[paris] we own the sky [viktor]

early january 2002

Arkadiy Maksimovich did a lot of walking these days; he was positively Parisian. Well, almost, anyway. He still got lost on occasion and needed to apparate to find his way home, but when he was wondering away from Montmarte instead, he didn’t usually mind. His lack of coat was probably the only thing giving him away (if he kept his mouth shut). It was cold for a Paris winter, apparently, but Arkasha was practically sunbathing. He was wearing a scarf at his wife’s insistence, but his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his trousers weren’t any sort of special winter thing.

He had wandered the streets, only lazily glancing at street signs as he made haphazard turns, one hand in his front pocket, the other making constant motions to and from his lips, fingers holding loosely to a cigarette. He was smoking lites now, the one baby step towards not smoking that he was (somewhat) willing to make for @Florence Malenkova. More likely than not, he would just find a pack of his preferred brand and smoke the whole thing before returning home. She would know, of course, but somehow she still loved him.

Arkasha stopped and took a proper look round. He was near the Louvre -- one place Florence loved touring over, and over, and over, and over, and over again, yet somehow they always managed to look at something new, the maze being more of a maze to him than the city. As he finished his cigarette and disposed of the end in its proper place (take note, Florence), the writer decided that he needed a coffee. However, he certainly was in no mood for the attitude that came with the cafe experience.

Instead, he ducked into one of those chain coffee places, Starks or Stucks or something more foreign than French, which was not quite the next best thing, but it was there and they certainly had coffee. There was a long line, most people obviously tourists, maps or guidebooks open and being consulted as they waited to place their orders.

Arkasha ordered his cappuccino and paid with his funny money with a goofy smile on his face, mostly impressed that he hadn’t done anything obvious to give him away as one of those. He happily waited in the next line to wait for his drink to become available, hands in his pockets, not looking at anything or anyone in particular.

“Caramel macchiato with soy milk.” The man’s head snapped in the direction of the barista announcing the order, recognizing it at one he had placed himself on numerous occasions, back when he had worked in quidditch. ”For Victoire?” the barista added when no one stepped forward to claim it after a few seconds. ”Victoire?” Arkasha looked away, not recognizing the name, more surprised that he had thought it possible for @Viktor Krum to be in a Starmumps. In Paris. On a Thursday.

But he would recognize that gait anywhere. Even with a coat on he knew those shoulders. There were enough people waiting for coffee that Arkasha had thought he had gone unnoticed; thankfully there were plenty of tall people in Paris that he didn’t always stick out like a sore thumb.

He only had a few seconds to make up his mind: talk to him or no? He hadn’t exactly left his job as Viktor’s manager on the best terms, simply telling him that he needed to get out of quidditch, not offering him the full explanation that he needed to get away from it because he had been dating a Beater who also turned out to be his cousin. It was easier not to explain things, to not let himself get talked into staying, to distract himself first with mindless work for his brother before giving everything else up and moving to Cannes.

It had been at least two years. Viktor and his national team had just qualified for the World Cup -- Arkasha was distracting himself from the amount of money he would have been making by staying on as manager by reasoning that Florence was worth much, much more than that, and that had been working wonders. Plus, he had his own book now, was being recognized for doing something for himself, not by being the man that was tagging along with Viktor Krum, helping with fanmail, and fixing his schedule. He had been a glorified assistant.

But Viktor was also a friend, one of his closest, if he was being honest. That had to be enough to make up for the lack of a proper farewell and the years of radio silence he had created between them.

Arkasha waited until Viktor had secured his drink and turned around, getting one last confirmation that it really was him when he saw that face. “Vitya.” He took a step around a short woman with her nose in a book, a lopsided grin on his face, adding in Bulgarian, “That’s a girl’s drink.”

Viktor hadn’t exactly expected to begin the New Year in Paris.

Just as the celebrations ended, his manager told him there were some photo-shoots scheduled for the beginning of the year, which Viktor had been aware of, however, he didn’t previously realise how little free time he would have. Of course that he couldn’t decline going, not only because he had previously agreed to participate and also signed the contracts, but also because most of these commercials were for the sponsors of the Bulgarian national team. All of the players had their share of contracts and, of course, Viktor himself was no exception.

However, Paris was quite different from what he had imagined. While he would have expected it to be a bit on the empty side, especially for the beginning of January, it was quite the opposite. The streets were as crowded as always, if not even more so, and the weather was much warmer than in Sofia, or Tsarevo for that matter, making it quite difficult for this quidditch player to handle the extra amount of humidity in the air as well. Much to his luck, the photo-shoot ended early that day, giving Viktor some alone time in Paris. After separating from his manager and agreeing to meet up at the hotel in the evening, Viktor wandered around the streets of Paris, with the intention of shopping for souvenirs for his family and friends.

But. There was always a ‘but’. Finding himself all alone, with nobody to supervise him and be overly obnoxious and over-controlling of his diet, Viktor found himself in the front of a café, one he immediately recognised as a muggle chain he’d also seen in Bulgaria and even frequented it quite a bit in Tsarevo after the daily morning jog. Very casually and not suspiciously at all, of course, looking both to his left and then his right, just to make sure that his manager wasn’t still around, Viktor made his way in, patiently waiting for his turn to order. His French had improved quite a bit over the years, so not only that he said his own name in French so he would cause no confusions, but Viktor also successfully managed to order a caramel macchiato with soy milk (his favourite) without any issues.

Picking up his order, Viktor was surprised to hear a familiar, yet surprisingly nostalgic voice. “Arkasha.” He said in surprise, his gaze falling exactly on his old friend’s figure. In all honesty, part of Viktor couldn’t believe his eyes; it truly was nobody else than Arkadiy Maksimovich Malenkov right there, in front of him. The same Arkadiy that had been one of his closest friends, his previous manager, and the same individual who quit his job overnight, and left with such a quick notice, that Viktor didn’t even understand what had happened.

He had ran into Veronika Nikolayevna at a few matches, and had asked her what happened with Arkadiy, yet the younger Russian simply stated that they broke up and showed obvious discomfort when being asked about her former boyfriend, especially by his best friend. So there he was, years later, seeing the infamous Arkashenka in person. Of course, he was happy to see his friend, and notice that despite being in France for years now, he still remained as Russian as ever in appearance, at least to Viktor. Though, Viktor’s been dumped just before the beginning of a new season, having to look for a new manager just around the holidays. The Bulgarian would always remember how he had to leave the Christmas celebrations earlier, as he had to interview people for the job.

At his friend’s remark, Viktor arched his eyebrow, later on letting out a lenient laugh. If he’d thought of casually talking to Arkadiy as if nothing happened, his friend had another thing coming. At least for a bit, before Viktor would decide that Arkasha should be properly and officially forgiven. Or not. Viktor really had missed his friend too much to tease him now. He’d save it for later. The Bulgarian spread out his arms and drew Arkadiy into a hug, before kissing him on both cheeks as a greeting as well. “So good to see you are still alive, Arkasha.” Vitya added, a bit more bitterly than he would have liked.

He was worried, honestly. The couple of seconds of silence that passed between his comment and Viktor’s laugh was almost enough for Arkasha to change his mind, to turn around and get on home before he had time to second guess himself again. But he did laugh, and Arkasha’s grin widened. He returned the hug gladly, not minding the judgemental looks that they were attracting, knowing they were simply jealous they were missing out on being a part of it. He returned the kisses as well, his hands still clasped tight to Viktor’s upper arms as he pulled back and took a proper look at him.

“Alive? Of course I am.” He didn’t fail to notice his change of tone, but he didn’t want to draw attention to it, wanting to move past any awkwardness they had as quickly as possible. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he added, about to launch into updating Viktor on his life, Florence, Paris, his book, everything that had happened to him since he had last left Viktor’s sight -- he must have been curious, after all, and Arkasha was much harder to follow along in the press -- but he was cut short by a gruff “Arcade? Cappuccino?”

Arkasha had heard much worse butcherings of his name before and assume the drink was for him; he (almost) reluctantly removed his hands from Viktor to fetch his cappuccino, turning back to the man, drink in hand, smile still wide. “Are you in Paris long?” Do you want to move here? “Do you have time for a walk?” It’s no matter, I can take some time to go to Bulgaria if I need to. “Don’t want to tread on any toes, of course.” He was speaking of Viktor’s new manager, who he assumed was a terrible person, terrible at scheduling and answering fanmail and didn’t know how Viktor liked his coffee. He had no business being upset that he had been replaced, of course, though he had to admit that it still hurt a little to think that Viktor had moved on.

He knew for certain that he would be offended if Viktor turned down his offer for a chat, though he couldn’t blame him (though he certainly would). But Arkasha hadn’t realized how much he missed him in general, nor had he realized how much he missed this Eastern aesthetic, the fur, the two gold chains that matched the two Arkasha was wearing (though he couldn’t tell if Viktor was wearing the one that actually matched his, the one he had gifted with their initials near the clasp), the lack of silent letters in their swift speech.

He knew he would sooner retire than leave his Bulgarian squad willingly, but he had the tiniest bit of hope that seeing Viktor in Paris meant some good news for the French quidditch teams. It would be a terrible PR move, especially in a World Cup year, but Arkasha had already decided that his new manager would make such erroneous decisions. He motioned to the door, holding it open to let Viktor pass through, letting it hit another person on their way in as he was far too focused on Viktor as they started down the street.

Even if Viktor really wanted to be mad at Arkasha, to point out that he was the one to have put distance between the two of them and right when the quidditch player had needed him most, the seeker just couldn’t bring himself to having such feelings. Arkasha’s grin, his hug, his warmth, everything just felt so familiar, so comfortable, it just felt normal for them to be the best of friends, always. To him, Arkasha was home. He felt so, anyway. Even if Paris had seemed so unnecessarily and slightly uncomfortably crowded, now it felt like one of the calmest places in Europe.

Viktor widened his eyes in excitement as his friend seemed to have wanted to say something, perhaps related to the reason he was in Paris actually, however they were quite rudely interrupted by one of the workers, who apparently had finished making Arkasha’s order. Momentarily, the quidditch player had even forgotten they were in a café. Everything had suddenly faded away as soon as the two of them hugged, his friend there being the only thing that Viktor saw until that point. It was as if he were on the pitch, looking solely at the snitch. And the analogy worked here as well – he had finally caught Arkasha.

Not for long though, as his friend had to pick up his coffee, moments when Viktor felt slightly abandoned as Arkasha had retrieved his hands from his shoulders. Still, the former Drakonya Krov didn’t show his dissatisfaction, instead getting out a soft laugher upon hearing his friend’s ‘French’ name. It had been simply too hilarious to ignore and, of course, the Russian getting a cappuccino just when he mentioned Viktor himself was having a girl’s drink also added to his amusement. Viktor waited for his friend to pick up his coffee, and returned the smile when his friend turned back to him.

The quidditch player had been a bit surprised that he was the one being asked questions, nonetheless he didn’t mind, especially because he was sure Arkasha was genuinely interested. “No, just this week.” Unfortunately. Now my photoshoot’s duration extending seems like a great idea, since you’re here. “Yes, actually... I’m free for the rest of the day.” Let’s spend it all together, not just a short walk. “Not at all, my manager went back to the hotel.” Either way, I wouldn’t care what he would say, I’m spending time with you no matter what. Viktor replied to everything, keeping some comments for himself, of course. He thought of not mentioning the last part in particular, because he was truly glad for his new manager, as ever since Arkasha had left him, Ivan had done wonderfully. Still, he would save praising Ivan until the effect would be maximum, so Viktor would be sure that Arkasha was aware that his current manager had been his saviour in a time where his best friend had abandoned him with no explanations.

He glanced at Arkasha and immediately noticed he was wearing the one specific golden necklace that matched his own; a feeling of warmth came into his chest, and Viktor’s smile simply widened. He could still remind his friend of his previous bad behaviour, however, now, the Bulgarian was simply happy that they had met again, even if unexpectedly. Viktor made his way to the door, and got out as Arkasha held it open for him, not noticing that it had hit another person, as he was too focused on his friend’s figure. He looked a bit more mature, now that he was properly observing the Russian in the actual daylight. His features got a bit more refined, more ripe, in a good way. Part of him really disliked that he was noticing such things, when he should not – in his mind, Viktor should have seen Arkasha daily, so such details would have gone unobservable. It hurt to think that time had passed by enough for him to notice his friend’s features actually changing.

He sighed, and took a quick sip of his coffee as they made their way on the sidewalk. “I’m here for a photoshoot, actually.” Viktor decided to properly explain why he was exactly in the French capital, as surely it must have been rather confusing. “A sponsor of the Bulgarian team, you know, the usual.” He shrugged, figuring that it was enough explanation regarding his being there.

“What about you?” Viktor stopped for a moment, placing his free hand on Arkasha’s shoulder. “I haven’t heard from you in years, you’ll have to tell me everything.” He inquired, more like an order than a request from a friend. In the end, the Russian owed him this much, to put him up to date with all his French adventures.

Arkasha’s eyes narrowed just the slightest bit at the mention of his replacement, but the grin on his face was enough to mask his displeasure, or so he hoped. He had agreed to the walk and what was now shaping up to be an entire day spent with each other, and that was enough to let the comment about the manager slide on by. For now. He clapped Arkasha on the arm one more time as he nodded, re-agreeing to everything he had said and suggested both outwardly and internally.

He was happy to be looking forward, paying attention to where he was walking (for once) as Vitya stated his true reason for being in Paris. It was just business, of course it was. His initial hope was that he was in Paris to stay for good, and failing to achieve that, maybe he could have been actively seeking him out. Of course, he wasn’t going to complain that fate had brought them back together, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than a little frustrated that neither of them bore any responsibility for this reunion. Arkasha’s smile had slipped, though still he nodded. He knew the drill, traveling for work; he had been responsible for securing Viktor’s first French sponsor, after all.

They stopped, and Arkasha caught the other man’s eye, subconsciously flexing his arm as Viktor grabbed for it. “Oh, I’m here for a photoshoot, too,” he said immediately, but the grin on his lips probably betrayed him from the seriousness he was hoping for. But it wasn’t a total lie: Florence did have a camera and she did enjoy taking photos of him, though it was usually in various states of undress. His grin slipped into a smirk, and he scratched absentmindedly at his unshaven-for-a-few-days cheek to buy him a few seconds of thought.

“Really, though,” he restarted, pausing a second as he took in Viktor’s facial features once again, re-memorizing things since he knew they would only have today. “I live here.” He tilted his head to the side, motioning to Paris at large. “Not here here, more that way,” he nodded north, “But here, yeah.” He was holding his coffee in his right hand, and he brought it to his lips to take a drink, Arkasha’s wedding ring now the literal and metaphorical barrier between them.

But he didn’t want to wait for Viktor to notice, not sure why he even thought he would, and the next thing to spill out of his mouth was, “I moved here for my wife.” He suddenly became very interested in a piece of lint lurking in the fur on Viktor’s left shoulder, needing to look anywhere that wasn’t his face. First Arkasha had quit without notice, left the country, dropped off the map, then didn’t invite him to his wedding. Of course, he didn’t invite anyone, really, but that was beside the point. Arkasha would be heartbroken if Viktor had done the same to him, and he could only assume he would feel likewise.

“Everything happened really fast,” he added quickly, finally chancing a glance up, as if that explanation would be good enough reason to have not told him in the first place. But just in case that wasn’t enough reason, he added a final, “And she’s really hot,” with a very enthusiastic nod and another grin. There were plenty of other reasons he had wanted to marry Florence, but her attractiveness was undoubtedly the thing that first caught his eye so he figured it was as good a place as any to start describing her.

Viktor smirked as Arkasha flexed his arm as he placed his hand on it, letting out a soft laugher at his friend mentioning he was also there for a photo-shoot. It wouldn’t actually surprise him if it were true, for the Russian was quite handsome even in Viktor’s opinion, however the quidditch player was more than sure that he was joking, fact that was confirmed by the grin on his mate's face. Viktor missed this; their teasing, joking around, slight sarcasm. It was the most familiar feeling, yet still strangely new – he disliked that. Viktor didn’t particularly enjoy realising that events he had perceived as normal once were now some sort of a novelty to him.

It didn’t surprise him to find out that Arkasha actually lived in Paris. He had never doubted that his friend could find his way through everything and, perhaps, it had been for the best that they had parted ways. Living in Paris probably sounded much better than being Viktor Krum’s manager. Still, the former Drakonya Krov would have preferred for them to part ways differently, and perhaps keep in touch as much as possible. Finding out new facts about a person that was a constant presence in his life for years wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of activities.

Viktor’s hand fell off Arkasha’s arm upon hearing his friend’s next words. I moved here for my wife. What? The quidditch player turned his gaze from the street to his friend, or what he supposed still was his friend, and looked at him in a bewildered manner. The shock had been too much. Viktor had been tempted for the slightest second to doubt the Russian’s words, but the shining object on the man’s finger proved that his words were nothing else but the truth. Suddenly, Viktor felt something pressing against his chest, a feeling with which he had previously encountered only twice. Firstly, when Hermione had refused his proposal after the Triwizard Tournament, and secondly, when Wilda and he had parted ways.

Naturally, Arkasha was even more important than the two women. He was Viktor’s best friend. That, until the Russian had ran away from him, moved to France, and apparently gotten married with someone, cutting off every kind of connection with him for years. Viktor felt betrayed, cheated on, and, most importantly, in pain. Not only that his best comrade, his brother, had abandoned him, but just when he had thought that Arkasha would come back into his life, that he finally caught his rebellious friend, it seemed that he couldn’t have been more wrong. Someone else had done that before him. Someone whom he didn’t even know.

And for Arkasha to move to Paris from Eastern Europe, the most fabulous place on the planet of course, for a woman was also shocking. It seemed that not only she caught him, but also manipulated him to her own vile will. Suddenly, Viktor wondered if this woman was even worthy of his friend. Or former friend. Whatever Arkasha was now. She was nothing but malevolent in Viktor’s eyes, stealing his best friend from him. Obviously, the Bulgarian not being invited to the wedding also had its contributions. If it had been fast, like Arkasha mentioned, surely she must have been the one not to have desired Viktor to be invited to the wedding, for him not to open his friend’s eyes. Otherwise, would Arkasha really have not invited him?

Viktor drank the entire contents of his cup in one go, and threw it in a nearby bin, afterwards taking a deep breath. Suddenly, his fur coat seemed to be a bit too much, for this news had gotten him too heated. He couldn’t even be properly happy for Arkasha, despite his friend seeming quite delighted by the fact that he was married to a ‘really hot’ woman.

Who was this man? Was this the same person that he had previously know? He certainly didn’t feel so. “Arkadiy Maksimovich.” Viktor finally spoke, deciding that it wasn’t proper to call the Russian by his nickname anymore. Clearly, they weren’t friends anymore. All thanks to that woman. “I will ask just one thing and hope that it will suffice.” He ran a hand through his hair, later on letting on a deep sigh, little said irritated. “If I would have done and said the same things to you right now, how would you feel? Multiply that by a hundred and you’ll realise how I do.” Viktor nodded his head in disapproval and continued to walk, suddenly feeling that that he couldn’t stand still.

He was angry, disappointed, and, above all, hurt. Arkasha had been stolen from him.

Arkasha had absolutely no idea what sort of reaction he had been expecting, but he knew it wasn’t the one he was receiving. Disappointment? Sure. But repulsion, disbelief? Never. He finally felt cold as Viktor’s hand left his arm, his face falling to into a non-expression, doing his best to keep his eyes trained on the other man. He refrained from taking a step back, like instinct was telling him to do, instead willing his friend to speak to him.

He was prepared to be absolutely devastated, of course. If Viktor didn’t like the idea of him being married, then that would effectively be the end of their friendship. It wasn’t too long ago that Arkasha would have taken Viktor’s approval or disapproval of a woman into consideration; he had dropped plenty of women Vitya hadn’t thought good enough for him. It was the strangest feeling to be willing to fight Viktor on whatever he had to say, for once letting someone else influence his feelings more than the Seeker.

The man remained motionless as the Bulgarian finished his coffee, not needing to hold back the joke about how impossible it must have been to swallow such a sweet drink like that so quickly because he was already so prematurely defensive that he somehow didn’t want to see him smile. It was a quick reversal in his feelings, going from wanting to share the most exciting moments of his recent life to wanting to fight a man he was fairly sure would be able to knock him unconscious. But apparently Viktor’s lack of any sort of verbal response, whether good or bad, was too much for him. At least when he told his parents, they could bring themselves to ask if Arkasha had knocked her up. Even that was better than this.

Arkadiy Maksimovich. This couldn’t be good. Sure, respect your elders and all that, but they were close. They were so far past this. Viktor spoke again, and Arkasha felt his heart drop. There was the disappointment he had been so foolishly hoping for a minute ago. But it wasn’t the ‘haha now I have to share you’ sort of disappointment he had received from his brother. This was real. Like ‘I caught the snitch but lost the Cup’ sort of disappointment.

But it was so much worse than something so trivial like that. Because this time, it was his fault. This was all Arkadiy Maksimovich’s fault. Even he couldn’t bring himself to use his own nickname.

Viktor was a few steps ahead of him before Arkasha had realized he had left, too focused on the words that had just been said to him, the ones that left his heart feel like it had stopped beating. “Vitya, wait,” he said as ditched his nearly full coffee in the bin and caught up to the hulking mass of fur ahead of him. “It’s not like that, listen.” He tugged on Viktor’s elbow, pulling him to stop and look at him again.

“I don’t have a good excuse for this,” he started, determined to not break eye contact this time. “I wish I did.” He knew the ‘you’re too famous to be a wedding guest’ reason wouldn’t cut it, or that it had just been family on the beach that day, or that he missed Viktor too much that he knew it would hurt to see him again. But Viktor had let him leave Bulgaria, hadn’t pulled out some sort of weird clause in his contract that would mean he had to stay. He was just as much at fault as Arkasha was about the lack of communication over the years. Of course he had wanted to invite him, but the small part of him that doubted Viktor would want to see him married had won out.

“Look, I--” he paused, placing his hands on Viktor’s shoulders again, ensuring that he would be heard, “I regret not telling you and that will be something I have to live with the rest of my life. But I am happy you know now.” He searched his face for any sort of sign. “You cannot let this disappointment show in your photoshoots,” he added, keeping his serious look on his face, getting in one last go at being the best manager Viktor had ever had before they parted ways again, and -- if Viktor’s reaction was any indication -- probably for good.

As he continued making his way on the sidewalk, Viktor tried to reason with himself. The Bulgarian figured part of this had also been his fault, for losing touch with Arkasha over the years. He tried to think that being occupied with practice, with games, with Wilda, wasn’t enough of an excuse to lose contact with his friend completely. Then again, he once more recalled that Arkasha, when leaving, hadn’t exactly given him an address or anything, really. Viktor himself could’ve told the Russian regarding his breach of contract and everything of the legal sort, however, who would even do that to a friend. He never regarded Arkasha as his manager or personal assistant, but mostly as his friend. His best friend. And if his brother had wanted to leave and start his life anew, who was the quidditch player to deny him that.

As Arkasha called him by his nickname, Viktor couldn’t help but feel even more heart-broken. He had lost his friend, he didn’t know whom this person next to him was, and now he had to cope with the idea that Arkadiy Maksimovich would be out of his life forever. While sure, Viktor hadn’t expected to meet the Russian so randomly, he had been certain that whenever the man would’ve felt ready, Arkasha would have contacted him sooner or later. But now, after finding out that his friend had married, part of Viktor was absolutely positive that if they shouldn’t have haphazardly met, Arkasha would have been lost forever. Not that he wasn’t lost for eternity now, but knowing the reason hurt. And the fact that he hadn’t know the reason until now hurt even more. The fact that perhaps he could’ve gone his entire life not knowing the reason or how Arkasha was doing was even worse than that.

The Russian soon caught up with him and Viktor straightened his back instinctively. However, he avoided Arkasha’s gaze, not really feeling like looking at this stranger in front of him. But what Arkadiy Maksimovich was saying was indeed true, he’d give him that. His friend really had no good excuse for this all, for him abandoning Viktor with no explanation whatsoever, for him replacing Viktor with someone else, for him marrying that someone else and therefore just abandon Viktor forever in favour of an eternal life partner. Great friends were like soul mates; and you just had one. Viktor had always regarded Arkasha in such a manner, however what good were soul mates when his friend had found his other half? They might as well be strangers now.

Still, proof that Arkasha had been his best friend since forever was still there. The slightly older man always knew exactly what to say to get Viktor in a slightly better mood. The Russian indeed would have to live with the regret of abandoning Viktor all of his life; but honestly, weren’t those just words? If Arkadiy Maksimovich was now married, then he will most definitely not even spend any moment of his life even thinking about Viktor, but his undivided attention will be granted to the other. The one who had shamelessly stolen Arkasha from him and didn’t even care enough to ask her husband about his best friend. It was surely her bad influence who had gotten Arkasha to be like this, like this completely new person he did not know.

And yet Viktor still didn’t want to lose Arkasha completely yet. The day will soon come, most certainly, but now, even that one second per day, Viktor still found himself selfish enough to want that for that one second Arkasha to think of him and not about that supposed wife of his. He sketched a smile, more like half a cheeky smirk, as the Russian mentioned his photo-shoot. But honestly, the Bulgarian didn’t really feel like being the bigger person for once. He wasn’t glad his friend had been completely and irrevocably taken away from him, by a person Viktor didn’t even know was good enough for Arkasha, to make it all even worse.

“I just found you again, I don’t want to share you.” Viktor mumbled, shaking his shoulders, trying to get Arkasha’s hands off of him. 

The lift in Viktor’s expression at the sound of his words was enough to convince Arkasha that things were headed in the right direction, everything back to normal. But his moment of relief was cut short when Viktor spoke and took back the smile. Arkasha’s face fell again as his hands fell from his mate’s shoulders, repeating the words back to himself in his head. Just found you, don’t want to share you. It was as if those years apart just made them understand how much they had meant to each other -- no, he was a poet now, he wasn’t afraid to use real words -- how much they had loved each other.

That small part of Arkasha that had earlier hoped Viktor had sought him out in Paris grew a bit, and he couldn’t help the smile that made its way back onto his face. He had left quidditch, Bulgaria, and Viktor behind for reasons that had nothing to do with the seeker, reasons he still couldn’t bring himself to say aloud to him. The worst part of it all, worse than leaving a high paying job to wander about directionless, worse than leaving a country he had finally settled into for another he didn’t share a language with, worse than the revelation that he had been sleeping with his cousin (“third, thank you very much”) for over a year, was that he had no idea if Viktor would miss him or forget him.

He replaced his hands on Viktor’s shoulders, not caring if he would rather have some personal space. Arkasha needed to get his point across. “Viktor Ivaliovich Krum.” He needed to know that he was serious, and his expression reflected it. “I plan to never lose you again.” He nodded, not wanting to add his next words but feeling them necessary. Quietly, he finished, “If you’ll have me.”

A blinking ‘ouvert’ sign caught his eye and Arkasha realized they had stopped just in front of a bookstore he was very familiar with. This particular shop carried the work of an emerging poet from Russia, and he figured that might help make everything fall into place. Viktor could see that he had changed, yes, but it was for the good. “Step in here, will you?” He tipped his head towards the shop, giving Viktor less than a second to make a decision before dropping his hands and stepping towards the door.

He made a beeline to the poetry section, which was fairly large in this shop, which was dimly lit, creaky, and smelled like the books had been there for ages. Pulling his book off the shelf (he knew exactly where it was, naturally), Arkasha turned to page seventy-six and turned to hand it to Viktor, his index finger thumping the page he wanted him to read. He didn’t preface what he was doing, didn’t elaborate that this was his book, didn’t even bother to check that he could read French.

Florence was his muse. There was no doubt about that. Nearly every poem in his book was about her. But in writing about his true love and how he had finally found his missing piece, he realized that he had lost something else crucial. That was what page seventy-six said, in not so many words. It read like it was about lost love; neither Florence nor his publisher had inquired who it was truly about, but Arkasha would not have hesitated to tell them it was about the man standing next to him.

As much as the Bulgarian would have preferred not to stay there any longer, feeling betrayed all over again by his best friend, the man stopped fighting off Arkasha’s hands from resting on his shoulders as he heard his full name being called out. Viktor Ivaliovich Krum. If his friend was calling him by his entire name, then it meant that he was serious. But, then again, he had assumed in the past as well that Arkasha was serious about their friendship and Viktor had been utterly and completely disappointed back then. He had been abandoned and divorced as a best friend, and, while he had believed it was the best for the Russian for him not to comment, it hadn’t been the best bet for Viktor himself. He had missed Arkasha and his life hadn’t been exactly the same without his best friend - no, his brother in it.

Arkasha’s following words meant both everything and nothing at the same time. Sure, they carried a spectacular amount of seriousness and emotions that Viktor could feel coming from Arkasha’s side, however, he had trusted his friend before, without the need of having those words being spoken. Viktor had always assumed they would always be together, never lose each other – and yet, it had happened. And now, while Arkasha was voicing those feelings that he knew that were mutual in the past, he wasn’t so sure of it right now. Arkasha didn’t need him anymore – regardless of whom she was, regardless of how she was, regardless of whether or not Viktor would approve of her, the Russian was married. He didn’t need a best friend, for he had a life partner. And that partner would always be placed above everything and everyone, including Viktor.

His friend’s words carried a heavy amount of value, but Viktor wasn’t sure that they were the ones that Arkasha felt right now. It felt as if everything was one-sided from his part; Viktor was still there, eager to resume their friendship as if the distancing had never happened, but for Arkasha, it had happened – surely, one would even wonder if the slightly older man would have even married the same woman should Viktor had still been a constant presence in his life. Viktor sighed deeply, not even knowing what to say. Arkasha had offered him the words he had wanted to hear, but Viktor wasn’t sure they were the words that Arkasha truly meant. For his friend, now, his wife was surely his entire universe. Viktor had no place in there.

His state of inner confusion allowed Viktor to senselessly follow the Russian into a nearby bookstore. The scent of old books reminded him of both the Durmstrang library and the Hogwarts one. It was something about it that felt quite familiar, but strange at the same time – perhaps, it was Viktor’s own fault for not having visited a library properly since graduation. Still, the bookshop couldn’t but remind him of all the time he had spent in the library at Hogwarts. The scent was too similar for him not to be put in that train of thought, even momentarily.

Viktor followed Arkasha to the poetry section, and it was faintly lit, a bit to his surprise. He was a bit confused as one would assume that libraries would be brightly lit, especially for people to actually see and read what they would be purchasing. He looked at the bookshelf, eyes slightly narrowed, trying to read a few titles here and there, but before Viktor could successfully manage in doing so, Arkasha handed him an open book, gesturing a certain page to read. Viktor grabbed it and gazed a bit confused, first at the Russian, and then lowered his look towards the book. It was a French poem, and from what Viktor could grasp, it was about a lost love.

Viktor’s eyebrow arched, the poem in itself slightly confusing him. Pretty words, filled with pain, but what was Arkasha’s point exactly? Surely, his friend hadn’t developed a sudden taste for romantic poetry once moving to France. Viktor took a look at the page, and noticed it was numbered seventy-six, exactly like his birth year. It seemed odd, so the quidditch player turned the book around, to see the cover. Much to his surprise, it seemed that Arkasha himself wrote the volume of poems.

It was all too confusing. Firstly, why would Arkasha write a poem of lost love on the page of Viktor’s birth year? Secondly, if was the lost love Veronika Nikolayevna? If so, then why that page. How were they connected? And thirdly, and by far the most important factor, Arkasha was now a published poet. Arkasha, the man standing in front of him, right there, was writing poems for a living? Viktor the book around again, gazing at the page, before turning a few others, skimming several poems of love – some quite cheesy, if one would ask Viktor himself.

The seeker cleared his throat, and raised his gaze from the book to his friend. Upon his look falling on Arkasha’s figure, combined with the dim light of the bookstore, the man did have the allure of a writer. Viktor tilted his head, not actually grasping the fact that the Russian wizard in front of him was a poet. “A poet…” The Bulgarian repeated his thought out loud, only then actually realising its veracity. Arkasha was a poet.

Viktor burst into laughter, probably being a bit too loud for a bookstore, but he honestly felt so amused by the entire situation that he couldn’t even control himself. The man who drunkenly sang Kalinka with Viktor himself there in a muggle tube station… a poet. An artist. It was just too good. He took a deep breath, wiping a few tears that formed in the corners of his eyes. “A poet. My Arkasha is a poet.” He laughed again, still not managing to cope with the reality. He pulled the Russian into a hug, feeling a bit bad that he did nothing but laugh.

“Toutes mes félicitations pour la publication de ton premier livre.” Viktor said in French, between two laughs.

He had never expected Viktor to read his poem, had almost considered not including it in the book, and now they were standing in a bookstore together, reading it. Arkasha studied the other man’s face as his poem was read; the arch of an eyebrow was certainly more appealing than no reaction at all. He would appreciate some words in response, but he would take what he was given. Viktor flipped the book over and gloss over the A. M. Malenkov that graced the cover. Arkasha raised both eyebrows expectantly, hoping words would be the thing to follow Viktor’s comprehension.

His expression relaxed slightly as the Seeker flipped through a few more pages. The suspense was killing him. He wanted to know what Viktor thought about all of this, his new profession, his professions on the page. The pace he was reading the poetry was almost painstakingly slow -- sure, quidditch players weren’t renowned for their reading abilities, but this was ridiculous -- that he nearly considered that time must have slowed down for them, like it always did when they were together.

Finally, Arkasha caught his friend’s eye and raised his eyebrows again, a half smile creeping onto his lips. He tugged at his scarf, loosening it from around his neck just a bit, about to confirm that yes, he was, in fact, a poet. But he was interrupted by Viktor’s laughter and Arkasha fixed a look of mock shock on his face. This wasn’t new of course; his brother Kolya had had a similar reaction, though his had involved losing a mouthful of vodka all over himself as he guffawed.

He rolled his eyes, suppressing a chuckle of his own, keeping his stoic oh-so-serious poet persona up. And it was a good thing he had steeled himself for Viktor’s continued laughter: as he was addressed as his Arkasha, he could have melted right then and there. So, it had worked, showing him all of this, all he had been working on, how much he had truly missed Viktor, how much he still meant to him. It was worth the laughter at the news of his authorship to be seemingly forgiven.

The hug was second only to being forgiven, and Arkasha returned it heartily. “Merci beaucoup,” he returned immediately before switching back to Bulgarian. “Come now.” He pulled back from the hug (a very comfy one thanks to the fur, he noticed again), keeping his hands on Viktors shoulders and kissing both cheeks swiftly. “We have much to catch up on,” he added with a nod, taking a step back and grabbing his book out of his friend’s hand. “You can catch up with this later.” The book was small enough for his shirt pocket and that was exactly where he tucked it, rationalizing that the bookstore had already paid him for the book so he wasn’t really taking a loss by stealing it.

He led the way out of the bookstore, motioning to the left with a tilt of his head. They had ditched their coffees before, but Arkasha wasn’t about to suggest Viktor get another drink for girls. it was after noon, so Arkasha’s favorite bar was open by now and was conveniently only a ten minute walk away. He tapped a cigarette out of the pack from his pocket and lit it, pointedly not looking at Viktor’s face in order to avoid the disapproving eye roll he was sure to find there.

“That catch against Cape Verde was perfect. Really. Don’t know how you do it.” He slipped into the conversation like the past exchange hadn’t occurred, like he hadn’t abandoned him when he needed him most, like they hadn’t spent the last couple years apart without a single word, like they were, without a doubt, still best friends.

While he still felt hurt after being completely abandoned by Arkasha, Viktor couldn’t possibly stay mad at his friend. At his best friend. And, despite the pain of loss that he’s felt in the past, the quidditch player couldn’t deny the fact that by letting Arkasha leave he had taken the best decision. Even if Viktor found the thought of Arkasha being a poet, a writer, little said funny, it was his friend’s calling. A calling he couldn’t have pursued while working as Viktor Krum’s manager. The Bulgarian had always been aware that his friend and he had some differences within their personalities, despite their vast amount of common traits. However, these differences also kept their relationship thrilling, as much as their similarities did.

Ultimately, Arkasha was an intellectual. Maybe he was too nice to say, but with his book published now and his successful life as a writer, the Russian surely had found his job as a manager tedious. Up until this point, Viktor thought that they both had had fun and that the job had been a good one for Arkasha. But clearly it wasn’t. It stung. It hurt to know what Arkasha was so different from him that being his manager could’ve been an actual burden. But now, at least, he couldn’t even be upset that his friend left like that, in such a hurry, unannounced. Surely, the former Klyk Vampira had felt suffocated by the managerial tasks. For an intellectual, it was probably both a burden and a torture to live among sportsmen.

His embrace had been tighter than before, Viktor not even desiring to let go as Arkasha pulled back from the hug. He’d hurt his friend without even knowing. How demeaning must it have been for the Russian to work as a meagre manager. Viktor felt awful, having hurt his friend in such a way that the Russian literally had to escape. He couldn’t even blame the man for taking the decision of marrying so rashly; if his supposed best friend didn’t understand him, of course he’d take a liking to the first sympathetic person he’d meet. Of course he’d want to stay with that person forever. Of course that he wouldn’t invite the supposed best friend at the wedding.

Viktor sighed, deciding not to even think at Arkasha’s marriage. It was an intense subject, and the fact that someone else, anyone else, knew the Russian better than him was not something he wanted to deal with today. Arkasha remarked that they had to catch up, and Viktor nodded in agreement. He wanted to know everything. How Arkasha’s life in France was, how did he manage to write, when he would tour and promote his book, if he hadn’t yet. Nothing about the wife though. He just wasn’t ready yet.

It was a good thing Viktor’s mind was clouded by all these thoughts, for he hadn’t noticed Arkasha stealing his own book from the store. That wouldn’t have ended too well, should the Bulgarian had noticed.

He followed Arkasha out of the bookstore, and turned left, as indicated by his friend. Truth be told, Viktor had always rolled his eyes when the Russian was smoking, however, this time round, he found himself gazing with interest in his friend’s direction as he took a drag out of his cigarette. The scarf, the cigarette, the Parisian allure – Arkasha was a true artist. A poet with everything that implied, including the artistic charm and its refined elegance. Despite how he’s felt in the past, right now, Arkasha smoking simply made him think that his friend was little said sophisticated.

“Cape Verde?” That match had been tense. Bulgaria hadn’t done particularly good as a whole during that game, and Viktor was grateful he was able to catch the golden snitch before Cape Verde would’ve scored more goals. It wasn’t an actual win in all of its honourable sense, and was a sign that the team needed to improve more, should they want to win the World Cup. Which they will. Next week marked not only the start of the new season, but also the start of the national team’s practices. It was going to be intense, but worth it. Bulgaria deserved the World Cup more than any other country.

Viktor cleared his throat and smiled in Arkasha’s direction. “Thanks. It was too slow, should’ve caught it sooner. But better late than never, right?” He shrugged. “About that poem…” The Bulgarian’s mind trailed off to the poem he’d just read. “Is it about Veronika Nikolayevna? Or addressed to Russia?” Well, he had no doubt that Arkasha would miss Russia, and quite a lot. Viktor himself didn’t have it in him to ever leave Bulgaria, and from that point of view, his friend there was much stronger. However, even Arkasha would miss his own country, right? Particularly since he was also reflecting rather perfectly the natural Russian talent he had for literature. A true Russian indeed.

Arkasha nodded yes, Cape Verde. He knew how Viktor was with compliments, but that wasn’t going to stop him from offering them. He had meant it, after all. Arkasha hadn’t seen the match but it had made the news all the same. The moment of silence from his friend afforded him a few more drags of his cigarette. Glancing sideways as Viktor cleared his throat, Arkasha returned the man’s smile. “Better late than never,” he agreed with a laugh. That was his and Florence’s philosophy, in a way.

He was glad that they hadn’t stopped walking as Viktor posed his next question. He honestly didn’t want to see the look on his face, especially as Arkasha laughed again at the thought of the poem being about Veronika Nikolayevna. “No, not her.” He mused for a moment before answering the next question. It was completely plausible that the poem be about Russia; she was certainly his lost love. Were they already back to the point where the truth would be acceptable? Or would that just make his leaving him in Bulgaria all the more regrettable?

Without a second glance, Arkasha shrugged. “It’s about you, idiot.” He had made it obvious enough, anyway. The page number, the sentiments. Maybe he also should have slapped a publicity photo of the Seeker on there to really drive the point home. He brought his cigarette up to his mouth and stopped walking, turning to look at his friend. Holding his light between his lips, Arkasha placed both hands on either of Viktor’s shoulders. “I missed you.”

He didn’t want to explain why, certainly didn’t want to get into the details of his departure, simply hoped that Viktor would understand that this was his way of telling him. It might have been a bit delayed, but better late than never, right?

They had stopped right in front of the bar, and Arkasha didn’t let the pair linger outside the door for more than a few seconds. “C’mon.” He held the door open for him once again, following him inside. It was dim, despite it still being close to noon and as sunny as possible outside. He settled into a stool at the end of the bar while Viktor dealt with his coat, ordering himself a vodka.

“And you, Vitya? Something with a fancy umbrella? Bendy straw?”

“Wait. For real?”

Viktor stopped for a moment, puzzled by the reveal. The poem wasn’t about Veronika Nikolayevna, but about him. The seeker couldn’t believe it. His eyes widened with surprise, but having stopped to think about it, Viktor realised he should’ve caught all the hints: the thoughts, the page number, the overall feeling of warmth he got when skimming it. Arkasha was still his best friend, after all. His brother.

He smiled at Arkasha’s confession. However, Viktor had mixed feelings within. He couldn’t help himself from wondering if his friend really did mean that. In the end, in their time apart, the Russian had moved on with his life, became a writer, and got married, starting a family of his own. Viktor couldn’t even be upset about that, for it had been his fault alone for driving Arkasha away. He’d kept his friend in an undermining job, an activity which his artistic self couldn’t be imprisoned in. Viktor was at fault for not realising sooner that Arkasha had been unhappy by his side.

However, Arkasha did mean it. He even wrote a poem about it. Viktor felt guilty for even letting the previous thought even invade his mind. He wasn’t nearly as good as a friend as the Russian was to him. The former Drakonya Krov could only hope that, with time, he could live up to his friend’s worth.

“I missed you too.” Viktor smiled towards the Russian, his hands on Arkasha’s own shoulders. It was good they were reunited now, so the past didn’t matter anymore. At least for now. As long as the Russian didn’t hold it against him, Viktor decided not to dwell on it. He would see how he could make it up for the former Klyk Vampira later on; for it was something bound to happen, Viktor properly apologising for never noticing his friend’s unhappiness by his side.

But, for now, they were together again. Drinking vodka was undoubtedly going to happen and so will spilled secrets and fun stories. It was going to be perfect. Him, Arkasha, and vodka. The greatest combination there ever was. They stepped in the bar, and Viktor went to sit on the stool next to his friend, as soon as he’d left his coat in the cloakroom.

“Vodka.” Viktor commented towards the bartender, rolling his eyes at Arkasha. Leave it to him, even after all these years, to make fun of Viktor the one time he drank something sweet. It was just before the quidditch season too, so his diet was especially strict; but just one step astray and the Russian was ready to tease him for the next decade. “So…” Naturally, he decided to change the subject. “Paris! How is it compared to Moscow? I’ve never stayed for more than a few days.” Viktor shrugged, revealing his genuine interest.

“I’m expecting to hear all your fun stories.” He smirked, turning his gaze towards the bartender who’d finally brought them two glasses, and started pouring them some vodka.

“Of course, for real.” Arkasha rolled his eyes. Viktor could be so thick sometimes it was no wonder that he was able to withstand bludger impacts so well. He didn’t repeat his sentiments, having already overshared his feelings, first with his poetry, then with the confessions. “Good,” he said simply, each man gripping the others’ shoulders, both having confessed that they really, truly, had missed each other. He ignored a look from a passing Frenchman, who was clearly just jealous that he didn’t have such a great man to hang onto in the middle of the sidewalk.

Arkasha rolled his eyes right back as Viktor ordered his own vodka. There was still a chance that the fruity umbrella drink would happen before the day was out. He glanced at a clock somewhere behind the bar and grinned. They still had hours upon hours before he would be expected to be anywhere, namely in Montmartre. “So,” Arkasha countered, propping himself up on the bar with his elbow, twisting himself on his stool to look at his friend properly.

“Paris,” he said with a nod and a smile. But he shrugged, “It is not Moscow, but it is not terrible.” He reassured him with another nod, though he leaned in and lowered his voice as he had some brand new secret to share. “It is very dirty here. And the smell, it lingers.” He cracked a smile as he laughed and leaned back. “But looking past the rubbish, it is a very nice city.”  He smiled toward the bartender, though he doubted that he spoke a lick of Bulgarian. Either way, he didn’t want to give him any reason to tamper with his drink.

He took his vodka in hand as soon as it had been poured out, and he offered Viktor a silent toast before swallowing it all. “I will have a regular sized one next.” He tapped the rim of his glass with his finger, speaking in fast French. “Actually, I’ll have the bottle.” He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the bar as he poured with his right, fixing his refill with no time wasted.

Scratching at his chin and the beginnings of a beard, Arkasha shrugged. “How to start?” Florence was clearly a sore subject that could only be breached at a later time, once he had instilled in both his wife and his best friend that they were required to get along or else. “I do a lot of walking. Looking. Writing. Eating. Not enough exercising.” He stuck out his stomach, exaggerating the few pounds he had put on since they had last seen each other.

“I did go to Moscow for New Year’s though. We’re back in the family, apparently.” Viktor knew the brief version of his family history, that they weren’t close with his mother’s side of the family. He didn’t get into much detail why or that he had since learned he had been dating a member of that side, which he also did not need to know. Still, it took every ounce of restraint he had to not mention that Veronika Nikolayevna had been present at the family party, nor that she had invited yet another quidditch player to the thing.

“Quidditch as usual for you, I take?”