Chapter Text
WINGS
☀
Never in a million years did Katsuki Yuuri think that he’d even breathe same air as Viktor Nikiforov.
After all, all stars were light years away, even if they existed in the same universe, and Viktor Nikiforov shone bright like the sun.
A world famous artist, Viktor’s works were sold for millions all over, and a Nikiforov piece was proof of your wealth. He was the reason Yuuri even started painting in the first place. Yuuri even moved to Tokyo to pursue his dream, though that wasn’t working out very well. After two long years in Tokyo, he was still completely unknown… Well, sort of.
A few months after he had first moved to Tokyo, Yuuri had taken to painting on the walls all over the city, in quiet neighbourhoods. He had been too dirt poor to keep purchasing canvases, and even then he still felt like they were too small, too restricting.
So there Yuuri stood, in the middle of an empty street in the evening, staring back and forth between his own work, and a painting that was unmistakably Viktor’s. Yuuri couldn’t decide whether his flaming cheeks were a result of the fact that his long-time inspiration had painted something for him (at least, that’s what he was hoping for), or of the fact that that meant he’d seen Yuuri’s work.
It was a sort of a paradox, Yuuri supposed. He wanted his name to be known, to find success as an artist, yet Yuuri could never bear the thought of anyone seeing his work, and more importantly, knowing that he created it. It was the main reason why he never signed his name on any of his creations. Well, initially, he didn’t because he was, after all, vandalising. But even after the public petitioned to get it approved, even after the town council agreed to leave them up, Yuuri still couldn’t do it. Somehow, the thought of his name being on display like that… it terrified him. What if someone thought that it was terrible art? What if no one liked it?
He didn’t need that kind of pressure.
Yuuri knew that Viktor was in town recently. He was coming to Tokyo for his art exhibition that opened in two days. Naturally, Yuuri already made plans to attend.
Perhaps Viktor was roaming the streets for inspiration, like Yuuri always did.
Take this painting for example. Green eyes stared back at Yuuri, almost popping out from the red brick canvas. Among the green were gold flecks that dotted the cat’s eyes. Around it, countless strokes of orange merged to form the face of Kuro, the neighbourhood’s ironically-named ginger cat.
Yuuri had witnessed the usually docile and mild-tempered cat hunting a mouse on top of this very wall and was struck by just how fierce its eyes were.
It had been deep into the night, as it always was whenever Yuuri would go on his usual walks, painting supplies in hand. All that there had been the cold air, an empty and dimly lit street, and his right hand itching to paint.
Looking at his work now, Yuuri was embarrassed. He was nowhere near professional even now, but almost two years ago, he was just… well, embarrassing. Eyeing the messy strokes and weirdly proportioned feline features, Yuuri regretted having finished this piece in a rush.
He looked away from his own work, and turned to face the wall directly opposite, and…
Wow.
Viktor wasn’t a world-renowned painter for no reason. Perhaps it was his impeccable techniques, polished and then wielded over and over again over the last two decades. Perhaps it was his ability to find meaning in the world around him, and his even greater ability to convey that in his works. Perhaps (though Yuuri disagreed), it was because of his good looks and insane charisma. He was, after all, a celebrity in his own right, gracing the covers of magazines like Vogue.
But for Yuuri, it was… something. Everything.
He could never pinpoint it. He had seen Viktor’s painting printed in a random magazine at a store when he was younger. He was eight at the time, so Viktor had probably been eleven.
In retrospect, it hadn’t been an amazing painting. Even someone as talented as Viktor, at eleven, was messy. Even as a little kid, Yuuri knew that he had seen better works whenever he visited art galleries and read art magazines.
And yet, Yuuri had felt something. It was just one painting tucked in between pages and pages of many others, but Yuuri hadn’t been able to look away from it. In a way, Viktor Nikiforov was also just one person out of seven billion, yet Yuuri was entranced.
It almost astounded Yuuri how much of a constant Viktor Nikiforov was in Yuuri’s life ever since. He entered middle school, then high school, then moved to Tokyo to study at a college here; everything around him was changing, but Viktor was still Viktor in Yuuri’s life. His works still instilled the same kind of awe, the same rush of emotions, and today was no different.
Yuuri stared at the painting on the wall. Similar shades of emerald and gold weaved together to form eyes and fur. However, this painting had deep brown strokes that cut through the orange, forming irregular stripes, and everything about the image looked more feral.
Viktor had painted a tiger staring directly back at Yuuri’s cat. As Yuuri observed the details in awe, he noticed that reflected in the tiger’s eyes was the silhouette of a human, a spear clearly depicted. He hadn’t signed a name, but Yuuri knew. No one else could paint like this, and no one else could ever make Yuuri feel like this.
On the very ground that Yuuri stood on, was something that he hadn’t noticed before. Written in big, bold letters, was the following:
THE EYES OF A SOLDIER.
Yuuri felt something inside him stir. A rush, a surge of excitement. The same stomach-flying feeling he got when he sat on rollercoasters. A voice in the back of his head told him that Viktor might have seen his other works, that he might have left something behind as well. The thought of it sent tingles down his spine.
And so, with a shaky breath and pounding heart, Yuuri walked. His feet moved quicker and quicker. By now, the sun had already begun to set, and the streets were bathed in a pink glow.
☀
As Yuuri visited more and more of his works, his smile grew wider and wider till his cheeks ached from grinning so much. Each wall made him feel all sorts of emotions; some made him go silent in thought, others touched his very core, and many made him burst out laughing. The walls told the story of Yuuri’s life; he was never great at expressing himself. He couldn’t help but feel unsure, even in his own feelings, so much so that he just couldn’t talk about them to his friends and family. Viktor visiting them all was like letting him see right through his facade, breaking past all his barriers and just seeing Yuuri.
And whenever Viktor painted something back, it was a response.
As Yuuri rounded the corner, his mood dipped. He knew what was coming. He had painted Vicchan on the wall, a day after his death. Soft brown eyes… a cute tongue that stuck out all the time… just the way Yuuri remembered him. At the bottom of the image, Yuuri had written a note.
RIP VICCHAN.
If Yuuri were being honest, he wasn’t over it even now, and it showed in his painting. The strokes were harsh, rough, and Yuuri could remember how tightly he had gripped the brush in his hand, just painting and painting and painting, trying to do something about how he felt. He had tried to paint away his feelings, and then tried to paint to fill the gaping hole in his chest, and nothing had worked. Not even till today.
Then again, how could anyone simply get over a loved one?
Yuuri closed his eyes for a second, trying to push away the hurt he always felt. He eyes flitted around, looking for anything Viktor did. When he couldn’t find any added images, Yuuri wondered if he chose to skip this one, or if he perhaps hadn’t seen it.
Just as Yuuri thought that, his eyes caught the tiny writing just below his drawing.
I’m sorry.
Yuuri couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out crying, crouching by the wall. He’d never been able to tell anyone. After all, what was he going to say? I’m sorry but it’s been years and I can’t get over my dead dog and I’m an emotional wreck over it? That he sometimes laid awake wondering if Vicchan was afraid, wherever he was? It sounded stupid even to his own ears.
But Viktor knew. He understood. And for the first time ever, Yuuri felt like he could talk to someone, without being afraid of how they might react.
He must have been a sight to behold, he thought. He had sobbed for a good 20 minutes by a street, in front of a damn painting of a dog. Passers-by had given him concerned glances, and Yuuri had sheepishly hung his head low, trying to stop the tears. He felt a strange calm, but it was different from the usual numbness that he felt after he cried his heart out. This was more… peaceful. He guessed it was true what people said; talking to someone definitely helped.
The sky slowly turned from a light candyfloss pink to a deep and intense red as Yuuri continued on his way.
When he reached the last wall, his heart caught. This wall, this wall was one he’d started when he was in a terrible place in his life. He was struggling with Vicchan’s death, and struggling with the fact that he was struggling, that he’d left his hometown in Hasetsu to pursue his pipe dream of being a famous artist in Tokyo, and yet, fast forward a few years, and he wasn’t anywhere ahead of where he’d started. He had honestly felt like a loser. He still did now, to be honest. But back then, if he didn’t have friends who pulled him back up, he would’ve been a goner.
Having Viktor see this wall was like letting him see straight into Yuuri’s soul. Not just his feelings, but his soul, in all its ugliness and imperfections. This painting was his insecurities and fears manifested. Even though so many have already seen this painting, Yuuri knew that Viktor understood. And because he did, he knew that Viktor would understand this painting as well.
He had been depressed, tired, and plain worn out, and did all he knew to do: paint.
And paint he had.
Yuuri could still remember that night. Tears had been pouring down his cheeks free-flow, and he had painted and painted and painted and painted. The walls were covered in messy, rough, strokes and he vaguely remembered swinging his brush haphazardly, having been completely lost in his emotions. He must’ve looked like a child then, throwing a tantrum. And his overwhelming emotions showed in his work.
On this wall, he’d drawn a figure free falling off a building. Everything was painted in black, black, black, and on the ground he’d drawn the same black silhouette, almost like a shadow of the falling figure. It could be seen as a shadow, or as a body slumped on the ground, and Yuuri knew what he had imagined when he’d drawn it.
And yet, the shadow now had new extensions. Attached to it were wings, so large they stretched across the ground in a magnificent display. It reached so wide that Yuuri had to walk several meters in order to see the full thing.
Right below the falling figure was another, arms stretched out, as if reaching out to catch him.
Yuuri found himself in tears again. He wasn’t sure how he still had it in him to cry, but he did. His heart wrenched in pain, yet it felt like a load had been taken off his shoulders, like he’d been freed from something. On the bottom of the wall was a question.
WHO ARE YOU?
Yuuri wanted to answer.
☀
Two days later, it was the opening day of Viktor’s exhibition.
When he got there, his attention was immediately drawn to a single painting. It was the centerpiece, the main focus of the exhibition, and Yuuri could see why.
It was a painting of a man, only his back showing. His hair was a familiar silver, and around him were flowers and streaks of the most vibrant and beautiful shades. Purple and red surrounded him, and the streaks looked like the wind if it had colours. They were majestic, strong colours, yet the back of the figure looked… small, as if the colours were swarming around him, drowning him. It was like the figure felt none of the warmth from the colours, as if it were… alone. It was beautiful, but so, so… sad.
Yuuri glanced at the plaque at the side, but there was no description, only a title.
Stammi Vicino, Stay Close to Me.
Yuuri felt his heart clench. His fingers itched to paint, as if all the energy in his body was flowing towards his hand and then to his finger tips, with no way to escape but through a brush. He bolted out the building, ignoring his friends calling after him. He had to paint, and he had to paint now. Before the image left his mind, before he forgot exactly what he wanted to express and how he had to do it.
He rushed towards the wall directly in front of the building. He looked around. It wasn’t a very busy street, and it was late as well. The ones who’d walk past would surely do so because they were heading to the exhibition, and they were already inside the building. Perfect.
He set down his bag, took out his supplies, and got to work. He started by tracing the image in his mind. A back, this time broader, stronger, the way Viktor truly was… silver haired… dignified, beautiful…
They said that an artist’s work always told their story. It was true for Yuuri, and something told him that it was the same for Viktor. If so, Yuuri wanted to do something for him. To show him that the bond they’d form the through an exchange of paintings and words was real, that he wasn’t alone. If a picture spoke a thousand words, Yuuri hoped with all his heart that his would speak that and so much more.
Finally, he drew the wings. Great, large, magnificent wings. The feathers shone in different shades of purple and red.They were so large they could’ve reached one end of the wall to the other if they were spread, but Yuuri didn’t want that. Once again, the colours surrounded the figure. But this time, it wasn’t suffocating him. The wings wrapped gently around him, pulling the figure into its embrace.
I’M HERE, AND I’LL NEVER LEAVE.
Yuuri wrote, and he stared at his work. For the first time in a long while, he felt pride, and proceeded to write something he’s never done before.
YUURI KATSUKI, 2018.
As he left, he prayed to the gods that his message would get through to Viktor, that it’d help him the way Viktor’s had helped him, always.
☀
Yuuri had intended the painting for Viktor’s eyes only. He should’ve expected it, but painting something of that scale right in front of an art exhibition building was far from inconspicuous. Within a day, the painting had blown up, and his information had been leaked to websites. His work had gone so viral, that he didn’t even need his friend Phichit to tell him about it. His work was everywhere, and he had made it easy, after all, with his signature clearly written at the bottom.
He was happy that he’d gotten the recognition, but the crowds made it hard for him to revisit the painting, and harder for him to communicate with Viktor. Still, he hoped that Viktor responded, and so made his way to the painting in the middle of the night at 3AM, where he was sure no one would still be there.
As he turned the corner, he saw a figure, and almost groaned out loud. Even now?
He was just about to leave when he saw the familiar side profile, and the way the man’s silver hair shone under the light from the streetlamp. Yuuri would recognise him anywhere.
Yuuri stayed rooted to his spot, in awe and shock. He wanted a response, but he didn’t think it’d come like this.
A million emotions swirled around inside him. Suddenly, Yuuri wasn’t feeling so confident. Sure, they had formed a connection, a bond, through painting, and Yuuri had definitely been trying to send a message with his painting… but meeting him face-to-face? What if Viktor didn’t like Yuuri? What if he got disappointed?
“V-Viktor…” Yuuri breathed out unknowingly. It was but a mere whisper, but right then, when the night was so silent, and even the trees seemed to fear rustling their leaves, Yuuri was heard loud and clear.
Viktor jumped ever so slightly, before turning towards Yuuri. His eyes lit up in recognition. Slowly, a soft smile crept onto his face, and as blue met brown, Viktor’s eyes softened into a pot of sapphire.
“Katsuki Yuuri,” he murmured, “I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
END