Chapter Text
Transferring colleges in sophomore year was terrifying regardless of personal circumstances, but what made it even worse was that Yuuri was entering what was sure to be prime ground for a culture shock– moving to Detroit from Japan was not the ideal choice, but it was his only way to plug out the uproar he had left in his home country’s national ice skating rink.
As his loading group was announced for his flight, Yuuri stood stoically and trailed a finger over the handle of his cello case before taking hold of it and trudging towards the boarding doors. He had been a figure skater foremost, but he had taken up the cello cavalierly as a child and hadn’t been able to let it go. Yuuri had no time for a social life between ice skating practice and his weekly cello lessons– it felt like the rest of his life was fitted into obscure, compartmentalized parts of his brain. It was good, in hindsight, because he now had something to fall back on after his ice skating career dissipated in front of his very eyes.
Yuuri didn’t know what he was thinking, trying a quad flip at nationals, and in the end, that jump was what had sunk his career.
It was harshly ironic– he had put his cello playing aside for his ice skating career merely six months before nationals, advised by Minako. It had been a difficult conversation.
“Will it be Katsuki Yuuri, setting his sights on the Grand Prix Final?” Minako had prodded his leg hard as they trained. “Or will it be Katsuki Yuuri, playing his first cello recital in Tokyo? The decision is yours.”
He had chosen the former. It had worked well initially –the calloused pads of his fingertips softening slightly– but then… he didn't like thinking about it anymore.
Or maybe, he wouldn't let himself remember. The mind was an excellent tool in repressing painful memories.
But somewhere in the stirrings of his subconscious, there were still faint recollections of what had occurred– piercing screams, a heart-shattering crack, the wet feeling of ice on his skin. Red. It had been his right knee.
He remembered all too well.
So he had left as soon as he was able to, both knee and heart aching. He knew would never make it to Sochi’s Grand Prix in that state, and, as he looked back on it, there was no way that he would’ve qualified in the first place.
His family showed no signs of disappointment, but there was something hollow in the way that Minako hugged him for the last time at the airport.
Yuuri was ordered to be off the ice for six months. He turned back to the cello; he could use it to connect with people emotionally, and it wasn’t nearly as strenuous on the lower half of his body. Other than accidentally stabbing himself with his endpin, there was virtually no risk of getting hurt. The cello was safe– music was safe.
Secretly, he knew it wasn’t quite enough. He could almost feel blades under his feet, but his right knee ached when he got too nostalgic.
It was the only thing that kept him in the world of reality.
The real world didn’t have quad flips in store for him.
He had to buy an extra plane ticket for his cello, which was as annoying as ever– especially when his cello got upgraded to first class— and he didn’t. After his final attempt at explaining to the befuddled flight attendant that “Vicchan Katsuki” was not a person, he sat back in his seat, exhausted. The stranger next to him, Minami, had graciously offered to switch spots with Yuuri’s cello, pupils widening in excitement when Yuuri agreed.
“I’ve never flown first class before,” Minami raised his arms to his chest and swayed, nearly hitting his head on the overhead bins.
Yuuri patted his cello. “Thank you.”
It’s just you and me, Vicchan, he thought.
Detroit was cold, but not uncomfortably so. After a long day of traveling, Yuuri welcomed the cool bandage effect that the wind was having on his knee.
When he finally arrived to the campus, turning his newly acquired dorm room key into the lock, the first thing he registered was an aggressive take of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. It was jarring, the notes being rushed almost recklessly, and yet, it sounded so alive.
A boy with rich brown skin was playing the violin, swaying slightly as he stared out of the window that was between the dorm’s beds.
Yuuri didn’t say anything, trying not to disturb the violinist’s practice. What gave him away was the loud thud his cello case made as he was wheeling it in.
The violinist stopped abruptly.
“Yuri, if this is you coming to complain about Nikiforov one more time, I’m going to absolutely murder you for interrupting my practice,” the boy said without turning around.
“Hello,” Yuuri wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I’m… your new roommate?”
The boy turned around. “Ah, you must be Yuuri! Don’t mind that last thing I said– that was for a different Yuri.” He placed his violin –an absolutely gorgeous mahogany color– gently onto his bed. He held out his hand for Yuuri to shake. “I’m Phichit!”
Yuuri shook his hand tentatively, not sure how to make conversation with such a jovial person.
“Yuuri, you play the cello?” Phichit examined the bright blue case, then he whistled, tracing one of the stickers plastered randomly on the case.“Japan’s top youth orchestra, hm? You have to audition for our college’s orchestra. I made it in last year– we focus a lot on local and national competitions!”
“Ah, I’m sorry…” Yuuri lugged the case to his side of the room, giving it a soft shove to slide it under the bare bed. “I don’t play competitively anymore. I just play occasionally, you know. When it suits me.”
Noticing the way that Phichit’s excitement fizzled out ever so slightly, Yuuri backpedaled. “But I can come with you if you want? You know, just this once, to see how everything works.”
The undertones of melancholy drifted from Phichit’s face. “Of course! Our first meeting is next week! I’ll come get you from…” –his dark eyes flitted rapidly over Yuuri’s schedule– “cognitive psychology”.
“Thank you,” Yuuri said as he began to unpack.
“Need any help?” Phichit asked.
“Actually, yes…” Yuuri had been too uncomfortable to ask, but it seemed that Phichit knew instinctively. The thought made him smile.
They worked silently– at least, Yuuri did. Phichit seemed to be having a great time giving Yuuri a monologue about anything and everything.
“Hey, what’s this?” his roommate asked, tugging a big box loose from the depths of Yuuri’s bag.
“Oh,” Yuuri took the box and swung the top open, albeit hesitantly. “It’s nothing… these are my ice skates. I’m not a professional.” Yuuri bit back the word anymore. “I just skated when…”
“When it suited you?” Phichit recycled Yuuri’s words. “It seems to me like you have a lot of casual hobbies.”
Yuuri felt his face grow warm. “I do.” He desperately wanted to evade a conversation about his skating. It was a part of his life that was over, and yet he couldn’t bear to part with his skates. He had stared at them for an hour before he had to go to the airport, hands trembling as he packed them into his already overflowing bag. What happened in Japan; it would never happen again. Yuuri made sure of that.
“Well,” Phichit took Yuuri’s skates and set them gingerly against Yuuri’s nightstand. “We’ll see if we can make one of them” – he reached over and patted Yuuri’s case– “full time.”
“Not likely,” Yuuri answered honestly.
Phichit grinned. “Don’t underestimate my powers.”
They unpacked for a little while, and then Phichit somehow coerced Yuuri into taking a selfie with him.
#newroommate @katsukiyuuri is the best, though I don’t see why he could ever choose psychology over music #violinmajorsarethebest :)
The week passed quicker than Yuuri anticipated. He grew comfortable with his routine, studying a variety of subjects, some of which had nothing to do with his major: psychology. He loved psych because it looked deceptively simple, and yet there were always twists and turns in every unit he encountered. The particular psychology course he was taking –cognitive psychology– was the most difficult in the school, and yet even his professor, Mr. Feltsman, seemed to take to him.
“You’re doing well, Yuuri,” he muttered one day as his students were leaving. As soon as Mr. Feltsman was out of earshot, one of Yuuri’s classmates, Seung-gil Lee, congratulated him on having the rare Feltsman seal of approval.
“I swear, the only other person that Feltsman likes in this damn school is his prodigal nephew, Victor.”
“Victor?” Yuuri asked. “Victor who?”
“Did my ears deceive me, or did I hear you talking about Victor Nikiforov?” Phichit had somehow appeared at Yuuri’s side when he wasn’t paying attention, his violin case slung casually on his back.
“Who’s he?” Yuuri asked.
Phichit gasped. “You seriously have no clue? And you’ve been here an entire week?”
“What’s so special about him?” Yuuri scratched the back of his neck. “Is he a celebrity or something?”
“Might as well be,” Seung-gil grumbled. “He can be a bit conceited sometimes.”
“Can someone just tell me who this Victor is?”
“He’s our school’s pianist. Our only one, mind you, and yet he refuses to accompany anyone. Not one single piano accompaniment at this school; it’s unbelievable!”
Yuuri scrunched his nose. “Why not?”
“Thinks the piano is too good for it,” Phichit guessed. “Or thinks that he’s too good for it.”
“Well, is he any good?” Yuuri asked, and Seung-gil groaned.
“He’s too good– that’s the problem.”
“So what does he do, if he doesn’t want to accompany anyone?”
Phichit answered this time. “He usually enters solo competitions, and sometimes he needs us for piano concertos– that’s why he’s technically part of our orchestra.”
“Yuuri, you’ll meet him soon enough,” Seung-gil added brightly.
“When?”
Phichit stopped abruptly, hands falling on his hips. “You couldn’t have forgotten! Why do you think I’m here instead of back at the dorms?”
Yuuri shrugged, though there was a faint memory tugging at the edges of his conscious, struggling to be known.
“We have our first orchestra meeting today, Yuuri! How could you forget?”
Yuuri flushed, putting a hand to his head. “Oh god,” he exclaimed. “That was today ?”
“You’re not going to get out of this, Yuuri,” Phichit warned. “No one should be withheld from seeing my beautiful playing!”
The boy latched onto Yuuri’s arm, tugging him toward the dorm. “We have to run now because you don’t have your cello with you.”
“But I don’t even–”
“Wait here– I’ll go get it,” Phichit dumped his violin into Yuuri’s arms and zoomed into the dorm building at an unprecedented speed.
“–think I’m going to play,” Yuuri finished, talking to no one.
He sat down on the building’s marble steps resignedly, propping Phichit’s case up on the rail, rubbing small circles into his right knee. He hadn’t run this fast in a very long time.
Phichit was breathing hard as exited the double doors, Yuuri’s cello case precariously strapped onto his back.
“Phichit,” Yuuri heaved the cello off the quivering boy’s back, “you do realize this case has wheels?”
Phichit nearly fell over in response.
They didn’t head to the college’s much-too-large auditorium, as Yuuri had thought they would. Instead, they filed into the building next to it, the words “Performing Arts” engraved in gold letters into a section of the concrete sidewalk.
“This is where we usually practice,” Phichit explained. “The auditorium is usually booked by the drama students, and since we don’t have to practice in there, we just leave them to it.”
The halls were gleaming, the white tiles murmuring as the wheels of Yuuri’s cello case passed over them.
He heard faint noises coming from each of the rooms they walked by, and the variety of it all caught him by surprise. He could hear some Dvořák, Beethoven, and Fauré, but he could also hear modern songs too– he caught the slightest bit of the twenty one pilots song ‘Heathens’ being played on the harp. It made him chuckle.
“Phichit, you won’t believe what the asshole did today!” A voice sounded out as they walked into a large room allotted for the day’s practice. Yuuri noticed that there was a rack of cellos propped up against the wall, and Phichit muttered a “whoops” in a vague apology for forgetting that Yuuri didn’t have to bring his instrument.
“Oi, Yuri, what piece did Nikiforov reject now?” Phichit tousled a blond boy’s hair good-naturedly, resulting in him getting a hard shove in the chest.
“Grieg. A violin sonata, can’t remember which one,” a tall man answered, coming up behind the blond Yuri, shaking with benign amusement.
Then, he turned. “I’m Otabek,” he was the first person to address Yuuri directly, holding out his hand while the blond seethed next to him. “I play the viola. You must be new?”
“Yuuri,” Yuuri took a hold of Otabek’s hand.
“What do you want?” Yuri snapped, gripping his violin so tight that Yuuri could almost believe that his fingerprints would leave permanent indents in the wood.
“No,” Yuuri explained. “I’m Yuuri too. Yuuri Katsuki. I transferred here for my sophomore year.”
“Oh, an older Yuuri?” Otabek laughed. “There can’t be two of you– it’ll get confusing.”
“I’ve got it!” Phichit made his way back into the conversation. “Since you’re older, you can stay Yuuri, and since Plisetsky here is our only freshman, he can be Yurio! It’s that sim–”
Phichit was interrupted when Yurio punched him on the arm so hard that Yuuri was surprised that Phichit didn’t drop his violin.
“I was here first! Why me?” he hissed.
His question was going to be left unanswered, however, because the conductor –who Yuuri recognized as a man by the name of Mr. Thompson– stepped onto the podium. Students scrambled for seats in the arrangement, and Yuuri rushed to the back of the room, opting to sit and watch rather than partake in any playing.
“Okay if I sit here?” he asked a redhead who was setting up the rock stop for her bass. She turned and looked where he was pointing– it was directly behind her, effectively hiding him but also allowing him to observe.
“Well, it’s not my spot on the wall so it might as well be yours.” She winked at him. “Shy, are you?”
“Something like that,” Yuuri smiled. “Thank you…?”
“Mila,” she answered his unspoken question. “Mila Babicheva. And you are?”
“Yuuri Katsuki,” he said as he settled himself in his newfound seat.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Mila said before she turned her attention to the front.
The Bruch Violin Concerto No. One was what they started with– difficult, and yet Yuuri could see the happiness exude from Phichit’s face as he realized that he could have a major solo. (Privately, Yuuri had wished that they were doing a piano concerto of some kind, just so he could meet that elusive pianist, Victor.)
The rehearsal itself was a blur– a cacophony of noises that could only be produced from months without practice and frankly horrendous sight-reading of new music. Still, Yuuri noted, they looked pleased with themselves, impulses and instincts taking over rational and technical playing. Even in this audible squalor, Yuuri could see why so many people vied for the opportunity to play with this orchestra. It was vivacious and Yuuri could feel the music instead of hear it.
Yuuri’s fingers twitched.
He wanted to skate to this music, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
When they finally finished, a bubble that had been swelling in Yuuri’s chest burst, and the surrealness of it all seemed to dissipate along with the serious tone of the performers. Instantly, Phichit and Yurio –first and second chair respectively– were bickering and Otabek, sitting comfortably in the viola section, was looking on, his eyebrows raised. Seung-gil, who was sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered something in Otabek’s ear. They both laughed, eliciting dirty looks from both violinists.
“I’ll get that solo,” Yurio promised, and Phichit clamped a hand on his back.
“We’ll see about that, my Russian friend. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”
Yurio snorted. “I thought those were hamsters?”
“Touché.”
Phichit insisted on showing Yuuri the piece he was working on –the Paganini from before– and Yuuri looked on appreciatively, clapping whenever Phichit did a particularly good job with series of notes.
“I could do that better,” Yurio would say every few measures, but even he grew tired at a point, calling over Otabek and heading out.
Yuuri didn’t know what it was, but there was something heady about the practice room, so much so that it gave him a dull headache but something more excitable deep in his gut.
Phichit yawned as he packed his violin. “Want to start heading back?” he asked, mostly as a formality. “No class tomorrow, so we can watch The King and the Skater instead!”
Yuuri winced. He’d been shocked to find out that this was Phichit’s favorite movie, but then understood. The world had it against him, he thought resignedly. It was determined to add salt to Yuuri’s figure skating wound, and it knew how to do it well.
“Actually, you go ahead,” he found himself telling Phichit. “I want to stay for a little while– I’ll find my way back.”
“You sure?” Phichit sounded concerned but his eyes blinked lazily. “I could always stay.”
“No, you’re tired.” Yuuri said. “I can take care of myself, I promise.”
“If you insist…” Phichit looked around. Seung-gil was the last one left in the room, but he motioned to leave when Phichit stood up. “Turn off all the lights when you leave, alright?”
“I will,” Yuuri promised.
The room was strangely quiet as the pair left, the slow hum of the heating unit constant and heavy in Yuuri’s ears. Slowly, he wheeled over his cello near the closest chair, facing a barren wall.
Unpacking his cello felt routine, and before he had processed it, he was settling himself on the chair swaying slightly as he adjusted himself into a proper playing position.
He tried scales first, bristling initially as his cello was extremely out of tune. It was a problem that was easily solved, and then Yuuri took a deep breath and set his bow on the strings.
Yuuri was playing an old piece –a Fauré that used to help him sleep at night. Après un rêve, it was called– After a dream.
It was a piano and cello piece, but Yuuri was used to playing by himself. He got lost in the notes, closing his eyes again and relishing the feeling of his fingers pressing roughly on the fingerboard, the inherent familiarity of the piece tugging at his heartstrings. He quickened his vibrato as the piece reached its peak, swaying from side to side as he heard the piano in his head.
It was over quicker than he expected– he had forgotten that the piece wasn’t as long as others. Yuuri was breathing hard from the exertion, and his right knee tingled. He leaned forward, shifting his cello to his left as he struggled to calm himself down, but the spell was broken, and the euphoria of forgetting about his knee had abruptly left him.
“That was …” Yuuri jumped as he heard a voice behind him. He turned and saw someone who couldn’t possibly be mortal. His silver hair was thin but smooth and soft-looking, and his features were chiseled, as if they were hand-crafted by a dexterous sculptor. But what made Yuuri feel like he had been drugged were the man’s eyes: the most beautiful blue that Yuuri had ever seen.
This figure was looking at him contemplatively, cocking his head to one side as if considering something.
Yuuri stood, grasping the neck of his cello with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you…”
This seemed to pull the man out of his thoughts. “Disturb…?” The very word sounded foreign on his tongue. “No, not at all… I…” He was having trouble deciding what to say, and the more Yuuri stared at him, the more aware he was of his mouth going dry.
“My name is Victor Nikiforov,” the man decided on what to say. “I am a pianist, and I want to accompany you.”