Chapter Text
The duty of a valet appeared deceptively simple on the surface: his job was to wait upon his master. However, when defined in specifics, it encompassed quite a significant list. Yuuri was to receive and carry out orders, dress his master mornings and evenings, keep his clothing pressed and presentable, plan and accompany him on journeys—which consisted of packing and unpacking his master’s wares, purchasing tickets for the rail or ship, securing transportation from station or port, reserving accommodations, translating if needed, or else acting as avant-coureur—and when back at his master’s estate, to serve as confidant in his most unguarded moments, keep whatever secret habits his master might be fond of without judgment, and overall be present as needed, whenever needed. It was inarguable that expectations could change with the charge, but all in all his role was to serve the whims and needs of but one master.
In general, a valet was required to have polite manners, a modest demeanor, respectful reserve and, above all, loyalty. In Yuuri’s opinion, the first three were much the same, but it was not his role to question the rules and desires of his master.
Over the course of a small number of years, Yuuri had found himself in the employment of a gentleman who imported goods from the Orient. The job permitted him to travel with his master, a luxury he would have struggled to afford on his own, and there had been promises of opportunities for him to visit home at some point, though that had never come to pass. Now, with his master’s recent passing, Yuuri was left to find a new home to wait upon.
He had not expected the task to be simple, and it did require him to be uncouth in approaching a few of his old master’s contacts. With a bit of work and a lot of generosity, Yuuri’s calendar had come to contain appointments for several interviews, the first scheduled at the Nikiforov Estate.
To say Yuuri was apprehensive about the affair would be to utter pure falsehoods. His nerves had him sweating into his gloves so much, he feared he might leave spots through the well-worn leather, a highly unprofessional transgression. The name Victor Nikiforov was well-known—if not revered—in the city and the country beyond. Mister Nikiforov owned a number of boutiques and was popular amongst women for his progressive designs, though recently gentlemen had also been adopting the trend of tighter trousers introduced by his shops. Yuuri did not earn the kind of salary that permitted him to even consider one of Mister Nikiforov’s suits, but a man had the right to dream.
When Yuuri arrived at the doorstep of the Nikiforov Estate, having paid for a carriage out of his own pocket to ensure a timely arrival, he was greeted by a peculiar sight. He had heard rumors, as everyone had heard rumors, that Mister Nikiforov lived in a home like no other. Yuuri had assumed that meant it was filled with exotic furniture and held striking internal decor. He had not thought that he would come to witness a facade painted in the colors of quartz and periwinkle. It was delicate and beautiful, with snowflakes carved into the trimwork, and was undoubtedly backbreaking work to maintain. Such was the nature of rich men, Yuuri supposed.
Yuuri’s call at the front door was answered with leisure, so much so that he feared he had mistaken the time and checked his watch thrice as he waited. A busy businessman could not always keep the time for himself, and thus came the need for a valet who would do it for him. A little delay was to be expected, surely…
When the door finally opened, and abruptly at that, Yuuri was less than formally greeted by a rather frazzled-looking housekeeper, the woman’s skirt wrinkled along the folds and her hair falling out of its styling. Surprised as he was, he stumbled on his own salutation, quietly clearing his throat to correct himself in response to the unforeseen and blunt question of, “Who are you?”
“Katsuki,” he stated, tipping his hat to her and offering a smile of an appropriate degree. “Yuuri Katsuki. I am here for my appointment with Mister Nikiforov, regarding the position of valet.”
The woman frowned, her brows furrowing into a deep ridge. “He neglected to mention… Who arranged this?”
“Mister Giacometti referred me to Mister Nikiforov, I believe,” Yuuri replied, growing more uncertain by the second. Mister Giacometti did have a playful nature and enjoyed his jokes, though Yuuri doubted he would be the type to toy with someone’s employment hopes.
“Oh,” the woman sighed. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come in, please.”
Thank heavens. Yuuri bowed his head as he entered, removing his hat and then his coat as he stepped through the entrance. From what he could immediately see, everything was neat and clean, with natural light aplenty and wallpaper of an almost shimmering bronze. His momentary worries faded, then settled when he was guided in and directed toward the drawing room by hurried gestures.
“He’ll be working in there, dear. Don’t be afraid to intrude,” the housekeeper told him before shuffling off. Yuuri swore he heard her follow up her words with an under-the-breath mutter of, “See if you can handle him,” but it was quite possible that he had been mistaken.
Yuuri took several calming breaths before approaching the drawing room, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. He would be fine. He knew his job well and he was confident in his ability to be an ideal valet. All he needed to do was to demonstrate that. If Mister Nikiforov was genuinely working, it would be the perfect situation to show off how thorough of a valet he would be.
Announcing himself and hearing an invitation to enter, Yuuri stepped into the drawing room and nearly suffered a heart attack.
With a rather undignified yelp, Yuuri jumped to avert his eyes, his pulse spiking as he stumbled through an apology because he could not possibly have been meant to witness such beauty in a state of such undress.
The vision of long cream-colored legs with exposed calves and the curve of shoulders emerging from a coat-cut undershirt flashed repeatedly in his immediate memory, supplemented by the fine corset that had wrapped around a firm waist. Was the fair lady covering up after a tryst, was that possible? He had thoroughly fumbled his chances now. Long, silver hair cascading over shoulders had been twisted into a disheveled braid, one he could surely correct with a brush and a proper ribbon, if only she were not standing before him in knee-length drawers and—
“Don’t just stand there. Come help!”
The voice that called out to Yuuri was the same one as before, pleasantly deep with a melodic trill, and certainly not a voice that belonged to a woman. Turning with reserved caution, Yuuri saw that the figure he had mistaken for an undergarment-clad woman was, in fact, an undergarment-clad man. The man himself, as it was. At a parlor’s distance from Yuuri stood Mister Nikiforov, his gleaming hair messy at the front as well, a bright smile on his petal-pink lips. By any judgment of manners, he was indecent—and yet undeniably gorgeous.
Over his undershirt—open, Yuuri might add—and drawers, Mister Nikiforov was attempting to string shut a corset and, by the look of the ribbons, he had yet to be successful. Shaking off his astonishment, Yuuri rushed over and took the ribbons over for Mister Nikiforov, who sighed out in relief. He had a foot set on a short stool and had been using it to support himself, but stepped off in order to correct his posture now that Yuuri was at his back.
“Do you know how to lace a corset?” Mister Nikiforov inquired, facing a full-length cheval mirror. In the reflection, his gaze was focused on Yuuri, who was at present trying very hard to contain a blush. He did not expect for his interview to feature his potential employer semi-nude and in a corset.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” Mister Nikiforov was chipper, his tone lifting with delight. “Please do so. Say, for a regular outing. No need to pull in too hard.”
“Of course, sir.” Yuuri said, excusing himself as he shifted Mister Nikiforov’s barely contained braid over one of his shoulders. Careful but diligent, Yuuri laced the corset, starting from the bottom up, then from the top down in gentle alternation until the corset lacing was even and the ribbons tied and tucked. “Is that satisfactory?”
Mister Nikiforov spun around, glancing over his shoulder into the mirror to check the lacing himself, before nodding. “Take a step back.”
Yuuri hastened to do so, giving Mister Nikiforov his space. The master of the house then spread his legs wide, at twice the distance of his shoulders, placing his hands on his hips as he bent side to side and then twisted at the waist, as if to test the flexibility of the corset. Yuuri watched him with curiosity, particularly when Mister Nikiforov sprang back up only to fold himself perfectly in half, touching his palms to the floor. “Oh, wow,” Yuuri breathed out, unable to stop himself.
Mister Nikiforov popped up like a spring, the smile across his face broad and brilliant. “Yes, isn’t it fantastic? Not quite the support of a fully-boned corset, but the comfort and the range of movement! Marvelous.”
Yes, that too. Yuuri had noticed that the corset was boned only at the front and back, and lightly so at that. “May I ask…”
“It’s for a friend,” Mister Nikiforov interjected with his response, moving to inspect the corset in the mirror. “We had engaged in a game of sport last week, and midway through she threw off hers, insisting that she would never be able to win a round while in the damned thing. I decided that a sport corset was in order, so that she might be at no disadvantage.”
Admirable and practical. “Then this is one of your own designs, sir?”
“Of course,” Mister Nikiforov said, tugging along the bottom hem and humming in contemplation. “Still needs an adjustment or two. And I need to lengthen the garters. Oh, I do apologize. What was your name?”
Yuuri blinked, having been under the impression that Mister Nikiforov was already aware, as he had agreed to the interview. Of course, though, Yuuri would not be the only one vying for the position. He would likely have more appointments on top of his, and Yuuri had failed to introduce himself properly when entering.
“Yuuri Katsuki, sir, at your service.”
“A good name,” Mister Nikiforov remarked. “I know a Yuri. Feisty little blond. Great amount of spirit. Will you fetch my trousers and jacket, Yuuri? They’re over on the stand.”
Yuuri had had several jobs in his life, and yet he had never had an interview quite like this one. He had wanted to give Mister Nikiforov a demonstration of his skills, and he supposed that he was doing just that. Regrettably, there was no clothing brush to be seen and Yuuri did not wish to delay by fetching the one in his bag as Mister Nikiforov was gesturing for him to hurry. Yuuri had to make do with draping Mister Nikiforov’s clothing over his arm and smoothing it out as he carried it forth.
Rather than allow Yuuri to help him, Mister Nikiforov snatched the trousers off his arm and stepped into them himself. He did up the fastening and held out his arms. “The jacket, please.”
Yuuri hesitated. He was not opposed to dressing Mister Nikiforov in a jacket while underneath he wore only an undershirt and corset, but there was another issue at hand. “Your buttons, sir…”
The front of the undershirt was undone, with Mister Nikiforov having spent the entirety of their interaction with his chest exposed, the corset covering up only so much. Yuuri’s professionalism knew no flaws, but averting his eyes from the peeking pink of rosy nipples was a test of timing and angles, as well as will.
Mister Nikiforov glanced down at himself. “Oh, do not concern yourself. The corset was digging into the buttons, thus I undid them. Do I offend?”
“Not at all.”
“Then pay it no mind. My jacket, please, Yuuri.”
That time, Yuuri hastened to aid Mister Nikiforov in slipping into the jacket, moving around to do up the buttons on it and purposefully ignoring those on the undershirt. As the corset was a slim one and not so rigid due to its limited boning, it disappeared beneath the jacket even when Mister Nikiforov pulled the fabric taut around himself.
With proper wares on, Mister Nikiforov managed to appear almost presentable to outside company. Almost. “Sir, if you would permit me, I could freshen up your hair.”
Victor looked at him via the mirror once again, before his blue eyes flickered to the state of his hair. “You’re a man who knows how to lace a corset. Are you also a man who knows how to braid hair?”
“The most accurate way for you to judge my skills would be for me to demonstrate them.”
“Then carry on.”
Yuuri smiled, happy with the opportunity. He opened the bag he had set down when he had rushed to assist Mister Nikiforov with his corset, sorting through the various tools a good valet kept on hand to ensure convenience in his care for his master. He had neither a hair mister nor tonic on hand, items he would be sure to add by the following day, and regrettably neither of those items were ones he would hope to find in a drawing room. A simple brush would have to do.
Fetching a chair for Mister Nikiforov’s comfort, Yuuri gathered his messy hair and brought it back, undoing the ribbon hardly doing its job and draping it neatly over his forearm. He divided Mister Nikiforov’s hair into sections, gently gripping a few centimeters at a time so as not to pull on Mister Nikiforov’s scalp as he began to work the brush from the tips up.
Having been freed from the braid, Mister Nikiforov’s fine silver hair lay in soft waves that grew wild with the first few strokes from the boar-bristle brush, before being tamed. The strands were silken between Yuuri’s fingers and, with some good products and more time, he was convinced he would have been able to make Mister Nikiforov’s moonlight-colored strands gleam in the afternoon sunlight pouring in from the windows.
While brushing out Mister Nikiforov’s slightly unruly hair took time, the braiding itself was swift. As the style Mister Nikiforov had adopted earlier was of a loose plait, Yuuri did the same. He wove the strands over themselves, incorporating the ribbon in the latter half, before tying the tips of the silver strands with a perfectly looped bow. He produced a handheld mirror from his bag and used it to present Mister Nikiforov a reflection in the cheval.
As Mister Nikiforov admired Yuuri’s handiwork, they both hummed with satisfaction, prompting Mister Nikiforov to laugh. “You are here for the position of valet, are you not?”
The comment of what else he would be there for sat on the end of Yuuri’s tongue, but he contained it and nodded. How often did Mister Nikiforov have unfamiliar men coming by, while he was in a state of semi-undress, for it to even be a question? Not that it was his position to judge, and thus he would not do so. Envy and jealousy were also out of consideration. “Yes, sir.”
“Fantastic. Well, then, I greatly appreciate your assistance today. When are you available to move in?”
Yuuri stared, his jaw slack from surprise. He quickly righted his expression. “Pardon?”
“When will you start?”
“I—” Yuuri was quite unsure of how to respond. “The interview, sir?”
“Unnecessary,” Mister Nikiforov responded, the delicate smile on his lips unfairly pleasing. “I have already made up my mind. Oh, but you must need time to consider... Leave your address. I’ll have a proposal for salary sent by post and, if you approve, a coach sent for your things. I do hope to have you in my service, Yuuri.”
Yuuri had a number of other households he had intended to interview with, and yet…
“I would be delighted.”