Chapter Text
Viktor Nikiforov was never one to dull a surprise. When a surprise came, it came with motion, with spirit, and with the full ferocity of orchestrated strings and winds. As soon as those nimble fingers glided down the piano keys, the audience was at the edge of its seat. Thunderous applause and lightning reflexes came with age, and wine usually tasted a little sweeter, a little richer with the coming of age. Coordinated movements, eagle vision, and a whirlwind of flipped music sheets swept past the Yamaha piano on center stage. Viktor leaned into the piece, chipping into every dynamic that gave the composition its dash of flavor.
An explosion of keys as Viktor’s fingers pounced from one end of the piano to the other. The poor piano buckled under its legs, gazing up at its maestro while a sleeve slipped and exposed a rich ebony shoulder. A waltz of passion spilling between the notes and rhythms that only a musician could have with their instrument. Perhaps, a leisurely tango at the composition’s climax, or perhaps a dip with a kiss. Cherishing what one wanted to hold. Forever, if need be.
A trickling tremolo was all that was left before Viktor tipped his head back. Sweat falling between his hair and neck after the dance had ended.
A standing ovation. Viktor took centre-stage and basked under his applause. His ponytail had come undone during the performance, and his silky bangs tickled his nose with each bow until he walked offstage with dozens of bouquets. Yakov, with his crossed arms, kept his comments brief as he gathered Viktor’s sweet tokens. Pride was high on Yakov’s brow, but he kept a stern face. Better to give treats on a rare occasion than spoil a learning puppy. But then again, Viktor wasn’t a puppy anymore. Onstage, he was a pack leader that dominated the piano realm. No, the music realm.
To inflate a young alpha’s ego was a curse, and humility was a virtue for any age.
While the world remembered a promising young alpha, a smaller portion remembered Viktor because of his eyes. In a small touristy town near the coast of Japan, a little violist huddled with his knees pressed against his chest. His eyes never left the television screen, even for just a moment. His nails dug into his kneecaps as the international, broadcasting channel replayed certain scenes during Viktor Nikiforov’s performance.
Those fingers! A mere blur captured in high definition, 4K quality for extra dull eyes. Yuuri gnawed on his thumbnail.
Look at how Viktor’s clothes wrinkle and fold as he play! Something simple as that mesmerized Yuuri. The flexing of clothes and the little head flicks Viktor did to keep his ponytail in check were in rhythm with the flowery composition. Viktor’s eyes sparked under the stage lights. Those eyes fell through fifty shades as a mellow, rich phrase soared over Viktor’s shoulders and tingled down to his fingertips. Like he was angel onstage, and Yuuri saw Viktor’s wings spread across the piano. Keeping in harmony with the fanciful instrument.
I could play like that. Yuuri’s fingers tapped across his knees, imitating Viktor’s playing style. I can play like that. Stumbling off the couch, Yuuri tripped and collided with corners and walls as he made it to his room. His rosy viola case perked up and squealed when Yuuri grabbed it. Opening the case, Yuuri pulled out his instrument and bow and started playing. His bow slipped on and off across four strings while his fingers ran up and down the bridge.
Choppy movements, smooth bow strokes, and the occasional hook and slur unlocked Yuuri’s mind. He could do this. He can do this. He imagined himself on the very same stage that Viktor was on. Yuuri could see himself, playing lustrous pieces and stunning solos for the entire world to hear. Yuuri could see it all, even though he knew that he couldn’t hear a single note of it.
Hovering outside Yuuri’s bedroom window, Mari retracted her hand from the door knob and simply leaned against the door frame to listen to her baby brother play. Listening to a tiny fledgling peep and flap its wings, even though it could never fly.
In a pure alpha household, Mari and her parents had to accept that Yuuri was a little different from them. He had the reflex and fury of an alpha if need be, but he had the tenderness of an omega if he cared to be. It didn’t help that he grew up with a soft frame, but Yuuri soon toughened up naturally as an alpha-ish build started to take over as he neared his tenth birthday.
What never changed was his sweet demeanor and his snappy tongue when provoked.
But during those years, Mari used to cross her arms whenever she saw Yuuri come home from school. She analyzed her brother. How did Yuuri carry himself? Shoulders back and chest forward? Hunched over while twiddling his thumbs? Or perhaps, was Yuuri simply walking with an extra spring to his step, admiring all the sights around him. Mari always feared that her brother would grow into an omega. The fear never left, even after Yuuri was confirmed as a beta after his ‘turning’.
In actuality, Yuuri’s ‘turning’ was pretty tame.
He didn’t sprout ten inches during the night. The ‘turning’ was rather peaceful, and Mari pressed her ear by her little brother’s door, hoping to hear some kind of sign. A whimper? Growling? Nothing. Mari opened the door just a bit and saw a sleeping Yuuri with drool hanging out of his mouth as he gnawed on his pillow. Yuuri was twelve when he ‘turned’. And when the little Katsuki woke up, nothing about him changed. Albeit, he was a little more responsible but other than that, he was the same Yuuri.
During his yearly check-up, the Katsukis discovered that their Yuuri had inherited a recessive gene. A gene that made him a beta, through and through. Mari was dumbfounded and had to explain her behavior through sign language when Yuuri questioned her about it. Hiroko and Toshiya Katsuki took the news far better than what the doctor expected. After an hour long discussion and after looking through multiple charts and papers, the Katsuki family returned home and things went back to normal.
Yuuri may’ve been a beta, but he was still a Katsuki. Yuuri was family, and nothing was going to change that. Even when he was a beta and deaf.
Why hand a musical instrument to a boy, who could never hear it sing? Hiroko and Toshiya believed in miracles. Simple as that. If their bundle of joy had a one out of a thousandth chance of being the person he was today, the two were willing to see how far Yuuri could go if he picked up something that gave him joy.
For Yuuri, his greatest joy was the pitter patter of music. Even though he couldn’t hear it, he felt the music through his body. Minako helped him discover that. As a ballet instructor, Minako taught Yuuri how to feel a song’s rhythm through movements and gestures. The afternoon dance lessons toughened the little Katsuki, and his childhood softness leaned back to expose growing muscles and a strength that Yuuri never thought he had. Eventually, he started experimenting with music and dance. Seeing how a famous YouTuber could do it, Yuuri was determined to follow in those same footsteps. He had a general idea, and he knew a few songs. Why not add a dance with them?
In the small world of Hasetsu, Yuuri could do as he pleased without anyone’s judgement.
As Yuuri grew older and stretched his wings, he saw how gridlocked the world was about dynamics. Everywhere he turned, he saw signs prohibiting alphas from certain locations. Or, he would browse down an aisle at the market and see scent-concealing products for omegas. The world ran on scents, and Yuuri had one of the best sniffers in the world. Well , in the Hasetsu world. In the real world, Yuuri was just an average Joe. With only a handful of betas in the world, Yuuri really did feel alone.
Alpha or omega? Choose.
Most sided with alpha since his household was purely alpha. Others sided that he was an omega because of his meek nature, general courtesy, and sweet disposition. What both groups agreed on was that Yuuri was simply a late-bloomer.
“You’ll find out where you belong soon. Just wait. These things take time.” Someone told him. Yuuri was in college at the time. At Juilliard. While Yuuri was a junior and while his companion, Phichit Chulanont, was a freshman violist. “My family didn’t know what I was until I was sixteen.”
Phichit said all of this in sign-language, of course. American sign-language. Another topic of discussion: the horror of your music professor finding out that you were a hundred percent deaf. Yuuri got away with it for a few months when he first started. He had classmates that were willing to help him understand what was going on. But after a while, the professor became suspicious when Yuuri couldn’t participate in the class discussions.
Cue, the school searching for an interpreter for Yuuri. Cue, said interpreter following him around the Juilliard campus for the next three years.
Honestly, Yuuri wouldn’t mind having Phichit as his interpreter instead. Not only was the freshman kind of crazy, Phichit and Yuuri piggybacked ideas off of each other during their break sessions between classes. Yuuri may’ve been bias, but it would’ve been neat to have an interpreter that could understand him more than just through signs and occasional napkin-notes. Not to mention, Phichit was a pretty good counselor when the the older violist needed it the most.
“Are you going to continue being a violist?” Phichit asked him one day. By then, he was a sophomore. Yuuri was a senior. Just two months shy from graduation.
“I don’t know.” Yuuri chewed the tip of his pencil’s eraser. His hands grew hesitant, but he managed somehow. “I still want to perform, but I don’t think I’m good enough.”
Phichit wasn’t shy when he called Yuuri out/
“The fact that you got accepted into Juilliard means that you’re more than good enough.” Phichit reached his arm over and around Yuuri’s shoulder, a firm pat of confidence to boost the spirits. “Believe in yourself, buddy. You’re really good. Trust me.”
If a single smile could make someone happy, one of Phichit’s smiles could send Yuuri to the moon and back in no time. And although Phichit didn’t sign or say it, Yuuri could sense the hidden message behind his friend’s words.
“You’re gonna make history one day.”
That was any musician's dream. Having the entire world chant your name until the end of time. Wasn’t that a bliss? In the tiny world of Juilliard, you could say stuff like that and mean it. No strings attached, no feelings were hurt when dreams didn’t happen. You just got up and tried again, with supportive friends and teachers at your side while you pursued bigger things beyond from what you knew.
When Yuuri returned to Japan after graduation, his first dream was to play in an orchestra. And when the time came, his second dream was to play on the same stage as his idol and inspiration, Viktor Nikiforov.
After thirteen years, Yuuri never forgot the breathtaking solo that he witnessed on TV, all those years ago. With every year since, Viktor brought something new to the music realm. He always brought another challenge, and Yuuri was finally strong enough to accept one. With the best wishes from his family and friends, Yuuri traveled across Europe and North America. Participating in concerts and competitions and all seemed well.
Yuuri made a name for himself. He made his family and hometown proud. Nothing could describe the ecstasy welling up in Yuuri’s heart when he stepped under a stage light and felt his viola sing. For formality sake, Yuuri couldn’t dance or shuffle around like he wanted to. Planted firmly like a tree, he had to muster all of his emotions through facial expressions and tone. But even so, he occasionally swayed along with a song if it was slow and gentle enough.
Again, people wondered about his dynamic. Whatever label people threw at him, Yuuri simply ignored it and continued to strive towards his dreams. At the age of twenty two and a quarter, Yuuri was invited to be the principal violist for an orchestra in Moscow. Live on TV, the proudly dressed orchestra shuffled to its spot and waited for orders from the conductor. Yuuri sat in the lead, an army of violas situated behind him.
At the piano was Viktor.
Yuuri tensed up. Why’s he here?
In all of the afternoon practices that Yuuri had gone to, he had never seen Viktor in any of them! Was Viktor a guest? Did he practice? Yuuri tried to scribble a note to his stand partner, but the conductor cleared her throat and motioned for Yuuri to get ready. The violist twitched. Viktor was here. Viktor was going to hear him play. Yuuri had a solo, and Viktor was going to serenade him on the piano.
Yuuri was stiff as a rock. Even with glasses, he couldn’t see the notes in front of him. He became all too aware of the different scents that were mingled around him. The high, peach aroma from his stand partner, the musky scent of the conductor, the vicious cycle of competing smells that bled from the back and into Yuuri’s nose, and Viktor’s powerful scent shook a few screws out from the principal violist’s head.
Someone nudged Yuuri. He started playing. Where was he? Where was the group? Was he too fast? Too slow? Wrong key? Definitely wrong key. For the first time in her career, the conductor stopped the orchestra to retry its entrance into the piece. Yuuri was mortified.
Relax. You can do this.
But again, Yuuri tensed up and his first few notes came out like squawks. The conductor challenged her gaze with Yuuri’s when she stopped the orchestra for a second time. Yuuri gulped.
From the corner of his eye, Yuuri noticed that Viktor turned his head. Was he judging?
How could a international guest mess up this poorly for an esteemed orchestra? On live television, no less! Whether the stand moved on its own or if Yuuri’s head felt like taking a nosedive, the same outcome occurred. Yuuri fainted and would’ve smashed into the floor if his stand partner didn’t catch him in time.
No, Yuuri didn’t faint. Everything almost went black but when he felt his stand partner’s hand, Yuuri woke up with a jolt. He literally jumped out of his seat and tripped over the stand in front of him, spilling music sheets across the floor. Everyone stared at him.
What pitiful sight they saw.
A proud violist down on his knees before running offstage in tears.
Locked in a restroom stall with his instrument, Yuuri tore out a roll of toilet paper and smushed his face into the chaos. What happened to him? Was it because of Viktor? No, Yuuri couldn’t push a blame onto someone else. He was just overreacting, and he humiliated a promising orchestra in the process.
What an idiot I’ve been.
Yuuri didn’t know that someone was hovering outside his stall. He didn’t know that someone heard his muffled cries. The sharp inhales of breath, followed by hiccups and grunts until the stall door was ripped open by a swift kick. Yuuri flinched. Standing in front of him was the prodigy doublebass player, Yuri Plisetsky. The youth’s bow was loosely attached to his belt loop, and it swayed when he pointed a dirty finger at Yuuri’s chest.
“I don’t know what the Hell you thought you were doing. But if you can’t lead your section without stumbling, get ouT OF THE FRONT ROW!”
Yuuri fell back against the toilet at the sudden bark. Remaining there until Plisetsky got the reaction he wanted, only crawling back to his feet when the double-bassist was gone. At least, Yuuri’s viola was okay. Unscathed after the fall, but Yuuri couldn’t say the same for his lower back when he shuffled out from the restroom.
Tail between his legs. But in this case, his head was down low. Unable to look at anyone when he when he hid behind the side curtains, watching everyone else perform. Unable to meet his idol’s eyes when Viktor glanced over at him.
Yuuri suspected that his dream would end like this.