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“Viktor, are you sure you don’t mind going by yourself?” Chris asks as the actor finishes attaching his cufflinks. Gold, to match the awards lining his walls. “I just don’t want to miss this date with Masumi. I think we’re going to pet dolphins. You understand, right?”
The answer is an unsteady no, but he’s unwilling to voice it. Viktor doesn’t usually go to these types of events alone, but it’s a bit last minute to find a new companion. The gallery is upscale, popular among his friends, and he’ll probably see people he knows. Showing up stag is in vogue, right? He’ll look independent, not lonely...right? “What? Oh, of course,” Viktor finally replies. He exits the massive walk-in closet to show off his outfit.
Chris looks up from his phone, wrinkles his nose and throws a pillow at his friend. “Boo! Not enough skin! If Rihanna got show all her legs and half a tit at the Met Gala, why do you have to wear a suit?”
Viktor looks down at his outfit, “Would you prefer I try out the tuxedo shorts look?”
Chris gives an exasperated sigh and goes back to texting Masumi about their spontaneous date.
~ * ~
His destination isn’t far. He drives himself through the crowded streets of Los Angeles, black car weaving amongst the tight traffic. After arriving in West Hollywood, Viktor pulls on his sunglasses and hopes not to be recognized by too many fans. He probably should have brought a bodyguard, but it seemed like such overkill for just a short visit.
The gallery is small. Chasing Stardust: an Artist’s Journey, is etched onto the large window out front in a scrolling font.
This artist has always drawn his attention. In primary school, long before he’d known much about art beyond finger painting and macaroni portraits, Viktor found a book with famous works printed inside. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, some of Jackson Pollock’s drippings, and a stray Rothko or two. It was Mikhailovich Ivanov’s piece that caught his eye, though. The large swaths of unexpected color and finely detailed accents were a mix that enchanted and fascinated. While Ivanov never grew to any particular fame, those who did love his work were often fanatics.
While not exactly a devotee, Viktor did pass up Chris’s eventual polite invitation of third wheeling on a dolphin-petting date to make sure he made the gallery opening. Pushing at the glass door, he immediately marvels at the crowd already present inside the small building. Huddled around each painting are small crowds milling and sipping from champagne flutes. A catering staff passes out colorful hor d'oeuvres, and Viktor carefully takes one of each. So far, no one he recognizes. LA is a big city, with too many people and too many things to do. It does make him a feel a bit unpopular for a moment, so he distracts himself by looking at the art. Everything, he’s seen before online or in other galleries, but it’s still nice to see the layout the curator chose. Like the name suggests, the gallery seems to be arranged to follow the life of the artist as he went through the different countries in his many travels across Europe and Asia. While most artists of the period focused on either Romanticism or Realism, Ivanov’s works were usually more fluid and expressive.
Viktor couldn’t begin to guess how much time had passed before he is pulled from his reverie by a voice.
“Oh wow, are you Viktor Nikiforov?” a young man with a sweet brown face approaches him, grin wide and eyes gleaming with awe. He wears a light blue seersucker suit that cuts off above the knee to show off long, fine calves. Viktor makes a mental note to tell Chris the look works.
Viktor smirks, and takes off his sunglasses, “You’ve caught me.”
“Can we take a selfie? My friends will not believe I saw you here,” the kid says.
Viktor nods, “Of course. What’s your name, man?”
“Phichit Chulanont!” he replies as he sidles in and poses with a peace sign in front of his selfie stick. Viktor offers his usual photogenic expression, “I’ll tag you in it on Insta, you should totally comment!”
Viktor is a bit moved by Phichit’s exuberance. “Maybe I will.”
“Oh hey,” Phichit places a hand on Viktor’s shoulder like they’re old friends. “You should definitely meet my friend over there.” He points across the gallery to a man in a black suit and ugly blue tie, who gestures with a sloshing glass of champagne and speaks at length to a large group. “Poor guy, he drinks when he’s nervous. He’s a huge fan of yours, though. When we were in college, he had, like, fifty of your posters hanging everywhere. It was like, ‘hey I’m just trying to get yogurt from the fridge, why is there this poster of Viktor Nikiforov shirtless plastered on the inside?’ Oh…I guess when you meet him don’t tell him I said that?”
Phichit starts to giggle, and Viktor can’t help but laugh along. “He looks kind of busy,” Viktor says, still gazing at the handsome friend.
Phichit pouts, “Yeah, too busy to hang out with me, even. And I got all dressed up.”
“At least you look nice,” Viktor concedes.
“Phichit!” a voice calls, and they both turn to see who it is.
“Guang-hong, Leo!” he yells back. Turning to Viktor, Phichit waves, “Thank you again for the picture. I hope you enjoy your night!”
~ * ~
Viktor spend the rest of the evening wandering from piece to piece and checking his phone periodically for updates from Chris. At one point, he receives a photo of the foretold dolphin encounter, and he sends back a picture of the gallery. No response. Viktor gets another glass of champagne.
Between paintings, he hears the voice of Phichit’s friend explaining the paintings to various guests. Sure enough, he does seem to always have a fresh glass of champagne in his hand. The guests begin to avoid the man as his words get more and more over-the-top as he surpasses the socially-accepted level of buzzed and approaches public drunkenness.
At the end of the gallery, one painting is separated from the rest. Many people have flocked to it, so it takes a few minutes before Viktor can make his way to the front of the group. The dark placard next to the frame dubs it “Untitled – Oil”.
The piece isn’t one he hasn’t seen before, which isn’t even the most unusual thing about it. It feels like a breakaway from Ivanov’s usual style…but at the same time, it isn’t? Viktor isn’t certain what about it unnerves him so, and he spend several minutes staring at it. People come and go, chattering amongst themselves, while Viktor stares.
“You’ve been planted here so long, you’re going to grow roots,” someone says. “What does it make you think of?”
Viktor’s eyes flick over. He’s been joined by Phichit’s friend. His new companion looks over at him, the man’s face flushed darkly with drink. Something flutters in Viktor’s stomach when their eyes finally meet—a feeling he can’t remember having before.
A moment passes. Viktor licks his lips. “I suppose it’s hard to put into words.”
The man hums a bit longer than necessary. He takes another sip from the flute in his hand. “Ah, I think I understand. It’s more of a feeling?”
“Exactly. Some of Ivanov’s works, his later works, make me feel homesick. There’s a sense of longing attached. But during his pilgrimage to Italy, it felt like there was a lightness to everything. A sense of hope, I suppose.”
“Hope. I see it, but—for me, the night sky in this one, all the shooting stars stuck in a moment in time. It seems like he was trying to save something ephemeral. Even more so since he kept it locked away. That’s why the gallery is called Chasing Stardust.”
“Oh?” Viktor glances over, appreciates the way the man’s lips move when he talks, the fine plane of his nose and brow. Fifty of Viktor’s posters in college, huh?
“We found this piece locked up in a trunk in an attic of an old atelier in Italy. A few restorers spent months fixing up the spots where the paint had faded. I like to think it was his favorite work, bundled away for safekeeping.”
“We?”
The man raises an eyebrow and gives a little breath of laughter. “I’m the curator of this gallery. We’ve been planning this exhibit for years. How did you think I knew so much? This Ph.D. in art history isn’t just a trophy.”
Curiosity piqued, Viktor turns his full body to the curator. Again, a ping rings like a bell being struck somewhere near his heart. “Years? You must be quite the fan, to go through such trouble. Seems like more than just a professional interest.”
His new friend smiles, a conspiratorial thing that curves at the edges like a crescent moon. There it is--the chime of recognition. A bright flash like a shooting star—a streak of inspiration. “Something like that.”
“Your friend told me you drink when you’re nervous,” Viktor finally says.
The man’s eyes open wide. He nearly yells when he replies, gesturing wildly at Viktor’s person, “Of course I’m nervous. Viktor Nikiforov is here!”
Viktor starts at the outburst, and they both stare at each other for a moment before he barks out a bite of laughter. The curator’s laugh joins his immediately, until they’re both bent over at the waist, giggling and nearly spilling champagne on the hardwood floor of the gallery.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you such anxiety! Let me make it up to you...?” Viktor says when they’ve both ceased shaking. He reaches out his hand, and the curator takes it in both of his own.
“Yuuri,” he replies with a smile. There is a gleam in his eye, like a whole universe is waiting there to be discovered. The answer unlocks something in Viktor that he didn’t know was closed. “My name is Yuuri.”
~ * ~
One year later, Viktor puts on his cufflinks again. Gold, to match his new ring.