#[[ so booze is the way to Viktor's patience ]]

[countlessrealities]

Viktor's new attempt at defending his point is met with a raised brow and an unimpressed stare and it's definitely for the best that he decides to let the matter go. Rick is a master when it comes to destroy others' dreams and hopes and he wouldn't have hesitated to do it with the younger man, had he gotten irritated enough. No matter if it would have been counterproductive for his goals.

He bites his tongue to stop himself from spitefully echoing that "never mind", and instead watches Viktor's face as the latter takes a gulp from his flask. His lips curl in an amused smirk as the taste catches the other off guard, but he has to admit that he is a little impressed. Not many people manage to drink that particular liquor without choking and spluttering.

"G-Good shit, right?" He comments, taking the flask back. "I-I hope you savoured it, 'c-cause you won't find this anywhere around here. N-Not in Zaun an-and definitely not in this fancy nest y-you landed yourself in. U-Unless you come to me."

He leaves it vague, aware that the younger man might take it as him brewing the liquor himself. It's a much easier assumption to make than guessing that it comes from another universe.

"F-Furthermore?" He prompts instead, when Viktor stops mid sentence. He doesn't really care about what the other has to say, but he needs to buy himself time to think about how he can explain his "project" without giving away too much. "I-If you want to lecture me about laws an-and whatnot, d-don't bother. I-I never gave a shit about rules an-and I'm not going to start now. F-Fuck the government."

In his younger days, he had spent years fighting a galactic federation. He wouldn't even think about bowing to a bunch of idiots in luxurious clothes who think they are smarter than everyone.

"An-And yeah, I could do that. B-But they don't teach you things for free an-and I'm not swimming in cogs. O-Or have the time to owe someone a favour. I-I have a growing teenager to feed." Bringing up Morty is more something he does out of habit, but if it can inspire sympathy in Viktor, all the better. "B-Besides, they put that Shimmer shit everywhere these day, an-and I'm not touching it. I-I already have enough addictions as it is."

And, almost to underline that point, he takes a long swing from his flask.

"A-As for my work," he adds, finally addressing Viktor's question. "T-Think of it as a portable version o-of your Hexgates. B-But that takes you further." Off planet, to other worlds. "Y-You're probably thinking tha-that I'm nuts, b-but it's possible. W-Whether you believe it or not. An-And I need your shiny stones to do it."

{ @modestmuses }

Viktor is all too aware of how people in this city view him.  He is not naive and doesn’t need a stranger to point out the looks he gets from the others.  He has worked hard for years to prove himself to be more than a pity case, ever since his parents scrubbed the last vestiges of the undercity off his skin and shelled out the cogs for that uniform and boarding in the Piltovan Academy.  Even before he got there, even as his mother was still rinsing the suds out of his hair, he knew he would have to work twice as hard to prove his worth.

“Both Jayce and I have earned our places,” he retorts.  Of course, Jayce has earned a higher place in the pecking order much more quickly than Viktor ever will, but that’s to be expected, considering he is Piltovan nobility.  House Talis may be one of the lower houses, but it is still a house.  Viktor has never once deluded himself into believing that the system is fair, but he still doesn’t think Jayce has had everything handed to him on a silver platter for no reason.

“Just because I’m not the one giving the speeches doesn’t mean I’m not—”  He cuts himself off and flushes with indignation, realizing he is putting far too much effort into justifying himself to some asshole who is probably trying to rile him up on purpose.  “Well, never mind.”

He takes the offered flask and throws it back, figuring he could use the help getting through this conversation.  It would have hit him harder if he hadn’t been expecting the intensity, but he knows someone from the undercity isn’t going to be carrying around a flask full of some fruity little cocktail or champagne.  Even though he mostly expected it, it still makes his eyes go wide, and he lets out something between a sigh and a groan as he swallows and passes it back, but he is grateful for the strength of it.

“And what’s this project you’re working on?” he asks, the edge in his voice diminished but not entirely gone.  He will admit his scientific curiosity is starting to get the better of him as his interest in picking sides wanes, slowly replaced by his tendency to gravitate toward whatever seems the most progressive, the most evolutionary, revolutionary, what-have-you.  “You must realize such vague terms don’t make me more inclined to offer assistance.  Furthermore—”

But he stops short of saying that last bit, about how all scientific experiments require Council approval and how hexite crystals must be purchased from the hextech team at exorbitant prices if anyone wants to mess with the raw materials themselves.  He cannot say any of that in good faith.  He knows undercity people are so rarely swimming in cogs, but that does not mean their scientific ventures are any less important.  Also, hextech would not exist if he and Jayce had waited for a Council approval that would never come.

“Synthesizing anti-septic in the undercity is actually fairly simple,” Viktor says, hoping the other won’t pick up on the false start of his previous sentence.  “That is, if you know what you’re doing and where to find the materials.  I’m sure there are plenty of doctors down there who would be more than willing to teach you if you can stomach being decent to them for a few minutes.”

[asgardianthot]

Hunting Season (sambucky) - Part 4

Series Masterlist

A/N: ello :) I hope you’re all safe and sound, and I hope you’re surviving quarantine. Here’s an angsty update for you to enjoy! 

Words: 3329

Day 3.

The morning had prepared for the happy couple an hour of kayaking. Bucky got his tired ass to the lake with the least amount of motivation possible, for he had spent a sore night. The idea of Brock Rumlow spending the night in that house had his bones rattling. Sam, on his part, couldn’t blame him; Brock only stayed there when the two were an item, so the fact that he was tagging along indefinitely had ‘ill intentioned’ written all over it. Bucky’s theory was that Brock probably thought he was gonna crash the lunch party and win him over again, stay the night at their old bed instead of a small guest room downstairs.

On the bright side of matters, Sam and Bucky were still the only ones to have a hunting clue. The envelope that had fallen out of the Viktor Frankl book had a hand-written note, specifically placed there by Nana. It read as following: If you found this clue, congratulations, you have a brain. Frankl was more than just a man in search for meaning: he was a neurologist and a psychiatrist, as well as a philosopher. It’s not hard to guess why my husband was obsessed with him. Now find out more about the author and try to guess what else he and Theodore had in common. You’ll know where to look.

Those words meant absolutely nothing to Sam, but it made some sense to Bucky. All they had to do was research about the author of the book and find a connection, for now. The rest would be a problem for later.

Right now, meaning at that very exact moment, Sam’s problem was kayaking.

“Okay, so what now?” he asked Bucky, holding the paddles like they were going to hurt him.

The second the word ‘kayak’ had been brought up when discussing future activities, Sam knew he would make a fool out of himself, for it was something he had never done, while the rest of the guests had been practicing every summer since they bought the damn house. Still, he put on his swimsuit and showed up. For Bucky. They were the ones closest to the lakeside, as Bucky was still teaching Sam, meanwhile the other Barnes were already paddling away or messing around in circles, as they prepared for a race.

“Now, you kayak.” Bucky replied simply, which earned a death glance from Sam.

He was already having enough trouble adjusting to the new sport, which left him with little to no patience. Fortunately, Bucky pitied him and laughed as he moved to the front seat, agreeing to help.

“Okay, wait,” he grunted as he struggled to accommodate behind Sam, “let me help you.”

Sam felt the warm pressure of Bucky’s chest against his back without any type of warning, and flinched a little. He could feel the drops of water that hadn’t dried out in Bucky’s skin stick to his own, and it sent shivers down his spine. He decided to believe the shivers were caused by the startling feeling of water droplets.

“You’re holding it wrong.” James explained as he took the paddles from Sam’s hand.

Wilson rolled his eyes, “Of course I am.”

“Someone’s cranky.” Bucky remarked, “Didn’t sleep well?”

Sam thought hard about that one. As a matter of fact, he had woken up plenty of times during the night, only to find Bucky struggling to catch his own sleep next to him. The situation was weird as it was, so Sam pretended to miss it.

“You kick your feet a lot.” Sam lied.

“There’s always the divan.” Bucky reminded him.

“Will you shut up about the damn divan? No one should sleep in anything called like that.”

However, the ridiculous discussion came to an end when Bucky managed to get Sam to paddle correctly.

“That’s about the hang of it.” he congratulated him before turning his body and dropping it into the water.

The water barely reached his chest, so he stood there in waits for Sam who accomplished his goal of successfully kayaking away.

“Now come back to me.” Bucky instructed his apprentice, “Turn.”

Watching him swirl the canoe so concentrated, Bucky couldn’t help but find him slightly adorable. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t seen Sam learn something like that before, but it definitely was a good look on him. A smile creeped up his face, however, it didn’t last long. Soon enough, his ears picked up on a conversation behind him. He saw that uncle Milo was talking to Brock, and he only then figured they probably had been the entire time, which made him feel observed and, most of all, uncomfortable. Bucky was so distracted by the interaction that he almost didn’t see Sam returning to him, but he noticed right on time to stop the tip of the kayak before it hit him.

He shook it off by shooting a smile in Nana’s direction.

“Sure you don’t wanna hop in the water, Nana?” he messed with the woman who looked over everyone from her chair.

“I want another drink, sweetheart.” She messed with him back.

Bucky winked at her and returned his attention to the fake boyfriend, who seemed a lot more comfortable with the sport. They most likely wouldn’t win the race, but at least Sam wouldn’t feel bad for sucking at it.

“You know what?” Nana’s voice was loud and clear this time, which got everyone’s attention, “First one to get me a drink gets a clue."

The bold statement was followed by hesitant glances. Most of the family exchanged weird looks, none of them sure of how to proceed.

"Is she for real?" Bucky said, frowning.

Then, cousin Colin jumped to the water from where he was paddling, and started swimming towards land. Rebecca went second. Bucky and Sam were quick to notice how they were the ones closest to the lakeside, which didn’t make it seem like Nana was unbiased. If anything, it made the couple look like the favorites. Alas, Bucky and Sam climbed onto land fast, hearing people rush across the water behind them, until they heard a scream.

As they both turned towards the noise, they saw Rebecca slapping her hand around, swallowing water, and barely managing to yell the word ‘cramp’.

Bucky dove back on the water to save her. Literally. As Sam awaited kneeling on the shore, he couldn’t help but notice nobody else went to help. As usual, Bucky was Rebecca’s knight in shining armor.

"Rebecca, are you ok?" Winnifred barely asked above her usual tone to be heard.

The siblings were too busy trying to stay afloat –Bucky dragging her to land and Rebecca coughing her lungs out– to answer, so the mother insisted.

"Rebecca?"

Luckily, Sam cut in to get the unhelpful and mediocre concern away from the scene, "She- she's fine! We got this!" he assured the woman.

Once the siblings reached the wooden shore, Sam pulled Rebecca up by her arms while Bucky climbed up, panting. The young woman held her leg in pain.

Right on time, Brock approached them to save the day.

He extended his hand towards Rebecca, "Here, let me-"

"Get the fuck away from us!" James shot him an aggressive warning while placing a hand on Rebecca's back, not dignifying the man with eye contact.

Rumlow raised his hands in defense, "Just tryna’ help, Jamie."

The snap in Bucky’s brain might as well have been hearable. He was so done with the hovering figure he used to call his partner, everything in his head went red with fury. He looked up at him with such rage, Sam anticipated his outburst even before it happened.

"Shut up, Brock, shut up!” He yelled directly at him, microscopic bits of spit being thrown in Brock’s direction, and followed by a uncomfortable, still silence, which Bucky couldn’t stand either, “Are you deaf or are you a fucking idiot? I said leave!"

Rumlow accepted the offense and shook his head, putting on a disappointed façade.

"You're insane." He informed Bucky before turning on his heels.

As the man walked back inside the house, the spectators of the show remained silent. All that could be heard was Bucky’s heavy breathing, until Rebecca spoke.

"Way to go, brother." She whispered, which was only heard by Sam and Bucky.

Bucky’s expression revealed how shocked he was at his own courage to pull off such a stunt.

"That felt so good." He admitted, drawing a big proud smile on Sam’s face.

-

The outburst that morning, no matter how fulfilling, had taken a toll on Bucky. The rest of the day, it was all he could think about, and therefore, it naturally got the paranoid spinning wheel in his brain running at full speed. Cousin Colin, after the lake scene, was the only person insensitive enough to actually go through with Nana’s demand; the man had brought his grandmother a nice summer drink from the kitchen, which the lady received with a roll of her eyes. Unfortunately, she had promised the deliverer a clue, so she reluctantly kept her word and gave him the help in private.

It didn’t necessarily worry Bucky nor Sam, because the couple still felt they were winning so far. They had found the first clue by themselves, no help needed, so the best Colin could do was keep up with them before they got the advantage again.

No, what had them both worried was this cocktail gathering after dinner, right now. It was too early for anyone to be tired enough to go to bed, but it was late enough for people to start making bad decisions. That had been Bucky’s case. Drink after drink, worry after worry, the liquor had found its way into Bucky’s system long ago. In fact, he was sitting down, resigned to his sorrow, with a glass of champaign in hand.

He was wasted, and Sam could tell. While Bucky played around with the almost emptied glass, Sam’s chest felt heavy.

"He's watching." Bucky suddenly said, his enunciation already affected by the booze.

His eyes were fixated somewhere in the room, over Sam’s shoulder. The latter didn’t need to turn around to know who he meant.

"Don't pay attention to him." He shrugged it off.

"He used to do that,” Bucky, however, acted as if Sam hadn’t even spoken, “when he didn't approve of something."

"Hey.” Sam called, demanding his attention, “Hey, look at me. I'm here with you, okay? Not him."

As much as Bucky wanted to lean into those words, embrace the support and such, he knew it wasn’t truly real. Sam was there to help him out of pity, or so he thought. He used to love imagining having a boyfriend who would take away the pain, wipe away the tears caused by Brock. He used to like that image, but sometime in the horrible long-lasting relationship, he just didn’t think it possible. Anyone loving him after Brock? Anyone putting up with that baggage, with the lurking ex-boyfriend watching them at all times?

It simply wouldn’t happen. It’s why he wasn’t there with an actual boyfriend. It’s why he had to play-pretend with Sam. In his head, there was no place for anyone to love him. Not after he’d been chewed on by Rumlow and spat out a hundred times.

"But you're not.” Bucky sad dryly, almost insulting, “Not really. I'll never get the real thing."

Sam’s brain had a hard time with that one confession. Did Bucky mean that getting his friend to play fake boo was the closest he'd ever get to a boyfriend from now on? Or as he implying a world where Sam could have become the real deal? His confusion left him almost speechless.

"And why is that?" he managed to ask with a heavy heart.

Bucky was too quick in answering Sam’s doubts, "Cause I'm messed up. 'Cause of him."

That being declared, James stood up from the table, leaving his company sitting there by himself, rudely. Sam watched him get to the bar, which consisted of a few tables set up for drink service, attended by one of Nana’s kitchen employees. It did the trick in looking fancy enough for an improvised bar, and still, Bucky managed to look fairly pathetic, leaning on the table and ordering yet another hard liquor.

For the next half hour, Sam brought himself to chat and interact with the Barnes, but mostly, he was checking up on Bucky every other minute. Fortunately so, since it allowed him to spot Rumlow as he approached the drunk figure. Wilson excused himself and headed straight for the bar, and was noticed by the man who looked, as usual, like he was up to no good.

"Samuel, we were just talking about you." Brock greeted him cynically.

"Leave him alone." Sam said, not messing around.

Bucky’s eyes were fixated on his drink, avoiding exchanging gazes with his ex, no matter how hard Brock tried to catch his attention.

"I don't think anyone should leave him alone like this." Rumlow cocked a brow, giving off the most pedantic posture yet.

As much as Sam didn’t wish to sound just as condescending as the ex-boyfriend, he needed him to back off. So he stood his ground, planting himself in front of Bucky, and raised his chin.

"Oh, goodie, that's what I'm here for." He clarified with a taunting tone.

All of a sudden, Bucky decided to stand his ground as well. Unhappy with the exchange of words about his state, he got himself in front of Sam, stumbling a bit.

"I don't- don't need anyone to look after me." He managed to croak out, frowning.

After he delivered the words, he propped himself on the table unsteadily, causing Sam to gesture catching him, but Bucky seemed to be partially alright on his own. Brock, on his part, gave him a deeply disappointed look. Suddenly, Sam understood so much; the paternalistic vibe he gave off, like you’re nothing for yourself and are in desperate need of his aid. The way Rumlow judged people could get anyone to doubt themselves. Luckily, Sam wasn’t giving in.

Brock extended his hand to the more-than-tipsy man, "Come on." He said, more a demand than an offer.

The response was even more abrupt than that morning by the lake. In sight of his hand so near him, Bucky’s paranoia crippled through his bones, provoking a different kind of outburst.

"Don't touch me, you fucking maniac!" he yelled, taking a step back.

Sam’s skin crawled. During the tense silence that followed, he felt eyes staring at them three. Brock, however, didn’t seem nearly as shocked, but instead acted like this was just typical Bucky. He did seem embarrassed, though, being the victim of the scandal for the second time that day.

"Let's go." Sam pleaded, not daring to touch Bucky in a jumpy state like that.

That was Rebecca’s cue for approaching the lot, allured by the fuzz.

"What's going on?" she demanded an explanation in a low, but harsh tone.

"Nothing.” Rumlow spoke before anyone else got the change, “He's making a scene, as usual."

Rebecca shot him a threatening glance, to which he simply rolled his eyes and abandoned the bar area. Sam took his place in order to check up on Bucky’s face, and found his eyes beginning to water. He was frozen in place, eye sockets reddened by the drunkenness and lips caught between his teeth.

"James, get it together.” Rebecca whispered, “Everyone's staring."

Although Sam was expecting more comfort from the man’s sister, whom just so happened to be scolding him for no reason, he kept his quiet this time. The two sober characters dragged Bucky’s body to the nearest chair and forced him to sit down, which only attracted more attention towards him, but that way he could remain still and far from tumbling scandals.

"Get him some coffee before he embarrasses himself even more." Rebecca told Sam, sternly.

As she kneeled sat next to her brother in order to pretend normality, Sam just gave her a look of disbelief. He didn’t think she could act so heartlessly before.

"You're a real sweetheart, you know that?" he threw her a sarcasm dagger, refusing to move.

"Believe it or not, I'm helping him.” She spat, looking around frantically in hopes no one was judging them, “Coffee, Samuel, please."

Sam took one last good look at Bucky before obeying the very persuasive sister. The drunken mess was avoiding all sorts of eye contact, and was almost pouting like a child. Wilson didn’t have much else to do but get himself to the kitchen, although reluctantly. At that moment, he hated everything; every person and light were getting under his skin, and even the sound of glasses clinking together pissed him off. Right before he reached the kitchen, the sound turned muffled, abandoned far away, and there was a sense of peace. Silence. And breaking through that silence, there was a sharp voice.

“I’m telling you, this is our chance.” The voice echoed from inside the kitchen.

It was unmistakably Rumlow’s. Of fucking course. The man was a goddamn ghost lurking around every room of the massive house. Sam was determined on turning back, until he heard another voice responding.

“Give me a few days-“

“I don’t have days to give you.”

It sounded like an altercation that had just recently began, right before it could get too heated.

“Is your lawyer not your personal bitch this time?” the other man accused Brock, “You not screwing him, too?”

“You want the money, right?”

The inciting question was followed by a tense pause. Therefore, Sam seized his chance and walked into the kitchen, hopefully being able to pretend he hadn’t heard any of it. He recognized the other man as uncle Milo, when the two angry men straightened themselves too quickly, in an attempt to dismiss their previous altercation.

Sam gave them an uninterested glance, “Am I interrupting?” he asked nonchalantly.

“What can we do for you, Samuel?” uncle Milo raised his voice with false friendliness.

“I’m just gonna make some coffee.” He replied, waltzing towards the busier side of the kitchen, further away from them.

Before he could even get a hold of the coffee maker, Rumlow’s forceful interruption made Sam stop in his tracks.

“Nicole can take care of that for you, right darling?” he called for the maid in a patronizing tone, “She’ll even pour it for you and everything.”

Sam glanced at the woman who was still putting the dishes away when it definitely was the end of her shift. It wasn’t just about Rumlow’s treatment of the staff, it was everything, from the way he put Sam in an uncomfortable situation, to the smirk on his face while doing so.

“No thank you, I got it.” Sam told the working lady.

“Actually, she’s got it,” Brock insisted, this time much more taunting, “that’s her job.”

Sam found himself cornered, and resigned, although not without showing his discontent. He pinched the bridge of his nose and agreed tiredly.

“Fine, uh… Can you just take it up to James’ room when you get the chance?” He forced a smile in Nicole’s direction, whom nodded politely, “Thank you.”

When he was leaving to return to Bucky, Sam took a turn on his heels at the last minute. His blood still boiling, he gave the two plotting men a small but clearly exaggerated reverence.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.” He let uncle Milo know his anger wasn’t directed towards him, then spoke directly to Rumlow, “Fuck you, Brock.”

“Classy.” The appellee complained.

“You’re right.” He lied, then turned to the maid one more time, “Nicole, my apologies for such rudeness. On behalf of Mr. Rumlow, of course. I guess money can’t buy decency.”

After addressing that last insult to the obnoxious man, Wilson headed back to the cocktail gathering in order to retrieve his drunk friend.

[rageofthenerd]

Viktuuri AU where instead of meeting because yuuri lost the GPF and went into a depressive slump, he won gold and knocked Viktor a place down on the podium

You got it, dude.  (more YOI fics by me)

Yuuri won.

The wonderful, staggering truth of it has yet to hit him,even as he stands on the highest tier of the podium, the crowd roaring abouthim.  His gold medal is heavy on hischest, and his heart pounds against it. He smiles so wide that tears bead in his eyes.

Then he looks down at his lifelong idol, standing besidehim.  Beating Victor is more significant thanwinning the Grand Prix Final.  It meanshe’s finally on the level of his greatest hero. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, second to being Victor’s friend.  And maybe making out with him…on theirwedding day…before growing old together. Whatever.

Victor’s height puts him at eye-level with Yuuri, and he’salready staring at him.  Yuuri can hardlybreathe.

“Congratulations, Yuuri,” Victor says through a heart-shapedsmile.  Yuuri feels a sense of completeunreality.  

“T-thank you.”

Victor leans in. Yuuri can feel his breath against his ear.

“You’re a beautiful skater,” Victor murmurs.  A shiver rattles through Yuuri, his face burning.

“Not as beautiful as you,” someone says.  It’s a few heartbeats before Yuuri realizesit’s him.  Oh god, he just hit on VictorNikiforov.

Victor tilts back, his eyebrows raised.  Yuuri levitates out of his body.

Then they get barked at to pose for a photo.  

“Put your arms around each other,” calls one of thephotographers.  Christophe Giacometti,the third place winner, doesn’t hesitate, resting his hand on Yuuri’s ass.  Yuuri hardly notices.  Victor’s hand is a hot pressure on his spine,his fingers pressing in and rubbing. Yuuri feels the touch everywhere. Shaking, he places his palm high on Victor’s shoulders, almost to hisnape.

Though it’s probably all in Yuuri’s head, he feels a sparkof something between them; an acute mutual attunement that he’s never felt withanyone before.

Somehow, Yuuri survives the ceremony without fainting.  It’s a whirlwind of congratulations, photos,and autographs after that.  He doesn’thave a moment’s peace until he’s getting ready for the banquet the followingday.  His anxiety is starting to catch upto him.  Regardless of his victory, hedoesn’t like socializing in crowded rooms, but Celestino reminds him of hissponsorships.  At least Victor will bethere.

When he arrives in the banquet hall, he looks around forVictor and chugs back some champagne.  Victor’ssilver hair is hard to miss, and his smile lights up the room.  Yuuri finds he’s not the only one oglinghim.  There’s something about Victor thatcaptivates everyone in the room.

Then Victor looks over at him.  Recognition tempers his polite grin, and,though Yuuri could be imagining it, a hint of sadness softens his eyes.

He appears to excuse himself before making his way to Yuuri.  Yuuri downsanother glass of champagne before Victor walks up to him.  

“How’s the banquet treating you?” he asks, polite.  “Reveling in your victory?”

After a moment of panic, Yuuri finds his words.

“Not really,” he admits. “To be honest, I kind of hate these things.”

“You aren’t the only one.” Yuuri is taken aback.  Victoralways seems to love charming the crowd at fundraisers and banquets.

“You’ve done so many, you’re probably sick of them by now.”

“This may be my last,” Victor mumbles into his glass.  He empties it, and places it on a passingtray.  Yuuri frowns as Victor’s words hithim.

“What do you mean?”

Victor glances at him.

“I mean that I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”

Yuuri gasps before he can help it.  Victor seems startled by his reaction.

“You can’t mean that,” Yuuri breathes.

“Is it so hard to believe? I’m twenty-seven.  It doesn’tthrill me like it used to.  Maybe it’stime to walk away.”

Yuuri wants to cry. The idea that Victor could be sick of skating when he still has so muchto give chills him to the core.

Yuuri opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Yakov beckonsVictor from across the room.  

“That’s my cue,” Victor says, shooting Yuuri aconspiratorial eye roll.  He turns awaybefore Yuuri can stop him.

All of Yuuri’s joy at winning flickers out.  He feels responsible for Victor’s words, eventhough he knows it’s irrational.  Hedoesn’t regret defeating him, but he still knows it’s on him to change Victor’smind.  He may be the only one who can.

Unfortunately, Yuuri can’t find the courage to approach him.  Even though they’ve spoken enough to beacquaintances by now, he still sees Victor as his hero.  Talking to him is scarier than performing hisfree skate the day before.

He convinces himself that more champagne will help.  That’s his first mistake.

The second is deciding in his booze-soaked brain thatchallenging Victor to a dance-off is a brilliant idea.  

“Victor,” he slurs, stumbling up to him.  “I have an idea.”

“Yuuri.  What’syour idea?”

“I challenge you to a dance off.”

Victor blinks slowly at him.

“A…dance off?”  Yuurinotices distantly that Victor is slurring too.  It seems he’s not the only one hitting the champagne.  A smile starts to pull at Victor’s lovelylips.  “What do I get if I win?”

“My number.”  

Victor looks just as astonished as Yuuri feels.  He can’t believe he just said that out loud.  But hey, Yuuri doesn’t care.  Yuuri is full of champagne and Victor is moregorgeous in person than he ever imagined. Life is short.

“I see.  And what doyou get if you win?”

“I get you as my coach. What do you say?”

Victor’s mouth opens and closes.  Yuuri doesn’t have the patience to wait forhis answer.  He throws his arms aroundVictor’s neck.

“Be my coach, Victor.”

And Victor, to Yuuri’s great surprise, blushes.  It’s the most adorable thing Yuuri has everseen.

***

“And that’s how you asked me to be your coach,” Victorfinishes.  Yuuri hunches over in theirbed, burying his face in his hands. Victor rubs his back.

“I’m an idiot,” Yuuri says. “I can’t believe I don’t remember this.”

“You were enchanting. You saved my career and my life, and all with your pants off.”

“I had my pants off?”

Yuuri groans, flopping onto his back.  Victor wraps around him, squeezing him close.  He nuzzlesYuuri’s cheek.

“You know much I love you without pants,” he purrs, fingers sliding down to Yuuri’s bare hip.  “I was very attracted to you.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t my gold medal?  Maybe you just wanted to get close enough to steal it.”

Victor glares at him.  His hand slips between Yuuri’s legs, making him arch off the mattress.

“I’m going to make you pay for that,” Victor says into Yuuri’s ear.

“I can’t wait.”

[screemagazine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with guitarist and songwriter Kaarel Malken… Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor’s Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor’s Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen’s first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor’s Joy are Estonia’s answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions: When did you first pick up the guitar? Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n’ Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he’d  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words “Dolby Surround” printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. “For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!” : something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : “20% off all instruments!!!” in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted. What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music? I’ve worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I’ve done it. Right now I’m sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I’ve been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life…. you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming. How did you find recording the album? Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann’s and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I’ve lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn’t as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim’s infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70’s Fender (I’m sorry if it wasn’t a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He’s the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I’m not the easiest person to work with but Mauno’s, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined… What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider “I used to be clean”  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I’m sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one’s body whenever and wherever. During these times I’m nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I’m never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I’m learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it’s not that easy. How do you go about writing? My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it’s a poem or a short story, but mostly it amounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song. Lately I feel as If I’m in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered “culturally inactive” according to metropolitan standards. Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com Where can we hear you play? The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888 What are your plans for the future? Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.

[gravityzine]

The Saddest Joy

On the release of Viktor’s Joy “I used to be clean”, a few words about the album, and a few more words with song writer Kaarel Malken...

Having been tipped off by a musician friend from Herefordshire, I went to see Viktor's Joy play in a pop up bar in some nondescript corner of Berlin when I was there last year.  The walls were scoured and mottled with patches of paint over bare plaster, the lighting dim.  Viktor's Joy are led by Kaarel Malken (guitar, vocals).  He played fingerpicked guitar with a gentle but technical drummer (Jim Good) on a stripped down kit.  As we waited for them to come on music from Leonard Cohen's first album set up the ambience, an obvious precedent.  I think it is probably lazy journalism to write soundbites like “Viktor's Joy are Estonia's answer to Leonard Cohen”, but the restraint of the music and depth of the lyrics encourage such behaviour.  Another comparison is Elliott Smith, particularly evident on the poetic and wearily lilting Parade Song #2, which even the title appears to be a conscious nod to the dear, departed American singer, sounding reminiscent of something off Either/or. The gig was beautiful, and swept us away.  At the end of the gig I spoke to Kaarel about his music, and he was kind enough to give me a pre-release of the album in a handmade cover for review in SCree.  I looked forward to playing it at home, and have played it sporadically since.  The album is out now, and I recommend you hear it, particularly if you are keen on melancholy folky singer songwriter stuff as I am.  Some music you hear seems to pose with miserable depth as a kind of sad expression forced to convince of profundity.  This music speaks of genuine experience, and seems to talk of growing up in Estonia and life experiences that transcend the specifics of their birth.  All the Promises Ever Made talk of the perils of addiction and how easily we fall into smoking, drinking, drugging.  There is a nostalgia to it as well as regret.  The refrain “never again” speaks of our brief determination to avoid destructive behaviour that is so easily forgotten.  The music sits in a rolling groove that has something of the Velvet Underground in the swooping electric guitar part.  There is variety on this record as well as coherence, in the instrumentation as in the arrangements.  The following track The Taste I remember, She Became a Ghost, is woven through with fast picking and tells a story effectively and evocatively.  It is haunting, ethereal and worn with a weary strength.  The guitar playing is almost Spanish classical style, particularly in the interludes.  He makes use of repetition to effectively show the tide of passing time.   Even more Spanish is the virtuosic opening lick to Lake Ontario, which is a short flourish before the cyclical picking comes in.  Again, there is an anecdotal narrative to it which is poetic and evocative.  Characters are introduced alongside the places they live.  Glacial vocals echo between verses.  The production is reverb-heavy and deep.  It sounds like it was recorded in an empty building.  The closing track Sisters ends on a slightly different note.  There is a warmth in the recording that offsets the wistfulness.  Like the bittersweet end to an eventful journey.  

A few questions:

When did you first pick up the guitar?

Growing up in a small town, surrounded by nothing but Soviet block houses, derelict playgrounds and a seemingly endless  fields of peat, there were really not that many options. Either you take to kicking around a ball  or you take to kicking around other kids, most seemed to prefer the latter. Luckily my sisters, being ten years older than me,  saw the last of MTV and VH1 . By the time I got there the funeral procession was over  and the burial was about to end - the music industry, wearing shorts, was filming the open grave for a new reality TV show. I was the social experiment, the kid brother, the one who had to wear  "Guns n' Roses" T-shirts and grow his hair long - during a time of shaved heads and garbage disco music. In the late nineties my father got offered a job, in Moscow, as a warehouse keeper. A few times a year he'd  return with a trunk full of  shovels, power drills, hammers, saws  and other tools he had managed to steal from the warehouse. Everything  spray painted red to fool the Russian customs into believing they were used. There had been a snowstorm the night before my dad arrived. An endless carpet of pure white. I was leaning over the sill, looking out from the kitchen window. My eyes were watery from the cold, but my excitement got the best of me. He parked his Lada and from the backseat he would lift out a large cardboard box, with the words "Dolby Surround" printed on its side. Little did I know that the content of that very box would affect my day to day existence to an almost unhealthy degree. During the following  years our collection of pirated cassette tapes and compact discs grew with  albums from Nirvana, Offspring, Dire Straits, Korn, Kino etc. Anything the shopkeeper in Moscow could copy on a CD-R and send to my sisters. Perhaps it was the sub-woofer that ignited my obsession to become a drummer, perhaps not, but by the time I turned ten I had begun taking lessons in the  local music school. My teacher was a middle aged marching band percussionist with a serious boozing problem. The four years under his tyranny taught me more about the side effects of binge drinking rather than drums. "For Christ sake boy, you keep missing the  f*ing beat train!" : something I'll remember for the rest of my life. I called it quits after failing to perform  to a handful of  Sunday afternoon pensioners, my mother and my teacher,  in the city hall. Years  later, on my way to university, I walked past a plate glass window of a small music shop. The sign said : "20% off all instruments!!!" in big bright letters. With the little  I had saved,  working night shifts as a receptionist in a hotel,  and with the help of my parents, I scraped together enough to buy a blue XS plywood guitar. I composed my first song three days later. A two chord, short lived disaster. Last time I saw the guitar, hung by its neck, behind a plate glass window of a pawn shop - once more, discounted.

What have you been doing up until now? Do you have any other interests beyond music?

I've worked as a dishwasher, pastry chef, phone agent, engineer, as an extra in low budget German TV-movies. In other words, you name it - I've done it. Right now I'm sitting in a cafeteria a few blocks down the street from my house. I've been coming here for years to read and write. The bohemian life.... you know.  These days the place is full of prams and crying toddlers. One of them is drooling on my pants sleeve, as we speak. I find this drone of life calming.

How did you find recording the album?

Although the process started off in a proper studio, under the  guidance of a fantastic sound engineer, Martin Fiedler, I decided to continue by myself in the comfort of my bedroom - for the larger part. I suppose I felt intimidated by the expensive Neumann's and the professional approach, deeming myself unworthy. In the long run, the positives outweighed the negatives and I learned how to use the equipment I had bought or borrowed from my friends ( mainly from my good buddy and band member Jim Good), during the years I've lived in Berlin. I guess the hardest part was recording the drums.  I used an old Russian Oktava that Jim brought back from Estonia a few summers ago - the only one that seemed to yield results. Jim is a subtle player , not a 4/4 rock drummer, and getting the sound I was looking for wasn't as easy as I expected. It all worked out thanks to Jim's infinite patience. Along the way Michael Brinkworth came to my aid with his beautiful 70's Fender (I'm sorry if it wasn't a Fender, Michael) and his ideas. Always a few hours late and out of breath - always passionate. He's the most prolific  songwriter I  know and his input was more than welcomed. Some of my guitar tracks and vocal takes were done in a rehearsal room that used to belong to  Nina Hagen (something the locals seemed to take a lot of pride in). A damp basement full of old carpets and stale air. I spent a few weeks locked behind that massive metal door singing the same lines, over and over again. It was the following Autumn when I met Mauno Meesit from Grainy Records.  He was in the midst of recording his own album and was in need of a classical guitar. Our  mutual friend, who knew I had one,  got him to come to one of my shows. We barely spoke after the gig but in a couple of days I received an E-mail and from there on we got to speaking. Turned out he liked the show and was enthusiastic about the album I had been recording.  Soon enough he proposed me to join his label and I accepted without hesitation. I saw how serious he was about his own music and my mind was made up even before he asked. I'm not the easiest person to work with but Mauno's, Buddha like, calmness bridged our way. The result is on my table, boxes full of it. Who could have imagined...

What was the inspiration for the songs? I consider "I used to be clean"  a concept album. A retroperspective glimpse into my  childhood and how it was to grow up in the East during a time of despair and poverty as well as unity and love. I'm sure these themes will carry on into the future of my lyrics. Inspiration is an entity. Some sort of an astral being that enters and exits one's body whenever and wherever. During these times I'm nothing but a medium in a state of unconscious effortlessness. Many of my songs are not born out of inspiration. These are the ones I'm never fully satisfied with, the conscious ones, the ones I labor over. The beauty of these songs lies in their ability to grow and change as I do. I'm learning how to work without inspiration yet remain open to it - it's not that easy.

How do you go about writing?

My day kick-starts in the afternoon after a few cups of coffee. I try to write something in my diary every day. Sometimes it's a poem or a short story, but mostly it surmounts to nothing more but  everyday uneventfulness. It takes me weeks, months,  at times even years, to finish a song.

Lately I feel as If I'm in  dire need of a break. Someplace quiet, outside this metropolitan cesspool. Someplace small where people go to sleep when the sun sets. Someplace where people talk about ordinary things, sit by a card table, eat canned sausages and drink clear spirits. Any place  considered "culturally inactive" according to metropolitan standards.

Where can we hear it? www.bandcamp.com/viktorsjoy  or www.grainyrecords.com

Where can we hear you play?

The album release show, in Berlin,  will take place in Neue Nachbarn on the 5th of April. https://www.facebook.com/events/1879058472306213/1879252808953446/?notif_t=like&notif_id=1490094469947888

What are your plans for the future?

Organize a couple of shows in Estonia and focus on writing and recording new tracks.