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If you asked Viktor yesterday if he believed in ghosts, he would have said no. He’s too busy living his own life to spend time contemplating the supernatural.
"Speak to my assistant for the invoice," Viktor says to the waiting delivery person, politely professional. He hefts the heavy box carefully onto his work table, after signing the receipt. Even though he spends a lot of time at the gym, the lift isn't easy.
"Yes, of course." As is so often the case, the courier's voice is ever-so-slightly starstruck.
Opal takes over from there, taking care of payment and the next order he'd asked her to place, as Viktor inspects his prize.
He cleans his workspace first, methodical, and then unwraps the carefully-padded sculpting supplies. They're unusual for a traditional artist like himself, and he's thrilled to feel an echo of the excitement he used to feel when receiving new supplies.
Viktor has never tried sculpting before. That's why he's ordered this smooth block of stone, and the fascinating chisels and mallets, which stand out against his paint-and-canvas-filled studio.
"Your exhibition is next month," Opal says, very pointedly, when she's done dealing with the minutiae. The university assigned her to help Viktor as part of their pitch for him to be in residence and teach there. She's talented and efficient, but he's used to managing every aspect of his own work, and it often feels like he's just inventing tasks for her.
He waves her off, affably. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"
She sighs audibly, but takes the dismissal for what it is, and Viktor returns to contemplating the stone. It's not the only thing he's ordered recently, and won't be the last, but it is the heaviest.
By the time she's left, the spark of excitement is already fading; novelty only capable of so much.
Viktor's phone vibrates on his desk, and he remembers abruptly that he had dinner plans that—with a glance at the clock—were supposed to start half an hour ago. He goes to answer the call, plausible explanations already forming in his mind, and trips on a bit of packaging material on the floor.
He bumps the table in his fall and the wheeled desk itself begins to tip towards him, giant stone and all. This is bad, Viktor thinks, trying to get out of the way, but his ankle twists in his haste to move. It's a horrifying realization: he's not going to make it in time.
There's a crash so loud it echoes throughout the studio and into the hallway beyond, and the world around Viktor becomes a confusing blur as the contents of his work desk fall amidst shards of stone and dust. He sits on the floor, awkwardly twisted, stunned in the resounding silence.
"Viktor, are you okay? Viktor!"
It's Opal, summoned by the crash. Viktor puts his hand to his chest and breathes, confused beyond belief as the dust settles.
The table is flipped over, the heavy stone now cracked into pieces where he had been only a moment earlier; a complete mess.
But Viktor isn't near it. He's on the other side of the room.
"I'm okay," Viktor says, wincing as he gets to his feet. His ankle twinges warningly when he puts weight on it, but he has to look around and see—
"What happened?" Opal inspects the mess that was a perfectly usable stone moments earlier.
"I bumped the table, and it tipped," Viktor says, still looking around the room. "Did you see anyone in the hallway?"
She gives him a look. "No, we're the only ones in the building, this time of night. You're really lucky that didn't hit you. How did it fall?"
Viktor looks around the room, still searching. "I tripped," he says.
"And knocked it over from over there?" Opal pulls out her phone. "Did you hit your head? Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?"
Viktor can't tear his gaze away from the shattered stone. He should be there, in that mess. "No. I'm fine."
Her expression says she doesn't believe him. "Maybe it's a sign you should stick to oils."
"Hah. Maybe." Viktor stands to gather his phone, having to step around some debris to do so. He has 5 missed texts and what must be an angry voicemail just coming through.
One moment, he'd been bracing to be hit. The next, a blurry figure, semitransparent, had bodily pushed him out of harm's way, and then disappeared just as quickly. Viktor has an artist's heart and imagination, but he's not prone to visual hallucinations, much less ones that can touch him.
Uncharacteristically shaken, Viktor gets the dustpan to start cleaning up the mess, mind ablaze with possibilities.
Opal eventually heads home, but not after extracting a promise that Viktor will go to the doctor within the next 24 hours, because he is 'acting stranger than normal' and 'limping everywhere'.
Viktor will keep that promise, too—just not now. Inspiration is too rare of a thing to waste.
The pain is barely noticeable as he leans over his sketchbook and tries to pin down exactly what he saw. Memory is fickle, and he has the profound feeling that he must do it now, before the day ends, or it will be lost forever.
It was a man, he thinks, with short hair and wide eyes behind glasses. With all the color bleached out of him, and an uncanny transparency, his determined expression is the most prominent thing Viktor can recall. Appearing from nothingness just to push him out of danger, then vanishing as the table came crashing down—if it's a haunting, then why? Viktor sketches quickly, face after face, trying to capture the moment, but nothing is quite right.
Luckily, Viktor is the kind of artist who refuses to give up. He fills a few more pages, even going as far as sketching the motion of the dust, abstract weightless movement, full of color in bold swashes. Only when he rises to get his ink brush, putting weight on his foot for the first time in hours, does Viktor realize he might be more injured than he thought.
His foot and ankle are so swollen that it's difficult to take off his shoe when he arrives home. He begrudgingly plans to meet with a doctor in the morning. Opal will be disappointed but not surprised that the shattered stone mess isn't cleaned up, but perhaps he can spin it as something exciting for her to do as his assistant, since she's been asking for more tasks.
Viktor feels a little bad about that, but he works alone—has made it clear to the university that's the case—and still they keep pushing grad students at him, hoping his talent will rub off by simple proximity. He agreed to teach, not change his entire process, and even that novelty has soured.
After taking some painkillers and propping his poor ankle up on a pillow, Viktor falls into an uneasy sleep.
He's met with strange, twisting dreams that he can't remember much of in the morning. An endless beach along a stormy ocean, a tiny Makkachin small enough to fit in his hand; weightlessness and dread, deep and formless—a loneliness sharp and familiar but not his own.
Viktor sketches that too, in messy abstract color, and doesn't make it to the doctor's office until well in the afternoon. He's scolded for this, of course, but can't bring himself to regret it. Inspiration is precious.
Viktor is lucky that Makkachin is such an obedient lady, because taking her on a walk with an injured ankle and crutches is no easy feat. She doesn't tug at her lead or trip him up, content to sniff the usual lampposts and bushes along their route. If only everything else in his life could be so simple.
Navigating campus on crutches is an interesting and literal change of pace. Because his speed is limited, Viktor has more time to appreciate the university campus in a way he hasn't before. Everything, from the flow of students in-between classes to the plethora of posters for events and jobs taped on top of each other on every signpost, is a new experience. Viktor didn't attend formal schooling, instead relying on specialized tutors and mentors, and since he's arrived on campus he hasn't stopped to explore.
The obvious downside to his new circumstances is that he gets stopped much more often, for autographs and selfies, and is no longer fast enough to dodge these encounters. Viktor is polite to his fans and admirers, of course, but it's strangely vulnerable to know he'd have a difficult time getting away if he needed to.
"Thank you so much!" The star-struck young man he's just taken a photo with says, holding his phone containing said photo like it's a precious object. "I hope your ankle heals up soon!"
"Thank you," Viktor says, smiling for a few measured beats. He'd been vague when asked how he got injured. With the sun beginning to set, the population on the sidewalk has thinned, as students wander to dinner or evening classes, but there's still a crowd near the dance building, many of them holding flowers or candles. "If I can ask, do you know what's happening over there?"
The university is split into different quadrants based on topic, with the science and mathematics buildings clustered together, and the humanities subjects in their own space. Viktor spends most of his time in the arts area, naturally, so he's used to pop-up theatrical performances blocking the way, or special exhibitions in the lobbies or hallways, but he's never seen something like this.
"Oh." The man's smile dims. "It's for a student who was hit by a car."
"I see." Viktor vaguely remembers seeing a headline about an accident in the student paper. "Thank you."
His smile doesn't relax until his fan has turned and walked away. Although Viktor is in excellent shape, crutches aren't the most comfortable aid for someone unused to them, and his arms ache. Turning back to the studio, Viktor catches a glimpse of a poster taped up on a lamppost that stops him dead in his tracks.
The vigil he'd seen is for a student named Katsuki Yuuri, whose photo is centrally featured in the poster's layout. It's taken from a ballet performance, based on the shoes and outfit he's wearing; he is captured mid-movement, arms gracefully extended, expression focused and intense.
Goosebumps break out over Viktor's arms. He knows that look, that face—he's been unsuccessfully trying to capture it in his sketches for days. With numb fingers, he takes the poster down to look more closely.
How?
Viktor turns back to join the crowd.
The candles are lit as the vigil begins, and teary-eyed students start to give speeches. They help Viktor learn a few things. First, that his ghost isn't a ghost at all—or at least not yet, anyway. He's hospitalized and in some sort of coma.
As his classmates speak, he learns that Yuuri is a second-year dance student with enough skill to take a leading role in the spring production at their very competitive university. His understudy, an enthusiastic boy with brightly dyed hair, gives a rambling speech about how talented he is, and how it's an honor to fill in for him, and how he hopes he will be well enough to perform in their show next week.
Viktor privately thinks that even if he were to wake up at this very moment, jumping from a coma to an athletic stage production isn't realistic. But it says something about Yuuri's character that the crowd is so large, and that his classmates think so highly of him.
Maybe Viktor really has been putting in too many hours at the studio, not getting enough sleep; maybe he'd seen Yuuri's photo on campus and his often-praised imagination had done the rest. After all, you can't be haunted by someone who's still alive.
Although various profile pieces on Viktor's life and career have included a photo or two of people he'd been dating at the time, the only love to truly share his bed is Makkachin. When Viktor wakes up to find her gone in the middle of the night, he rises and gingerly limps around his apartment.
"Makka?" She isn't in her doggy bed by the couch, or perusing her food bowls. "Makkachin?"
This apartment isn't very big. Just when he's starting to worry, he catches a glimpse of her dark fur in the second bedroom he's been using as a studio.
She's staring at an empty corner of the room, tail wagging. All the fine hairs on Viktor's body stand up at once.
"Makka? What are you looking at?"
She briefly glances back, her demeanor relaxed and happy, then returns to watching the corner. Unlike Viktor, she doesn't seem frightened.
"Hello?" Viktor tries, feeling foolish. There really isn't anything there, just a stack of rejected and half-painted canvases pushed against the wall, evidence of his crippling art block. He swallows, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Yuuri?"
There's a sudden, cold blast of wind, rustling the sketches on the table—and Viktor wakes up in his bed, heart pounding.
There are many videos of Katsuki Yuuri performing online, and by the time morning comes around Viktor is sure he's watched most of them. He'd first tried stalking him on social media, of course, but all Yuuri's profiles are set to private, and his searches simply returned news of the recent accident from other students at the university.
That boy from the vigil had not been exaggerating—Yuuri is an excellent dancer, his movements bright and poised, fluid and emotive. Even without sound—many videos were stripped of audio to avoid flagging copyright—Viktor can feel the music as Yuuri moves, and there are moments that he loops again and again just to see that determined, unmistakable expression.
Whether he's actually haunted or has lost touch with reality, it doesn't matter. Yuuri has him caught.
Rather than go to his studio, he stakes out a place at the performing arts building, sketchbook in hand and crutches leaning on a wall nearby.
"Hello," Viktor says, stopping the first dance student he sees with his best and brightest smile. "Do you know Katsuki Yuuri?"
The woman blinks, not expecting the ambush. "Yes?"
"I'm an artist, and his dancing has inspired some work that will be in my upcoming show." Work that is nowhere near finished, for a show date that is TBD, but she doesn't need to know the details. "I know that he is... not available to speak with at the moment, but I was hoping for a chance to talk with some of his friends. Are you able to point me in the right direction?"
He holds out his open sketchbook to some drawings from that very morning, captured from stills of the many videos he'd watched. That seems to do the trick better than his words or his smile, because the student he's stopped nods as soon as she's seen them.
"He's inspiring, isn't he?" She says, soft. "I'll introduce you to his roommate, Phichit."
"Thank you."
Phichit Chulanont has a bright personality and an easy smile. Viktor warms to him immediately.
I think your comatose roommate is haunting me, he does not say. But he does share his sketches and lightly dig for more personal information.
"I wish he was here to see this," Phichit says, brushing his thumb along the edge of the sketchbook. "It would make him so happy, even though he'd try to play it cool."
Viktor cocks his head. "Oh? From his performances, I didn't take him as the reserved type."
Phichit smiles, crookedly. "You've really never met Yuuri, then. The only time he's unrestrained is when he's dancing—or after a few drinks. He's not shy, really, just..."
"I see," Viktor says, although he doesn't, not really. But he can tell he's made Phichit miss his friend. Viktor doesn't want to cause the people in Yuuri's life distress, but there's no real way to avoid it, if he wants to get to the bottom of things; to stop waking up in a cold sweat. "Thank you for telling me."
"It's no trouble. I don't have an eye for this type of art, but I can tell you're really interested in Yuuri," Phichit says, standing when Viktor does and handing him his sketchbook back. "You know, the universe really does work in mysterious ways. He'd be mad at me for telling you this, but actually, he's a huge fan of your work. He was over the moon when it was announced you'd be teaching here."
Viktor freezes, heart beating fast. "My fan?"
"Your biggest fan. I was afraid he'd switch to fine art on the off-chance you'd teach an intro class! His half of our room is plastered with your paintings—reproductions, of course, we're not rich—he especially likes the ones with dogs."
"Those are my favorites too," Viktor says, quite touched. His portraits of Makkachin rarely get as much attention as the rest of his work.
Phichit looks him up and down, assessing. "And I'll just say: most people just display their favorite works, he has your photo framed as well. You being a fan of him in return, well, he'd never believe it."
Viktor's always had admirers, it's nothing new. But this feels different. Viktor holds his sketchbook close. "I look forward to convincing him of my sincerity in person."
"Oh? I'll hold you to that, Viktor Nikiforov," Phichit says. "And if he's mad at me for spilling his secrets, he can wake up and yell at me himself."
Viktor returns to his studio and immediately gets to work. The inspiration he's felt sketching Yuuri pales in comparison to the force inside him now. He digs around for the canvas he'd prepared so long ago and set aside in frustration, from before his fruitless experimentation in other mediums, and begins to lay down the underlayer, then and there.
"Viktor? You're back to painting?" Opal says, arms full of her own prints, fresh from the drying rack.
"Yes," Viktor says, brush still moving. "Inspiration came back. I told you it would."
"Do you think you'll be able to finish in time for the show?"
"Absolutely," Viktor says. He'd normally leave it there, used to working alone as he is, but he's too excited not to share—and a little guilty, too. Opal is a fan, after all. "Do you want to know the theme?"
"Of course I do!"
"Well... a few days ago, I was saved by a ghost-"
Viktor walks barefoot along a lonely beach, the gray sky above hinting rain. This should tip him off that he's dreaming—how could he suddenly be at a beach when he spends all his time painting at his studio?—but in the way of dreams, he brushes off the logical inconsistency.
The ocean reminds him of when he first got Makkachin, and would walk her up and down the beach, partially to avoid the suffocating atmosphere at home and mostly to watch what other people were up to. Viktor's strict upbringing kept him apart from other children his age, and these walks offered him a rare keyhole into what he imagined normal life to be.
This beach isn't like the one at home. He walks and walks without seeing a sign of other people or any structures; even the sky is empty, without birds.
Viktor isn't bothered by this. He stops at a large, flat rock and sits to watch the waves crash onto the sand. There's something off about them. The longer he looks, the more they are impossible: waves seem to pulse and stutter, uneven.
"Are you going to paint them?"
Yuuri is fainter than he should be, but not translucent; there's color in his black hair, brown eyes. He's looking at the waves.
"I'd rather try painting you," Viktor says.
That seems to startle him. Yuuri's focus shifts to Viktor, and he could swear he flickers briefly, like the waves. "Why?"
Why indeed. None of this is like him. Viktor loves people, but in the abstract more than the specific. They're a puzzle; he can learn what they want and then surprise them with something better.
"Yuuri," Viktor says, watching the way his eyes widen at the familiar tone, "won't you please wake up? I miss you already, and we haven't even met yet."
"That accident must have hurt me even more than I thought," Yuuri says, looking back out over the impossible waves.
"Why do you say that?"
He sighs. "The wish fulfillment is a bit much, even for my imagination."
Ah. Viktor struggles to counter that. The circumstances aren't exactly believable.
Yuuri sits on the sand, tucking his knees up by his chest and staring at the horizon. Without any other ideas, Viktor mirrors his pose.
"I must be dying," Yuuri says, so soft it's nearly blown away by the ocean breeze. "Or dead."
"You're not dead. If you were dead, who saved me in the studio?" Viktor challenges. "I could have been really hurt. You were there, I saw you— it's why I'm here now."
Yuuri's form gets more solid, now making an indent in the sand, as he shifts his weight, turns. "I... did?"
"Yes," Viktor says firmly.
"How?" Yuuri starts at his own hands, through which he can see the sand below.
"I have no idea. I don't even believe in ghosts, but one had just saved me. I went searching for clues—I met your friend Phichit, he's worried about you, by the way—you're not dead. No one knows why you're still in a coma, because you made it out of that accident without even a broken bone, but there are a lot of people all waiting for you to wake up."
"The last thing I remember is the accident," Yuuri says, slowly.
"Wake up. Please." Viktor holds out his hand. "I wasn't lying when I said I want to meet you."
"I'll do my best." Yuuri's shoulders straighten, and he takes the offered hand. There it is, that determined expression; Viktor reflexively reaches for a sketchbook that isn't there.
"It's a promise?" Viktor holds tight even as the scene around them begins to fade.
"Yes. I promise." The last thing he sees is Yuuri's smile.
Above their heads, the weather clears, clouds shifting the blue skies. Viktor wakes, hand still holding the shape where Yuuri's had been. He sets it over his heart.
Viktor paints like a man possessed, working furiously until he's covered in splotches of errant color and his hand is cramped. Finally, his vision finally starts to come together.
Phichit shared with him a recording of the last rehearsal they'd done before the accident, and he's heavily referenced a particular scene: Yuuri's character, cursed by a spirit to never be able to confess his love, performs one half of a pas de deux, performing moves that are only possible with a partner, lifts and dips. It's a stunning exercise in control, as Yuuri holds his weight as-if in the arms of an invisible partner for longer than should be possible, stumbling and falling inevitably, but bravely continuing onward—refusing to miss a beat as the dance continues. The choreography is brilliant; Yuuri's familiar, determined expression an emotive triumph. Every movement made Viktor ache with understanding.
In the moment Viktor has pinned down in this piece, Yuuri is bent forward, dipping his invisible partner, hand lovingly supporting where their waist would be, bewitched by a figure that can only ever be in his imagination. Despite the tragic curse, his brown eyes are bright and brave—determined to break it.
On a second canvas, he's sketched out a Yuuri from later in the same performance, holding out his right hand in invitation; may I have this dance?
Plagued by more ideas than time to execute them, he pushes through his exhaustion to keep working. These paintings are presumptuous, but if Yuuri wants to wake up and tell him off, Viktor will welcome the critique.
For the third canvas, he has something even more revealing planned: a self-portrait of himself, hand extended to the Yuuri on his right, as if accepting his invitation.
> Yuuri's awake!
Viktor stares at Phichit's text, stunned. If it weren't from how sore he is from late nights painting like a man possessed, he'd wonder if he was still dreaming.
> His family says he's still going to be in the hospital for a while, but when I visit I'll pass on the invite to your show. He'll come for sure. I can't think of anything that could stop him, especially not after hearing the invite came directly from you.
Viktor has to pause a moment just to breathe through the wave of relief he feels.
> I'm so glad he's awake! Thank you for letting me know, he finally texts back. > I look forward to meeting him properly.
Viktor keeps an eye on Phichit's social media as the show approaches, as he seems to be the major news source for the rest of the dance program. A photo of Yuuri smiling wanly from a hospital bed, still connected via tubes to machines and an IV, is the first to appear. A few days later, there's a selfie of him and Phichit together, still in a hospital room but looking markedly healthier, with a crowd of what is presumably Yuuri's family in the background.
The good news bolsters his spirits and helps him finish up the rest of his paintings; before long, it's opening night for his exhibition. Viktor dresses up and carefully styles his hair, more nervous for their first real meeting than the public's reception. After all, he didn't paint all these pieces for them.
Viktor receives a text from Phichit when he's standing in the gallery before the show, confirming that Yuuri will be coming. Anticipation mixes with uncharacteristic doubt: will he be bothered by the frankly presumptuous paintings? Yuuri's a fan, but the artwork on the walls is... a lot to take in. His face looks down from almost every wall, in sketches and in oils. And then there's Viktor's self-portrait among them, hand outstretched.
"That should be everything," Opal says, adjusting the last display card. "Did you tell your ghost what the show is about, at least?"
"I didn't," Viktor says, looking up at the largest painting: Yuuri dipping his imaginary partner in half a pas de deux. "Do you think he'll like it?"
"If what you said is true, then I'd like to believe so," Opal says, more kindly than he deserves.
"Thanks for all your help," Viktor says, turning to face her fully. "I couldn't have set this all up, much less finished everything in it without you. I know I can be a difficult person to work with, but you've been nothing but professional and kind to me. After this, let's sit down and talk about what you're looking to get out of this arrangement."
Opal blinks at him. "Are you sure you're not possessed? But... thank you. I'd appreciate that."
At least Viktor is no longer confined to crutches as he greets the gallery's first visitors and chats with all the people who approach over small plates and cocktails. The dean of the college asks him to explain at length his artistic vision for the show, which Viktor carefully edits to avoid mentioning ghosts and instead focus on how captivated he was by Yuuri's performances. The interdepartmental cooperation angle is a big hit with the university's admin, as expected, and it provides a payoff for the risk they'd taken by hiring him in the first place.
The gallery quickly fills with a crowd, milling about and looking at the displays. Viktor tries to keep his eyes on the entrance, but so far there's no sight of Yuuri or Phichit. It feels like he can't walk five feet without someone stopping him to chat.
"Excuse me. Viktor?"
Viktor turns with a polite smile already fixed in place, then stops to stare.
Short, inky black hair, lovely brown eyes—a dancer's poise, even now, standing still. Viktor is taller than him, but not by much. "Yuuri! You made it!"
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear."Ah, yes. I did. Thank you for... thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for coming," Viktor says. Yuuri's form is solid and full of color; nothing ghostly about him at all. He can't look away.
Yuuri glances to the side, hesitant. "Well, I did promise."
"You did promise," Viktor smiles, heart blooming; it was real. "You were my inspiration for this show, you know."
Such an obvious statement, when Yuuri's figure is in nearly every frame.
Yuuri looks around, as if he's not quite sure he's awake. "How did you have time to do all this? You only started after my accident, right?"
"That's right. It took a lot of full days and late nights," Viktor admits, "I was burning the candle at both ends for a time. But I think it's worth it. If you'd like, I can give you a private tour?"
"I'd like that a lot."
It's almost like the crowds have vanished, inconsequential, as Viktor shows Yuuri around the gallery, sharing details about why he chose each pose, or that particular framing; how long he spent trying to capture that look in Yuuri's eyes. And how he's still not entirely satisfied.
Yuuri asks questions when he has a chance, and flushes, so cute and pink, at some of Viktor's answers. In the tight space, they have to stay close at each other's side to be heard; when Viktor puts his hand on Yuuri's back to step through a small gap in the crowd, Yuuri doesn't move away.
He's not exactly shy, Phichit had said. Viktor finds himself agreeing.
They end up, inevitably, at Viktor's self-portrait; mirrored with that of Yuuri's, both reaching out for each other. Viktor feels naked, stripped bare, as his art truly meets its intended audience.
"What do you think?" Viktor asks, needy to his own ears.
"It's beautiful," Yuuri says, without hesitation. "I've never seen a self portrait by you before. It really looks like you're about to break out of the canvas and step into the real world."
"And the one of you?"
Yuuri takes longer to answer. "Everything you paint is beautiful, so I have a hard time seeing myself in your style. But I like it. I feel like you captured the emotions I was trying to convey, in that performance."
Viktor smiles, more touched by this than a thousand fawning reviews. "Anything that you think I could improve upon?"
Yuuri looks between the paintings. He bites his lip, glances down at the floor, and then up into Viktor's eyes; so determined, so full of life and what could be.
"I have a suggestion," he says.
"Yes?" Viktor spreads his hand out along Yuuri's spine.
"You should paint us together, next time."
Whatever brought them together—fate, the supernatural, or pure happenstance—Viktor is so thankful.
"It's a promise."