Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

and the sun said to the moon…

Viktor Nikiforov is eleven when his mother passes away. He does not remember a time before the wheelchair, and when it held her down, pinning her to the ground like a bird with a broken wing.

He does not remember a time spent with her that wasn’t done in the presence of a piano. He does not remember her voice without the tinkling sound of piano keys in the background. He cannot remember her without the piano.

Viktor cannot bear to throw the piano away.

After she dies, the music stops, and Viktor’s hands do not dance across the ivories. No music comes from his home - and if it seemed empty before, with only a sickly woman and her son in it, husband long since gone, it is a void now, without music. The piano is nothing but something to collect dust, a relic of a time long gone, and a memory of a mother that Viktor had buried.

The piano collects dust for one year. And then another. And another.

Six years pass. The piano collects dust.

Six years pass. No music comes from the Nikiforov household.

Six years pass. Viktor’s world becomes colorless. Dull.

Six years pass. Music is white noise in his ears. The world is monochrome.

Six years.

Miwa once said, “the moment I met him, my life changed. What I see and what I hear. What I feel...my whole scenery is painted in color. The world is sparkling.”

Six years pass.

The world bursts into color once more.

Viktor is seventeen when Uncle Yakov comes back to town. Of course, this means that Yuri, the man’s grandson is with him too.

Yuri is a pianist.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just open the damn thing up, and fucking play it,” Yuri hisses, looking up from his phone. “It’s right there! What the fuck is so difficult about it?”

Viktor doesn’t look up from the empty staff paper in front of him. A pop song is playing quietly from his laptop, and Viktor scrawls in the notes as he hears them. “You know,” he says, voice lilting. “For a ten year old, you have a filthy mouth. Maybe we should wash it out with soap.”

“Fuck off.” Yuri’s undoubtedly pouting. The vowels are huffy, and the consonants petulant, and a small part - more like a huge part - of Viktor is inappropriately satisfied with being able to play Yuri as easily as he always has. Sure. Growing up, Viktor thinks, bubbling in a sixteenth note. Doesn’t mean you aren’t as high strung as always, kotyonok.

Underneath his breath, Yuri mumbles, “Lilia already did that.”

Viktor laughs. “I told you to watch your mouth around her!” He sets down the pencil, and turns to look at his - nephew? second cousin? - cousin, and laughs louder at the prominent flush tracking its way across the bridge of Yuri’s nose, and bleeding into his cheeks. “Was it the lye soap?”

Yuri pulls the hood of his jacket over his head and mashes a few fingers into the screen of his phone. “It’s like she thinks we’re still in the 20th century or something. Fuck!” He sticks out his tongue, scowling. “I can still taste that shit on my tongue - stop laughing, Viktor!”

He chucks an eraser at Viktor’s head. Viktor is too busy laughing to try and dodge, and it connects, landing with an audible thunk, right between his eyes before falling to the floor.

Viktor keeps laughing until he’s out of air.

“Jesus,” he gasps, bending down to pick up the eraser. “Even after the lye soap, you’re still cursing. You must’ve really liked the taste, huh, kotyonok?”

“Fuck off.” Yuri shoves his phone into the pocket of his jacket. “If you’re gonna be a goddamn jackass, then buy me something to eat.” He gestures loosely in the general direction of the kitchen. “Your cabinets are empty, and I haven’t eaten since Yakov dragged me onto the plane to see you.”

“You can wait two hours, right?” Viktor checks the clock on his laptop. “It’s four in the afternoon. We can go get something at six.”

Yuri kicks Viktor in the leg. “I haven’t eaten since five in the morning in Russia,” Yuri says, slowly, as if talking to a child or a moron. (Viktor is fairly certain that Yuri sees him as one of those. Or maybe both. It’s hard to tell sometimes.) “You don’t have to eat, but I’m starving. So move it. We haven’t left this sorry place once since I got here.”
Yuri kicks Viktor again, just to emphasize his point.

“I’m tempted to let you starve,” Viktor comments, closing his laptop. His leg smarts, and when he rubs a hand against it, he knows with a solemn certainty that it is, without a measure of a doubt, going to bruise. What a pain…

Yuri is back to fiddling away with his phone. “I’ll keep kicking until I break your leg, then,” he says, completely serious. “You know I can.”

Viktor does, as a matter of fact, not know this to be true. But, he’s not about to test his luck. Maybe some other day, when Yuri isn’t starving, and therefore liable to eat him. “Fine, fine. Let me find my shoes.”

“You’ve got two minutes.”

Viktor moves his laptop off his bed, and proceeds to take as long as humanly possible to find his shoes.

Yuri kicks him again, and the bares his teeth at him, vindictive and vicious in a way small children should not be.

He rubs his leg. The bruise will be huge. Purple and black, mottled brown and green. Viktor wishes he was young enough that he could get away with giving Yuri one in return.

(Viktor is, decidedly far too old to be pulling stunts like that against his ten year old cousin, but that isn’t going to stop him from giving Yuri the spiciest thing he can find on the menu. It’s all in the name of building character, of course. Nothing else.)

He holds his eye open, and carefully puts the contact in. It still stings a little, going in, but it’s going to be worth it. The second one follows.

This is a daily routine - nothing new, bright or exciting can or should be found in its monotony, but Yuuri smacks his hands against his cheeks, and places his glasses case back into his backpack. He smiles, and it’s shaky, but he forces the grin wider and wider until his cheeks burn with the effort, and Yuuri feels like laughing at the awkward picture it makes.

Performance clothing? Check. The button down is freshly pressed, and Yuuri is certain that if he touches it, it would still be slightly warm, still smelling like the detergent his mother uses, and the faint scent of incense from the family shrine. Gloves? Check. They hang out of the pocket of his jeans, fine leather, one of the nicest things Yuuri owns. A gift from Minako-sensei on his birthday. The leather is dark, and buttery smooth to the touch, and the gloves are so warm that Yuuri knows so long as he has them on, he doesn’t have to worry about his hands freezing or seizing up in any weather. Phone? Check. Yuuri pats the small breast pocket in his sweater, just to check if it’s still there.

Check, check and check.

Yuuri runs a hand through his hair one last time, before grabbing his violin. He kisses his mother goodbye - Dad is at work, and Mari is nowhere to be found - toes into his loafers and makes his getaway.

It’s spring. The wind is ruffling his hair, as fond as a mother or aunt, and the sun is warm and gentle on his face. Yuuri tilts his face towards the sky and lets out a breath.

It’s spring.

Phichit slides into an empty chair at the cafe table next to Viktor without so much as a word. Yuri looks up from his sandwich - and Viktor laments the fact that he hadn’t been able to convince the ten year old to order the jalapeno chicken - and scowls.

“Who’s this?” Yuri sets down the sandwich, and leans back in the chair. Viktor laughs behind his hand, as the ten year old glares. He’d been attacking the sandwich with all the fervor and gusto of a man starved for weeks on end - and to think, that he’d actually put the damn thing down. Small miracles, in this day and age.

Phichit rattles the ice in his drinks, taking a sip from the green plastic straw. He shares a bemused look with Viktor over the top of his drink, and Viktor shrugs in response. C’est la vie, he supposes. Little cousins and their terrible moods are all a part of life.

“I’m Phichit.” He grins, setting down his drink. “What, has Viktor never mentioned me? I’m hurt.” Phichit grins at Viktor, quicksilver and bright, with a flash of pink tongue in between.

“Phichit,” Viktor says, gesturing towards Yuri. “This is my little cousin.”

“Oh! The cousin pianist, right?” Phichit says, leaning closer. “Can you help me convince Viktor to get back to the piano?” He takes another drink. “It’s almost like living next door to a void without the music.” He gives a fake shudder. “Creepy.”

Yuri rolls his eyes, and bites into his sandwich again. The crunch of the lettuce is bitter. Yuri’s entire face and countenance is bitter. Almost as if he’s having his teenage rebellion four years too early. “Fuck if that ever works,” he mutters around the mouthful. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past year?”

It comes out garbled - sounding more like fut oo you fink i’ve been frying to oo for fhuh pash year? then an actual sentence.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Viktor reminds him. “And it’s not happening.” He looks down at his hands. Piano fingers, Mother called them. Keep them warm, Vitya. “I gave up the piano.”

The notes. I can’t hear them. Mamotchka, mamotchka, I can’t hear the notes. Where are you? Something is wrong. I can’t hear the notes.

“It’s a such a waste,” Phichit complains, sounding more of a child than the almost full grown man he is. “You were so good, Viktor. I always loved hearing you play growing up.” Shaking his head, Phichit checks the watch on his wrist. “Anyways, I’m not here to talk to you about the piano again - but that doesn’t mean we’re done talking about it. A friend of mine is meeting Chris in the park soon, and you know what that means.”

“Chris again?” Viktor asks, leaving a few bills on the cafe table. “This has to be the, what - the tenth time this month?”

Phichit chews his straw. “Hey, I’m not here to police who Chris decides to date. He doesn’t have any diseases so he’s doing alright.”

Yuri makes a disgusted noise, and sets down the crust of his sandwich. “Gross. There are children here, you gross fucks.”

“I don’t know any children with mouths as filthy as yours, kotenyok,” Viktor says, shrugging on his light coat. “Come on. You can walk that sandwich off.”

“This sucks,” Yuri informs him. “You’re a terrible cousin. Uncle. Whatever.” He scowls. “You owe me.”

Of course. “We’ll see about that,” Viktor says. “Let’s go.”

He fiddles with his phone. The acrylic charm of Vicchan clicks against his nails as he does, and waits for Chris.

Chris. Chris, Chris, Chris. Chris is nice. Handsome as well. He’s nice, and he doesn’t talk down to Yuuri just because Yuuri is younger, and if Yuuri wasn’t already helplessly infatuated with someone else, he’s certain that Chris would be an excellent pseudo boyfriend.

“Phichit says he’s on his way with Viktor.” Chris drapes himself over Yuuri, head resting on Yuuri’s shoulder, arms dangling near Yuuri’s chest like some odd, gangly Caucasian scarf. “You’re a cunning little thing, you know that?” He pokes Yuuri in the cheek, and his breath tickles the underside of Yuuri’s chin and cheek.

Yuuri fiddles with his phone again. In truth, Chris is a great friend, but he supposes that even great friends don’t understand the motives that drive their friends forwards. I’m not cunning, Yuuri wants to say. I just need to hear him. I need to hear him again.

Again, again, again. Over and over again. Yuuri wants to hear the melodies created by those hands again and again and again, until they ring in his sleep and lace their way into his dying breaths.

Again and again and again.

“Yuuri! Chris!”

Phichit waves down two figures in the park, and Viktor can easily recognize Chris’ two toned hair. The black haired boy he’s draped over, however, is unfamiliar.

He’s entirely unremarkable. Nothing like the girls or boys that Chris normally goes after. No sparkling blue eyes, or a green fresher than the springtime grass, just a warm brown, dark enough to seemingly eat all the sunlight reflected off of them. His hair isn’t pale blond, or dyed an odd color. It’s black. Soft and downy, tied into a small, fluffy tail at the nape of his neck. His clothing is nothing special either. Not the height of fashion - no Burberry purse, nor Coach sunglasses, just a white shirt, brown sweater, and blue jeans.

The only things remarkable about this boy are the leather gloves hanging out of his jean pocket - far more expensive than anything else the boy has, and Viktor mindlessly pats the back pocket of his pants, feeling for child sized gloves that are no longer there.

“This is Yuuri,” Chris says, moving his head to rest on the boy’s head. “Isn’t he adorable?” He pinches Yuuri’s cheek.

“Chris!” Yuuri struggles away, laughing softly, pushing him away with half-hearted shoves. “Ouch, ouch that hurts!”

They struggle for minutes more, and Viktor feels out of place. A fifth wheel. One wheel too many. Yuri is still on his phone, and Phichit is videotaping the whole ordeal.

Yuuri turns to look at him. “Hi.” He holds a hand out. “I’m Yuuri. It’s nice to meet you.”

Miwa once said, “the moment I met him, my life changed.”

His eyes are bright.

“Viktor Nikiforov,” Viktor replies, and it feels as if the world is moving through syrup. Yuuri’s eyes are bright. Prinpicks of warm brown where only a void of black and white had once been.

“Nice to meet you, Viktor.”

Yuuri smiles.

“what i see and what i hear. what I feel…

“Crap! I’m going to be late!” He grabs Chris by the wrist and begins to run, kicking up dust as he goes. Clouds of pale brown, and a boy, painting the world in streaks of blue, purple, yellow and green as he runs.

“Where are they going?” Viktor asks, grabbing Yuri by he wrist as he and Phichit begin to run after the couple.

Phichit looks back at Viktor. His smile is wide, and his eyes are bright. “I must have forgotten to tell you. Yuuri has a competition today. Didn’t you notice?” He gestures ahead, and Viktor begins to notice the blue violin case bumping against Yuuri’s back as he runs at a breakneck speed, towards Carle Hall.

“Yuuri’s a violinist!”

my whole scenery is painted in color. the world is sparkling.”

Violin Sonata No. 9, First Movement - the Kreutzer. Beethoven.

Viktor has heard this piece before. A million times, in this hall, before competitions of his own, or after. He is familiar with this piece.

It sings through his veins, every stroke of the bow and every note in the vibrato and trill.

There - a false note. A slip of the finger, a flail of the bow. Viktor winces. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going!

It ends.

The song still sings through Viktor, every mistake, every slip of the finger, every bowing that was out of place and where it should not of been. Every missed pizzicato and every graceful, arching slur.

“Viktor, Viktor!” Phichit speaks in a low hush, shaking Viktor and Chris. “Yuuri’s up. See?”

Three. A number card, atop the stand, bold and black against the white of the thick cardstock. Even the number cards are familiar. From the dry air in the concert hall, to the scent of dust and rosin. Everything in Carle Hall is familiar. Monotone.

Breathe. In and out. In and out. Is my violin in tune? Do I remember my song? Do I remember how it sings, how the composer wants it to sing?

Do I remember how I want it to sound?

Yuuri flicks his hair behind his ear. Adjusts the bobby pins holding his bangs back. Straightens the collar of his blue dress shirt and smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt.

Again and again and again.

One more time. One more time.

Again and again and again.

Yuuri takes the stage. His hair is swept out of his face, but unruly strands stick out from behind his ears, escaping the pins and hair ties.

Underneath the blindingly bright stage lights, he is stunning. The light casts amber where there was dark, deep brown. It highlights the apples of his cheeks, casting a blush where there is none.

He tunes his violin. A string. D string. E string. G string. Runs his bow across two at once, letting them ring out in a harmony. A string. D string. E string. G string.

Nods to the accompanist.

This is a familiar routine. Everyone in the competition before him, and everyone after him will do the same, and will play the same song, same notes, over and over, until the last note rings out in the concert hall, and the song can only exist within the veins of the musicians and those touched by it.

Yuuri raises his bow and strikes. He crashes into the monotony of the competition, and breaks it with the butt of his bow, and the crook of his fingers. The melody is Beethoven’s.

The song is not. Not anymore.

Every changed dynamic, every new slur, every new staccato is all Yuuri. The song is Yuuri’s now, and it curls around him, from the crook of his elbow, to the tips of his toes. It surrounds him, purring and content. Not quite Beethoven, yet not something new. A bit of both, Viktor supposes, a bit of Yuuri, a bit of Beethoven.

Something born of a persistent soul colliding with art that has persisted over the tumult of age and time. It’s a kind of love, Viktor supposes, as surprising as it is, as shocking and unruly as it is. The song is Yuuri’s now. He’s grabbed it by the reigns with two hands, calloused and worn from the strings of the violin and the grip of the bow.

“He’s good,” Viktor murmurs to Phichit. “But he’s not going to win.”

Again and again and again.

Yuuri might not win the competition, but Viktor still wants to hear him. Again and again and again, until his song is done, and it can only exist in Viktor’s blood and bones. It won’t exist out loud anymore, but if it sings in his blood and his bones, day after day, night after night, it will be enough.

Again and again and again. Once more. Once more.

Let me hear that again. One more time. One more time!

Chapter Text

Yuuri stands still, the sound of the final note still ringing in his ears as his accompanist scolds him. She’s so needlessly angry, he thinks, flexing his fingers around his violin and bow.

Diverging off from the score! Reckless and unruly, this early in a competition! In a competition, nonetheless! Yuuri!

He knows she’s going to quit. She can’t keep up with him, and how he recklessly chases after whatever emotion is ruling him that day, can’t even begin to fathom why he does what he does.

Taking a knife - no, a wrecking ball - to the script and tearing it apart! Blatantly disrespectful and reckless!

Reckless, reckless, reckless. His accompanist says those words, over and over again, but Yuuri doesn’t hear them.

One more time. One more time, he thinks, flexing his fingers. I want that again and again and again. I want to play that again.

He’s always been a little bit of a junkie, he supposes, chasing full speed after his next hit. He doesn’t take the time to stop and think anymore, he just goes and goes, running, one foot after the other. Reckless and foolhardy.

“aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.”

He will only ever have days, stretching on and on before the inevitable comes for him.

Seize the day, trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.

Yuuri stares unblinking at his accompanist, and slowly, bends at the waist in a short bow. Another goodbye.

He begins to put his violin away, and hopes for that new hello.

They greet Yuuri in the front hall. His cheeks are flushed, and a pair of blue frames sits low on the bridge of his nose. He looks satisfied, and Viktor can only wonder why - surely, he must realize that he won’t win?

“Oh - Yuuri!” Phichit waves to Yuuri from their little dust-scented corner, and Yuuri turns, and smiles as them.

Viktor takes a step forwards at the same instant that Chris does, and stops. Takes a step back.

Friend A, remember? A voice murmurs in the back of his mind. Today, with them, you are Friend A.

“You - you’re the performer from before!” A little boy is running up to Yuuri, and his hair is bright. Blond and red, like the comb of a rooster, and a bouquet of flowers the same shade.

Yuuri spins around, and crouches to eye-level with the little boy. “Mhm. I am.”

Flowers, for a violinist who enthralled an entire audience with his music. Flowers, vivdly red, for a violinist who matches them, petal for petal in vibrance. Viktor does not think that he can forget this sight.

“These are for you. I really, really liked your performance, and, and I - I’m going to be a violinist too! Just wait!” Blushing bright, the little rooster boy shoves the flowers into Yuuri’s arms and runs away, footfalls loud against the carpet and hardwood.

Chris saunters up to Yuuri, draping himself over him like before. “Wasn’t he something?”

“Yeah…” Yuuri sounds almost dazed, staring down at the flowers in his hands, fiddling quietly with one scarlet petal. “A whirlwind…”

A violinist finishes his performance, sweat dripping from his brow, the apples of his cheeks burning bright underneath the blinding light, to the thunderous applause of the audience, and the sweet scent of flowers amidst dry air and dust. One hand is in the air, triumphant, like a facsimile of victory bright and beautiful, holding the bow aloft. The other is tight around the neck of the violin, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

That is not what this is. But looking at Yuuri now, and feeling his music sing through his blood and bones, Viktor can almost taste that image. Almost as if it were real.

To think, Viktor muses, plodding after Yuuri and Chris, Phichit and Yuri by his side, that all of this happened and I...I only played Friend A.

I am only Friend A.

Viktor runs into Yuuri again on a Tuesday.

Their eyes catch, and it’s almost like being born again.

“Hey!” Yuuri pulls down the edge of his button down, and Viktor eyes the crest of their school, golden and blue against the gray of his uniform blazer. “I’m waiting for Chris. Think I’ll surprise him at Language club.” He smiles, and it’s bright and blinding. “Do you think I can scare him?”

Viktor’s heart drops somewhere in his left shoe. Chris is with another of his many, many conquests, and Viktor can only remember that musicians have hearts as fragile as glass. He doesn’t want to shatter Yuuri’s.

“Oh, uh...Chris has a long practice today. He didn’t want to tell you, but...well...y’know.” He trails off halfheartedly, and scratches the nape of his neck.

“Huh.” Yuuri blinks, and turns his head to look off at their school in the distance. The sky is still bright blue, having not yet bled into the mixture of scarlets and violets that the springtime sunset always brings.

“Well.” They’re so close now, and Yuuri’s finger is centimeters, millimeters, nanometers away from the bare space between Viktor’s eyes. “I guess I’ll just appoint you as his substitute today,”

His mouth shapes the words, but no sound comes out, but Viktor already knows what he’s about to say.

“Friend A.”

Friend A, Friend A. A background character.

Friend A.

“Okay. Where are we headed?” Yuri can stand to wait at home with Uncle Viktor for a few hours more.

They’re at a small bakery a few blocks away from the school. It’s quaint and quiet, in the way Mom and Pop bakeries seem to be, with the ambience of soft chatter, and the sound of the coffee makers and ovens muted in the background.

There are fresh flowers in pots, perched on windowsills, tabletops, and one large, overflowing pot on a small white piano. Sad, Viktor thinks. You’re not supposed to put water on a piano...but there it is, I suppose.

A waiter comes, and sets a small plate down in front of them. Matcha toast, Viktor notes, watching as Yuuri’s eyes light up at the sight of it.

“Wow! I’ve been wanting to eat this for such a long time!” He pulls out his phone, and snaps a photo of it, and sighs, content. “It’s so pretty, it almost feels like a shame to eat it, huh?”

It is pretty. Fluffy pieces of toast, stacked one on top of another, slathered in a pale green sauce - matcha, bittersweet - dripping down the sides, complete with vanilla ice cream on top, and crumbled chocolate wafers to match. It’s almost disgustingly unhealthy.

Viktor laughs. “Maybe. But you ordered it, didn’t you?”

“Ah. You’re right.” Yuuri stops, frowning slightly. “Well, we are sharing it, aren’t we?” He picks up a fork, sliding the other towards Viktor. “Come on. Eat up.”

The toast is light, despite how thick it is, and the sauce is so bittersweet to the taste. The ice cream doesn’t help much either. Yuuri makes a delighted noise across the table, quiet and sweet, and sighs, before setting down his fork. He is content, full of a vibrancy that leaks out, quiet and unassuming, but no less bright for all that it is.

Viktor wants to drown in it.

The little white piano, in it’s small solitary corner of the shop begins to ring out, a child’s version of Mozart’s beloved Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. It’s clumsy and faltering, but honest and innocent all the same.

“What a happy piano,” Yuuri muses, quietly, propping his head up with one hand. “Can you hear it?” He hums along, conducting with his fingers. The toast is forgotten.

Viktor breathes out through his nose, sharp and short. “It’s not,” he murmurs. “Everyone knows you’re not supposed to put a piano near water, but yet,” he gestures at the blooming flowers in their pot, greenery spilling out and over the top of the white piano.

“How can you say that?” Yuuri scowls, standing abruptly. “Listen to them, and tell me that piano is sad.”

Viktor watches as Yuuri traipses over to the two children playing the piano. “Hey, do you see that guy over there?” He points a slender finger Viktor’s way, and for a moment, Viktor can feel goosebumps running up and down his arms and back. This does not bode well. “He’s a really, really good pianist.”

“What, really?” The little girl seated by the piano turns around, and her eyes are glittering, sparkling vibrantly as joy lights her face up. “Mister, mister, come play with us!” Her friend beside her nods as well, and when Viktor looks at Yuuri, he can see the smug satisfaction across his face.

Clever, clever, he thinks, slowly standing. The silent challenge is written across Yuuri’s face, in the glitter in his too dark eyes, the small smile pulling at the apples of his cheeks.

Meet me where I am, it says, meet me where I am, join me on the stage. Come here, come closer.

Viktor takes a step closer.

The little girl’s quiet, childish song - Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Viktor sets his hand to the small, white piano, and picks out the melody. Yuuri sings along, slightly off tune, too husky to be truly delicate, but they had been an odd gathering to begin with. They make an odd combination, a girl who can be no older than eight, a seventeen year old boy, whose fingers have itched for a piano for six years, and a sixteen year old violinist, quietly singing along, in a voice that is slightly off key.

The more commonly known melody comes to an end, and Viktor’s hands move on their own, making a melody that he hasn’t played - hasn’t heard - in six years. His fingers are light atop the keys, and it feels, for mere moments, for seconds that stretch out into minutes, into weeks, into months, then infinities that stretch out long and far beyond what Viktor can remember, or even humanly begin to express.

Then the darkness comes. The world is awash in water, and he finds himself sinking into depths so dark, that not even light can reach where he is. The music is running away on fleet feet, the Daphne to his Apollo, fading, flying - Mamotchka, Mamotchka, something is wrong with me. I can’t hear the notes anymore! Mamotchka, where are you?

I’m scared. Where are you?

Viktor picks his hands up from the piano. He tries to breathe, tries to speak, tries to apologize for stopping, for failing at even something as small as this, but the words are stuck in his throat, clogging up his lungs, filling them with tar and dead stardust.

He turns away from the piano and runs, out the door of the cafe, away from the piano, away from the two little girls, away from Yuuri.

The jingle of the bell echoes after him, but all that resonates in Viktor’s ears is the dull sound of the piano keys striking without any sound to follow.

“Why’d you run?” Yuuri crouches beside him, a soothing presence that tints the world in blue. He never pushes, a presence that urges Viktor to speak, but is never insistent. “What happened back there?”

“I…” Viktor chokes on the words. They’re so, so bitter. ”I can’t hear the notes.”

Yuuri blinks. “But you were, you were - you were playing, back in the cafe!”

“Not literally.” Viktor wants to laugh, but it’s really more of a harsh, grating bark, a cry for something he doesn’t have, something he can no longer find. Something lost to time and grief. “I freeze up. Can’t hear the notes, and it’s almost...almost like I’m drowning, underwater.” He shakes his head and pokes at a stray pebble on the ground. “Funny, huh? They call - well, called - me the greatest pianist of our generation. Look at me,” he mutters. “I can’t even play the piano anymore. It’s no use.” I am as good as dead is left unsaid, but by the malcontent look on Yuuri’s face, he hears it nonetheless.

“You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri says, standing up. His hands are on his hips, and his face is scrunched up, determined. “You are the one every person in our generation is chasing after. You are the end, the beginning. You are the stick by which we measure ourselves, the chain by which we tether ourselves to the ground with. How dare you say that you’re dead!” He jabs a finger into Viktor’s chest.

“If you can’t play with your fingers, play with your toes! And if you don’t have enough toes, put your nose in there too.” Viktor takes a shaky step back. “This is the path we are on, and this is what you chose, that day you played your first note on that piano. Don’t you think, for a single second that it has let you go.”

The what to do, what to do flashes across Yuuri’s face.

“I’ve got it. Friend A,” Yuuri declares, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m going to need an accompanist. I guess, starting today, that’s you. Let’s work well together, okay?”

What.

“I’m not doing it!” Viktor slams a hand down on his desk, and whirls around to face Chris. “He’s asked, and you’ve asked, and literally everybody and their damn uncle has too. I can’t play anymore. I’m done.” It pains him, to ekk out these words, to yell until his throat is sore, and his voice is hoarse, because Viktor would rather think about everything but the damn piano.

He wants to think about art class, and the choice novel for the essay in English. He wants to think about the amusement park on the weekends, about Uncle Yakov’s borscht, Yuri’s ever flaring temper. He wants to forget about the piano, go back to being carefree and ditzy.

(Maybe, just a little bit, he wants to go back to a time where he could hear every note on the piano, where it didn’t matter if he played to the audience, a time when it wasn’t just about awards, awards, awards. A time where he played the piano because Mother would smile when he played, and the sallow hollows in her cheeks seemed to brighten like the rosy dawn.)
Chris sets down his phone, and looks at Viktor, pensive and searching. Is he looking for that boy he grew up alongside? Is he looking for the time when music didn’t hurt as much as it does now, when every turn he took, every breath he let out wasn’t a desperate plea for a reason to cling to the piano?

(Viktor is too.)

He turns away from Chris, and looks down at the novel on his desk. Their set piece is Saint Saens’ Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso. Written by Camille Saint Saen for the virtuoso violinist Sarasate. Yuuri had shown him the score earlier today, setting it down on his desk first thing in the morning.

Viktor cracks open his novel. He has to bullshit half the annotations if he doesn’t want to get yelled at by the teacher for not having his homework again.

Yuuri is, if nothing else, persistent to the point where it could be considered insanity. Add Chris and Phichit to the mixture, and honestly, Viktor is fairly certain that at this point, he could play the piece in his sleep.

He lies on his back, fingers coming to a stop as the crackly recording fades out. In the distance, other students are complaining about the continuous onslaught of classical music. Viktor would agree, but he knows, that no matter what he says, music - especially this kind - runs and sings through his blood and breath. It is in every atom and molecule that makes up him, and Viktor cannot ever bring himself to hate music.

He’s in the second gym, in the storage area that has long since been abandoned to time and lack of supplies to put in the storage area. The music is pouring in through a crack in the solitary window in the storage room, and with it, is a puff of dry, warm air.

Outside, there is the stomping echo of running footsteps, and then Yuuri flings the sliding doors to the storage area open. His face is red and flushed, hair a mess and flying every which way, and he stalks over to Viktor.

“Are you going to play?” He’s panting, doubled over, but his eyes, deep brown and simmering, pin Viktor in place. There’s an intensity that burns in them that is oh, so familiar, and Viktor thinks, once upon a time, i was like this too.

“I told you.” He sounds weary and tired, even to his own ears. “I can’t hear the notes. I can’t play. And I won’t - I won’t play.”

Yuuri clutches at the grip of his violin case, and Viktor blinks as a spatter of tears darkens the ground. “I…please. You’re the only hope I have, Viktor. I don’t have another accompanist. Please, help me.”

Viktor lets out a breath. Reaches out to brush Yuuri’s hair away, but stops, and instead, runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out from his eyes. Whether or not it’s possible, your partner will let you know.

“I’ll do it.”

Looking up, Yuuri smiles, hastily wiping away tears. Relief is painted over every inch of his face, and it sets a melancholy look in his eyes. “Thank you, Viktor.”

“Found you!” Phichit rushes in, out of breath, school uniform rumpled beyond comprehension. “If you two don’t hurry, you’re going to miss it!”

Yuuri looks down at his watch, and his eyes widen in horror. His hands begin to tremble around the grip of his violin case, and Viktor reaches out, and takes him by the wrist.

“If we run, we can make it in twenty minutes.”

“Wait, wait, I have a better idea. Come on! Chris is waiting by the front gates. Go, go, go!”

Yuuri rushes on ahead, and the world bursts into color behind him.

“How did you know that I would say yes?” Viktor asks, sprinting alongside Phichit.

Phichit rolls his eyes. “It’s you, Viktor. You’re always looking for a way to cling to your piano. I figured you would have to take the final step sooner or later.” He shoves Viktor lightly. “Now, come on. We’ve got illegal transportation methods to take part in.”

They’re hurtling down a hill, and Viktor is seated just behind Phichit on a rickety bike - which was also stolen from whatever poor soul decided to leave their bike unlocked - desperately studying the piano score in front of him. He can’t remember ever stressing this much over a piano score, over a performance.

(He’s Viktor Nikiforov, of course. Winning came as easy to him as breathing. Breathe, in and out. Another certificate, another trophy on the shelf.)

“Who’s bike is this - oh my god, Chris that’s a tree!” Yuuri shrieks from his seat behind Chris. He’s hanging on for dear life as Christ hurtles as fast as possible down the steep hill to Carle Hall, the material of his blazer flying out behind him like a cape.

“Doesn’t matter,” Phichit calls back, swerving around a trash can. “Will you guys be alright? You never even practiced together!”

Viktor breathes in. Breathes out. “We’ll be fine,” he promises, and he can barely hear the tremors in his own voice. He smiles at Yuuri, and Yuuri smiles back, a watery, shaky thing.

Yuuri turns to face him in the wings. Viktor is in his school uniform, gray blazer and brown loafers, and his grip creates wrinkles in the sheet music. Yuuri’s face is pallid, and his eyes tremble as if they are made of liquid. His hands shake on the neck of his violin, and the grip of his bow.

“Let’s go on a journey,” Yuuri whispers, and it feels as if this moment is an infinity in it’s own. “Let’s take them all on a journey with us, Viktor.”

He strides onto the stage, and Viktor finds that, in the end, all he can do is follow.

Yuuri starts soft, like trying to croon out a ballad to a baby, or to a lover he wishes to woo. He starts soft, and Viktor follows, fingers striking the keys.

I can hear the notes. Alright.

It starts out well. The notes are in his ears, trying to sink into his breath and fingers as well, but they’re not there. Not yet.

But Yuuri flicks his gaze towards them, and for a split second, their eyes meet, and it’s like a bolt of lightning passes through Viktor.

Yuuri raises his bow and strikes, moving faster and faster, picking up the pace, and Viktor hurries to catch up.

Meet me where I am, Yuuri calls. Meet me where I am. I’m waiting. Come.

Viktor strikes the keys, and lets his fingers stroke out familiar patterns across the black and the white.

He stops. The world grows watery around him, and desperate, Viktor strikes the keys harder.

No, no! No, no, no! The music, where is the music? I can’t hear it, it’s gone!

Harder and harder, he pounds into the keys with a desperate fervor, fingers trembling and breaths caught in his throat. He has to find the music. He has to return to it, can’t let it end here, he needs to hear this song sing through him, until it dances through every moment, waking or not. Viktor needs this. Again and again and again.

His fingers tremble, and weary, Viktor stops, drawing his hands into his lap. What a disaster, he thinks, choking on bitterness. I’ve ruined it.

Viktor stares at his trembling hands, and closes his eyes, and listens. To the sound of Yuuri, his bow being drawn over the string. Again and again and again.

And then, Yuuri stops. He sets down his bow, lets his arms hang loose at his sides, and breathes. He tilts his head up to the ceiling, and stares into the blindingly bright stage lights, and then, back at Viktor.

Let’s go on a journey, Viktor.

He raises his violin and bow.

I am here! I am calling for you, where are you? Will you meet me where I am? Please, I beg you, meet me where I am. I am here, I am here, I am here.

Viktor stills. In this moment, there is only Yuuri and his violin, and the music. He hears the question in the notes, sees every plea in the way Yuuri sways, back and forth, in time with the beginning of his stolen tune.

I am here.

He lifts his hands to the piano, and begins to play. It is not pretty - it is a war between them, a push and pull, a back and forth. Violent clashing, a battle for dominance, a question and it’s response. Viktor closes his eyes, and decides to push.

Yuuri grins, exalted, brilliant, beautiful, and shoves Viktor back, his violin growing louder and louder in response to Viktor.

Don’t you dare steal my thunder, Friend A!

Viktor smiles, if only to the piano and himself, and pounds out his response. It is ugly, loud, and not at all graceful, but it is enough.