Black Ice

Chapter 1

He gasped, brown eyes tearing up as rough hands gripped his waist. He blinked them away, gritting his teeth as a moan sounded from behind him. Sweat beaded down his forehead and his eyes blurred hazily around the cheap motel. Moth-bitten curtains, cigarette holes burned into the sheets, a mysterious stain on the blanket. His head hurt, buzzing like the vacancy sign outside.

Another groan of pleasure from above him. Yuri hoped he'd finish soon.

Hi! My name is Katsuri Yuri, I'm an 18-year-old Japanese-American college student studying in Chicago.

Yuri gripped the sheets under him as the man pummeled into him again.

As you can tell, I have a part-time job as an exotic escort.

Another moan of ecstasy. The hammering grew more erratic. He was close.

But most people just call me a prostitute.

His client thrust weakly into him a couple times before groaning and pulling out. Yuri felt a sticky substance trailing down his legs and shuddered, but that compared nothing to the disgust he felt when the man chuckled, leaning down to his ear and whispering, "Did you like that, baby?"

Resisting the urge to slap him away, Yuri bit his lip and smiled coyly.

"Yes, very much."

"Yes, very much what, Yuri?"

Yuri stomped down his pride as he replied in a low hiss, "Yes, Daddy."

The man smirked smugly and patted his head, pulling out his wallet and yanking out some large bills before slapping them on the bedside table.

"Extra, just for you sweetheart."

Yuri pushed back bile as he gasped much too enthusiastically and beamed at his client, giving his praise and thanks.

Like a dog. You're a fucking dog, Yuri Katsuki.

The man chuckled, buckling his pants and leaving for the door.

"I'll ask for you again, angel."

Yuri sincerely hoped he wouldn't.

---

"Tadaima," Yuri called as he trudged back home. He bit back a groan of pain as he knelt down and unlaced his sneakers.

His mom immediately poked her head from the hallway and offered him a brilliant smile. He wished he could return it.

"Yuri! You're home late, did the boss ask you to stay again?" She fussed, her warm eyes smothered in worry. Maybe it was just him but she looked thinner. She used to be a plump and healthy woman, but now she had withered away, like a dying blossom.

Ever since...

"Yeah...er, he needed help restocking," Yuri replied lamely. She looked like she wanted to say more but he gave her a weak half-smile, looking more like a grimace.

She sighed, furrowing her brows.

"Well, do you want some katsudon?"

Yuri shook his head, ignoring her disappointed eyes.

"I'm tired, Mom."

---

The scalding water rushed down on his shoulders as he grabbed a sponge and scrubbed until his skin was red and raw. He kept scrubbing, scrubbing because he had to. He was so, so dirty. He was disgusting. He didn't deserve to live.

Bruises covered his entire body. Dark blue fingerprints were tattooed onto his pale hips, sore red imprints marked his impurity on his neck, scratch marks skidded down his arms, his back. He was like a broken doll.

Used, shattered, and discarded.

A gasp tore out of his throat and he breathed in, trying to catch his breath. But he couldn't. His brain pounded in his skull and his lungs couldn't seem to hold onto any air. His vision blurred and his hands twitched.

Oh, I'm having a panic attack, he realized faintly.

His chest shook and his throat ached as he tried to take deep breaths, dissolving into shuddering spasms.

Curling into a tight ball, Yuri pressed his knees to his chest and wound his arms tightly around his legs, shaking with a fear he couldn't comprehend. The water turned cold as he tried to keep himself from shattering, from careening over the edge of insanity.

Oh God, he thought. Oh, God.

Yuri sighed as his professor dismissed his final class. He grabbed his laptop and stuffed it into his book bag, walking towards the door.

---

Tuition was due in a week.

He sighed again.

"Mr. Katsuki!"

Yuri turned around with a curious expression on his face. His professor, Celestino, waved at him to stop walking. Confused, Yuri let out a hesitant, "Yes?"

"Yuri, your last essay was incredible," he breathed out.

Yuri gave him an awkward smile.

"Thanks, Professor," he mumbled. He wasn't used to praise.

"Have you ever considered changing your major? To creative writing? You have the talent for it, Yuri."

Yuri shook his head. Creative writing would starve him and his family and his dog. No way in hell. Even though he loved writing, it was implausible.

"Sorry professor, I don't really like it," he lied.

Celestino looked downcast, but he offered a supportive smile.

"Well, if you ever change your mind Yuri, let me know."

"I will."

I won't.

---

Blue eyes widened in surprise. "Did you say a freshman wrote this?"

Professor Yahkov nodded, "Yes, Vitya, a freshman from Chicago I believe."

Victor Nikiforov stuttered-and he never stuttered-, "F-freshman freshman? As in a first year? Wrote this?"

Yahkov rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"If you have time to read some kid's thesis you should have time to prepare for your lecture, Professor Nikiforov," he snapped, sounding like the teacher Victor knew and loved. Yahkov tried to yank the paper out of his hands, but Victor held on and whined until he gave up, cursing and stomping out of the room.

Victor stroked the pages almost lovingly, ignoring the way the words were crumpled from their little game of tug-of-war. He was intrigued.

The writing was beautiful, painfully so. The words wove together in a way that could build worlds and destroy them, all at once.

It was stunning.

When was the last time, Victor wondered, his azure eyes taking over the writing. When was the last time a piece of writing captured me so completely? When was the last time I felt this rush?

Who is this brilliant mind?

His eyes wandered to the name printed in tiny font at the top of the page.

Ah, he smiled.

So it's you, Yuri Katsuki.