#;; yuri plisetsky speaks to achilles ;;

[mvsicinthedvrk]

@graveycrds said: ❝ Two things organ music is good for: ice-skating and mass-murdering. ❞ yuri & achilles ( come @ me )

Yuri has seen this guy before. He’s... winter Olympics, for sure, though he doesn’t know what event. He narrows his eyes, though, immediately jumping to the defensive. There is absolutely nothing wrong with organ music; it’s perfectly fine as an instrumental, and very appropriately dramatic. “Ice skating and mass murdering should not be mentioned in the same sentence. I am offended,” he frankly informs the other. 

[fcllencngels]

Moratorium

A Yuri!!! on Ice fic

A moratorium is a delay or suspension of an activity.

You never judge a book by it's cover. You never judge a person by their personality And when Yuri moves to Russia, he sees so much of Yurio that he hadn't expected at all

Read on AO3

TW: Suicide excerpt from Crime and Punishment

The first time Yuri meets Yurio Plisetsky, he’s met with a scowl and a ferocity no one would expect from a fifteen year old. But no one should be judged based on first impressions, the same way that books should not be judged by their cover. For far more important things lie on the inside than on the outside.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio at Victor’s-no their house, he’s met with the same trademark scowl and a slamming door as he looks up from his spot on the couch. With his blonde hair wicked back in a ponytail, he looks sharper, but for some reason, something is…off. It’s the same aura he felt when Yurio kicked him on his birthday, seconds after he gave him a present.

It’s vulnerability.

“Where the fuck is Victor?” He asks, and Yuri turns back to his phone, silently contemplating how much harsher Yurio makes Victor’s name with his quick tongue.

“Hey Yurio.” He calls back, and he hears a huff of annoyance from behind him. The teenager made his way to the bookshelf, his fingers disrupting the carefully aligned books, their spines littered with Russian that Yuri can barely understand and English that he can. “He’s in the shower, I’m sure he’ll be out soon.”

Yurio selects a book from the shelf, muttering something about pigs and fucking, his agile fingers opening the book to a page before a dark look overtook his face.

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word.

‘What do you want here?’ he said, without moving or changing his position.

‘Nothing, brother, good morning,’ answered Svidrigaïlov.

‘This isn’t the place.’

‘I am going to foreign parts, brother.’

‘To foreign parts?’

‘To America.’

‘America.’

Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

‘I say, this is not the place for such jokes!’

‘Why shouldn’t it be the place?’

‘Because it isn’t.’

‘Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.’

He put the revolver to his right temple.

‘You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,’ cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

“Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.” Yurio read out loud, and a silence overtakes the room. It’s as if time was frozen, focused on the next thing that could possibly happen.

“It must be terrible to die alone.” he says, his voice impossibly soft, and Yuri looks up, just in time to see the same vulnerability fill the boy’s body up, uncertainty setting itself in his bones.

“What was that Yurio?” Yuri asks, and he’s met with a sharp glare. If he didn’t know better, he would have never assumed that Yurio has composed himself in a half second.

“It’s disgusting in English.” He says with a bitter finality, dropping the book on the floor just as Victor emerges from their bedroom, his hair sparkling from the sunlight.

“Yurio!” he says, his mouth transforming into that beautiful heart shape as he walked over to hug the young skater. Yurio quickly evades his grasp, thin arms crossing as he stares at his elder.

“That’s not my name.” He points at the clock, annoyance written over his face. “You promised you’d be at the rink by seven.” Yurio says accusingly. Victor glances at the time, before shrugging.

“It’s not too late now!” he declared, glancing at the book sprawled on the ground. He gives Yurio a pointed look, but it’s too late, the messy blonde head is already half way to the door.

Victor gives him a hurried kiss before rushing out of the door, and Yuri is left with only the Yurio’s shouts as a solid goodbye.

Standing up, he moves to pick up the fallen book, and pauses as he stares at the text in front of him.

It’s Russian.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio smiling, he’s in a restaurant, nothing admirable compared to the city all around them, but he’s staring at the person across from him with a passion that Yuri recognizes every time he sees his reflection in Victor’s eyes.

In the moment, he’s high off of love, Victor’s present glittering on his finger, and he had never thought of it twice.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio filled with raw unfiltered passion is that afternoon as he stepped into the skating rink. It’s second nature for him to watch from behind the stands as Yurio begins his routine, preparing for one of the biggest days of his life.

Otabek stands off to the side of the ice, and Yuri smiles at him in acknowledgement before music is blasted in his ears.

The surprise overtakes him, and he vaguely thinks ‘This must be Victor’s idea’ before he sees Yurio. For who else could incorporate something so surprising?

Yurio is a fifteen year old, a boy of firsts, and in their relationship, Yuri sometimes forgets that he’s an artist. Not one who stands still in front of a stretched piece of paper in front of him for hours, for that would be a waste of talent.

Yurio paints in emotions, writes in his movements, and the pure, untainted talent in his bones takes Yuri’s breath away, even as the ridiculous music plays in the background. But the music is no longer ridiculous as Yurio moves; instead it wraps around him like a blanket, becoming his shield and his weapon as he leaps across the ice.

And no longer does Yuri think that this routine could possibly be Victor’s idea because he has seen Yurio perform when the ideas of others were shoved down his throat for him to swallow and spit back out in front of hundreds of people.

That looks rehearsed, that beats records.

But the Yurio in front of him harnesses something else that turns his performance heavenly, and no longer is Yurio the fairy in petite looking outfits, but he is a god, using his emotions to cut into the ice harshly, a monster who knows how to use the powers that he had been gifted with.

His skates spray ice as he veers around the edge of the ice, and the spray of frozen water behind him should seem exaggerated, but it takes the breath out of Yuri’s lungs as he watches the sweaty, golden haired god approach his other half.

A dark haired soldier takes his hand, and while Yurio is heavenly and light, Otabek is the soldier, someone dark but forceful, the perfect complement to Yurio’s performance.

A smile takes Yurio’s lips, and the two continue the routine.

The first time Yuri sees Yurio surprised is at the Grand Prix finals, and he’s seated beside Yakov and Lilia, and his mouth had fallen open as he stared at the score on the screen and the voice announced that he had broken five time champion Victor Nikiforov’s record.

At the time, Yuri had been too preoccupied with his own need to win that he had barely noticed how much it had affected Yurio.

The first time that Yuri understands Yurio’s life is that evening as the group moved to Yurio’s house, greeted by his grandpa.

When Yuri steps though the door, Victor grasping his hand, he’s met with the scent of something fried and something all too familiar.

“They make katsudon in Russia?” he asks, only to be met face to face with a man that could rival Yakov’s solidarity.

Yurio pushes between the couple’s arms, with Otabek behind them, before jumping into his grandfather’s arms. Separately, the pair are stubborn and fierce, but Yuri watches in fascination as they exchange loving glances, and soft murmurs of Russian before glancing back at their company.

“You know Victor and beka. That’s Victor’s pig fiancé.” Yurio says. After brief introductions, the group disperses among the small living space. With the door shut behind them, Yuri is surprised on how cozy the living space is. Compared to Victor’s space, this was a closet.

“We can probably look around. Yurio and his grandpa will probably chat for a while.” Victor says.

Pushing open a door, Yuri jumps back as a blitz of fur runs past him, escaping from what Yuri could only surmise as Yurio’s room. A tall bookshelf lined one of the walls, filled with textbooks and reading that Yuri would suspect was far more advanced than any 15 year old would read. His bed was propped up on its frame, close to the ceiling to accommodate the desk underneath it.

The walls were blank, except for the carefully scribbled rules and various techniques written on long sheets of paper.

“This is Yurio’s room?” Yuri asks, almost in astonishment. “I would have imagined that it was…more dramatic.”

“You haven’t opened his closet yet.” Victor laughed. “He likes keeping the space open to practice. He doesn’t stay here too often either, since Yakov and Lilia have him practicing all the time.” Victor replies comfortably. “The books are because he doesn’t have the time to go to school. It’s what makes him Russia’s best skater. He puts everything in to get the results he’s expected to get.”

“What do his parents say? Even I went to college in America while skating.”

Victor stayed silent, his confirmation the only thing Yuri needed.

“Oh.”

“His grandfather is the only family he has. That’s why everyone in the rink is so protective of him.”

With only a look at Victor’s face, Yuri understands. It explains Yakov’s rebuking personality, harsh but never threatening; Lilia’s nitpicking, making sure he had eaten, and eating with him when Yurio hadn’t; Mila and her over bursting energy, and every single other person on the Russian skating team.

It explained the reason why Yurio had wanted Victor back, not only to choreograph his performance, but for more. It explains Yurio’s anger, and the reason he had beaten Victor’s record, as if to erase him, out of his life, out of history, and the anger he had shown Yuri.

“You guys became the family he didn’t have. And I took you away from him.”

The first time Yuri had ever seen Yurio truly filled with childlike happiness was his birthday. Yuri had been missing home, had been uncertain, and his night had improved simply through the well thought efforts of a fifteen year old.

At the time, he had found it odd, but now, he knew so much more.

The first time Yuri truly understand Yurio is that night, as he stands outside in the cold.

It seems to always be cold in Russia, colder than it ever is in Japan, even in the most northern reaches. But there’s something magical about it, the way his breath transforms into a frosty cloud, and the way the snow always decorates the ground in beautiful, messy puddles.

But that is how Russia is. Cold and beautiful. But even within it, Yuri has found the most beautiful things tucked away, whether it be the flowers fighting nature, or the people forcing themselves through life, dressed in parkas and other apparel he wouldn’t see anywhere else.

And after learning so much, that’s what Yurio is.

Cold and beautiful, with his shoulder length hair and angelic movements. His words could cut the most experienced to pieces, and his actions could tear nations apart.

But that wasn’t all. He was still a teenager, one thrown roughly into the world with barely anyone to support him. But under all the pressure, he shined, emerging as the gold medalist at the Grand Prix Finals in his senior debut.

Under all that pressure, he had found his way in the world, he had found a family, and he had found someone he loved.

It was all too obvious for the ones that knew him, Yuri thought. He had been blind to not see it before. There was no other way to interpret the way Yurio marched into the rink, Otabek’s hand firmly clasping his shoulder as he evaded an attack from Mila and ignored Yakov’s rebuking.

Chuckling to himself, he turned and looked back as Victor stepped out the door as well, and met Yurio’s gaze through the door. For someone so young, he had experienced too much, but everything had sculpted him to be what the world wanted.

Yuri only hoped he could be what he wanted himself to be.