Chapter Text
“Next up, Katsuki Yuuri, from Japan. He will be performing Liebestraum No. 3, composer Liszt.”
Yuuri figured if Minako-sensei were here, she’d shove him out from behind the curtains like when he was young, stumbling and stuttering his way to that stiff, pry board bench, and those unyielding keys. A shade of a smile passed his chapped and well worn lips; younger Yuuri reminded him of Vicchan as a puppy. His smile soured quickly.
Yuuri and Yuko cooed over Vicchan, who was wriggling with excitement in Yuuri’s grasp.
“Wow! Is this little bundle of joy yours?” Joy, for certain.
“He’s practically glowing gold, Yuuri! He looks like a mini sun.” Even though he could not see it, he felt it, the liquid warmth of sunlight joy radiating from the puppie’s fluffy fur coat.
“His name is Vicchan!” Yuuri felt it was really no question. He had known it when he had first seen Victor posed happily with Makkachin in the recent magazine edition.
Yuko giggled with fondness. “You really are Victor’s biggest fan!”
Celestino gave him an awkward pat on the back, confidence in his smile, although his smile did not reach the worry in his eyes. Yuuri didn’t have to have aura sight to recognize the pity, or the doubt. He had adapted to the carefully displayed tells of body language and facial features, and, though there was always something intrinsically missing, Yuuri had never given it much thought beyond the occasional feelings of isolation that came with being alone in a world absent of emotive color.
Anger and shame. Embarrassment. They colored his cheeks an ugly red, because if there was one thing he hated more than losing, it was pity. He wondered if pity looked gray like an unfortunate overcast sky in Detroit as he walked unfamiliar streets, putting a damper on the activities of the afternoon while the population wandered about disgruntled, or if pity was the dullness that currently shrouded Celestino's hazel eyes as Yuuri made to stand on unsteady feet.
He wondered what color grief was.
Vicchan.
The color of his sweet, soft fur, the color of cinnamon? Or maybe, the color of the black storm that brewed the day he left Vicchan for Detroit, abandoned him.
Yuuri slid his glasses off of his nose, the familiar bouts of anxiety inflamed like a festering wound once the cool, sleek frames hit his palms.
It was then, blind, and vulnerable that he felt the tears threaten him. Because, just as he was devastated, he was angry.
At himself, for Vicchan.
At Celestino, for that look in his eyes.
At himself, because he worked so hard for this moment. For years, since he could hit his chubby fist on a keyboard, he practiced, for years, for hours upon mountains of hours, he practiced like he couldn’t live without the piano. He didn’t even have time to stress eat, because all he could stomach was the heaping piles of black notes on white paper.
All that he had worked towards; meeting Victor Nikiforov, making a successful debut at the Grand Prix Finals, making his parents proud, maybe even proving himself to himself. Well.
He just knew, from the way his body was trembling before he’d even placed his hand on the piano, that those were distant dreams, fading faster and faster, like he’d just woke up. And he had. The shallowness of his breath, the aching in his muscles, all of it was familiar in its terribleness. Yet, it all felt stale compared to this new stretch of welts that expanded fresh underneath his skin. Yuuri felt the need to tear underneath his skin with stubby, chewed up fingernails just to scratch at the foreign despair.
But. Even despite the fogginess blurring everything together like he was holding down the pedal, and the grief weighing down on his limbs like the oppressive beams from the stage lights, he could feel it. Pure, unfettered want. Burning desire.
It was almost dangerous, the determination that seared under his skin. He scared himself with how bad he yearned for success, because, others he was used to disappointing, but now that he had these new expectations for himself, born from how far he’d come, he didn’t know if he could live with those broken aspirations piercing under his skin.
It used to be easy, failing. He could believe, with frightening ease, that at every turn of failure, it was because he was simply not enough, that he was not good at the piano. But, hope is such a vicious and volatile force. And durable; even despite his self-prophesied doom, it fluttered its wings, barely, beneath all of the carnage in his ribcage.
He knew both the tragedy and the aspirations, and he accepted the challenge, accepted the beckon of the glinting keys and the gaping maw of the Beyond further out from the stage, and into the shark waters of the audience.
It was to these thoughts that he walked out from behind the stage curtains towards the piano like walking the death march to his own casket.
~~~
“Yuuri. Seriously, do I have to come in there?”
“No! Just let me die at peace, will you?” Yuuri buried his face in the clean soap smell of the hotel pillows, ears burning. The peaceful silence of the hotel room (if you discount his hopeless sobbing) was smudged again by the resurgence in his and Celestino’s plea war. “It’s not everyday you totally blow it in front of your idol, not to mention all the world class musicians that probably wish they had brought earplugs. Or bleach. And don’t get me started on the sponsors. How many people do you think started scrolling on Instagram while I crashed and burned, Celestino?”
“Oh, Yuuri,” Celestino sighed from his place behind his hotel door, where he’d been for the past remaining fifteen minutes in his quest to drag Yuuri to the banquet. “Quit being so dramatic. I know it hasn’t been a great day, for all that you won’t tell me, but trust me when I say no one was on their phone.” Yuuri couldn’t help but feel a little guilt at his weary, tired tone, which drove in a whole new wave of self-hatred to mull over.
“Right. They were probably laughing. Who am I kidding?”
“Will you please come out? You have to keep your chin up, even if you didn’t do as well as you wished. Hiding in your room and acting all miserable won’t do you any favors. Plus, you might get a chance to see Victor again, and meet some of the other competitors. Making friends at these events can help make it slightly less scary in future competitions.”
Only silence and awkward shuffling could be heard.
“There’ll be plenty of alcohol.” Celestino finally relented, patience frailer than Yuuri’s self-esteem, voice timbered with exhaustion.
There was a distinct, miserable sigh muffled in the sheets.
“I’ll be in the lobby in five.”
Which was how Katsuki Yuuri found himself dressed in his old suit and tie (taking slight offence to the sour expression Celestino made when he caught sight of it; it was a perfectly respectable tie) and clutching his fourteenth glass of Champagne like it was a lovers hand as they stood atop the deck on the sinking Titanic. Yuuri was, in fact, on a sinking ship. And he was ok with it, as long as he didn’t have to remember the rest of the night.
He dazedly gazed at the growing pile of glasses by his side in the corner and wondered if it would hurt too much to have just one more.
He shrugged and grabbed another one, anyways.