which was delivered in his food. Medication was administered and I do not expect any lasting effects. In my opinion, it is unlikely Tsvetok Yuuri had the means to achieve this himself.
At that, Viktor does sigh. He hands the report to Georgi and then stares out his window. The trees are just beginning to put out leaves and buds, visible in the bright moonlight.
"No one in the garden should be able to obtain pheromones like that," Georgi says, after he's finished reading. "This reeks of a plot to tarnish your honor."
If it was up to him, Viktor Nikiforov would not have a garden at all. But as it stands, the safety of the people there is his responsibility first and foremost. Each Tsvetok there bears his mating bite.
"Tell the overseer I'll be visiting tomorrow at dusk," he directs his attendant. "I'd like to question Tsvetok Yuuri."
"Yes, Lord Nikiforov." She bows and immediately departs.
"Viktor..." Georgi gives him a look.
"Are you doubting my ability to take care of myself?"
"Not in the least," Georgi says, palms up. "But I do worry for your heart."
"My heart? Were you not the one who was urging me mere moments ago to visit my garden more often?" He sits down in his desk chair and pulls the small pile of paperwork towards himself. There are reports to read and matters that require his approval.
"Just be careful," he says, finally. Georgi is a man who is much too free with his feelings; the worry is clear on his face.
"I will be."
Attendants arrange his new schedule in the background, airing out the main suite and making it ready for a visit from its lord, with fresh blankets, sweet incense, and a new set of dishware. It hasn't been prepared since the last Tsvetok was added to his garden, almost a year ago: for Yuuri, in fact.
Despite Georgi's complaints, Viktor does take his responsibilities seriously. He remembers accepting Yuuri as his Tsvetok, listening to his soft accent as he spoke his vows, and then his own words, formal and stiff. Routine. Yuuri had been wearing an outfit from his homeland, well-made and silken, without the embroidery or embellishment Viktor expected; he remembers the way his collar felt under his fingers as he slid it down.
Despite their best attempts to hide it, each omega he's taken into his garden has shown at least a little disappointment, in their scent or expression, as Viktor claimed them with just a bite. Georgi calls his methods heartless, but isn't it crueler to give false hope? His garden is well-supplied and guarded but untouched by its lord.
Yuuri, though, had looked... relieved, even as blood welled up in the fresh bondmark. Those brown eyes had shamed him, more thoroughly than any words could, and he firmly refused any further additions to his garden from then on.
This place hasn't changed at all.
The long hallways and high ceilings bring to mind his mother. Viktor makes his way to the main suite quickly, pleased to at least avoid passing through the area where his many Tsvetok live, and takes a seat in the low couch in the entrance area. A servant swiftly sets out a pot of tea and teacups, next to a tray of light snacks.
There's a knock, and an attendant announces from the hallway, "Tsvetok Yuuri is here, my lord."
"Enter."
Yuuri wears the same fashion as the rest of the omegas now that he resides here, and the embellished deep blue kaftan suits his inky black hair and pale skin. Viktor deduces from his hesitant steps that he is still unwell from the previous day's harassment; the Yuuri in his memory moved with much more grace.
Yuuri kneels before him on the soft mat at Viktor's feet, head bowed. His mating bite is visible. "My lord."
"Leave us," Viktor instructs his remaining servants. He can tell they're curious, but they depart without a word.
It will do him no good to be nervous, not when his omega is in such a state. This close, Yuuri's scent is uneasy, afraid.
"You're not being punished," Viktor says. Now that they're alone, there is more flexibility in his behavior. Without witnesses, he can be more himself than an alpha lord. He pats the space next to himself. "Sit."
The delicate, decorated shoes Yuuri's wearing have tiny bells, the only sound as he obeys. It's Yuuri's job to pour the tea for them both, but he doesn't appear to remember.
"Tell me what happened yesterday," Viktor begins.
The distress in the air increases sharply, even from that introductory question. As Yuuri bears his mark, Viktor can discern the subtle shifts much more readily than he can in others. He can also tell if he is lying.
Yuuri visibly swallows. "I don't remember well, m-my lord."
True, but evasive. Viktor pushes further. "What was poisoned? The report said it was your tea?"
He's still looking resolutely at his lap, hands anxiously clasped together. "I really don't remember, my lord. My throat began closing, and I was in pain—the doctor came swiftly and had me drink something bitter, and that seemed to help."
Viktor can tell everything he just said is the truth, but how can it be that he doesn't remember? The situation is getting more and more suspicious. Is his omega, who should be without connections in the kingdom, working with someone who means to besmirch Viktor's reputation?
He steels his heart. "Tsvetok Yuuri, I don't want to Command you, but I will if I must. I'll give you one more chance: describe to me exactly what happened yesterday."
Yuuri looks at his face, a quick glance before returning his attention to his lap, and exudes even more distress. "The first thing I remember happening was choking—my attendant said my meal was poisoned. He summoned the doctor, a-and after he treated me, we rushed to get ready for your visit. I'm, I'm very sorry that I called out to you."
Viktor's expression hardens. That statement wasn't entirely truthful. It takes some effort to exercise a skill he so rarely uses, but he swallows hard. "Do not lie. Tell me exactly what happened yesterday, from the moment you woke up."
It's possible that Yuuri's never experienced and Alpha Command before. His entire countenance screams misery, but he speaks, exactly as bid, despairing.
"I'm not your Tsvetok," he says. "I'm not supposed to be here."
Every word is true.