#HAH IM UNDER CARDIAC ARREST

[min-minn]

Symphony - Chapter One

A03

Summary: Viktor Nikiforov, tenor prodigy and top student at the Salchow Institute of Music, is looking for an accompanist.

And word around campus is that Yakov Feltsman, Head of Music and conductor of the prestigious Institute Band, is looking for new members.

Yuuri Katsuki is just looking to survive his next Piano recital

OR

The Yuri on CONCERT Music School AU that we all deserve

Pairings: Viktor Nikiforov/ Yuuri Katsuki

Rating: Teen And Up

Content Warning: Anxiety

A/N: So I was working on a different multi-chapter YOI fic, but of course, I got struck with inspiration halfway through and scrapped it entirely. So, if you're here from that fic, I'm sorry! I'm trash! Maybe I'll finish it one day but after spending a whole week planning and researching for this fic it'll be a long time before I do *bows* please forgive me.

AND I'M REALLY EXCITED FOR THIS. I was basically raised in a music school as my mum is a classical singer, so I honestly can't believe its taken me THIS BLOODY LONG to write this kind of AU. I have like 50 pages of notes, ideas, plot plans, and MUSIC. So much music. I'm really excited to get stuck into this fic, so please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Comments really help, and it makes me feel like I can collaborate creatively which is my Vibe™ ~

Also, I'm not from the states, so writing about NYC is based purely on movies and TV and Wikipedia searches. If anyone has any corrections about the setting please let me know! And likewise, if my own music world jargon isn't explained properly, let me know so I can edit/ offer better explanations.

Lots of awkward love,

- Min

Some translations/ explanations:

“La Bohéme” – literally “Bohemian” or “The Bohemians.” It’s a really cute opera about artists and love and all that good stuff, and has a really famous tenor aria that Viktor would sing as Rodolfo.

“Прекрасный” – “prekrasnyy,” - beautiful/ lovely

“SIM” – just stands for Salchow Institute of Music. The school is sometimes referred to as just “The Institute” as well. I’ve loosely based the school off “The Julliard School” which is one of the most prestigious Music schools in the world, situated in NYC as well.

Today was Yuuri Katsuki's first meeting with his supervisor, and he was late.

He had his satchel in his hands as he hurried off the bus towards the Salchow Institute of Music, stuffed with a haphazard pile of notes and charts. It was the kind of old satchel where the edges were so worn you could see inside it, and the buckle didn’t quite work properly most of the time. Yuuri had just grown used to carrying it in both arms instead of slung over his shoulder, only having to stuff the notes back in occasionally when they were jostled loose. This was proving to be quite the challenge today, as Yuuri broke into a full-blown sprint across the quad towards the studios, a few students glancing after him in confusion.

Phichit had stolen his charger in the night. That’s where all the trouble had started.

It was technically Yuuri’s first day of the semester, though other undergrad students had already started in February. Since he was only working on his thesis and composition, he didn’t have any strict classes or lectures. This meant his first day fell whenever his new supervisor decided it was time for them to meet, and Yuuri had been preparing for it over the entirety of the holidays. Right up until two in the morning the night before, when Yuuri had set his alarm for six, plugged his phone in next to his bed, and settled in for the few hours of sleep he’d allowed himself.

Right up until Phichit had stolen his charger.

And his phone hardly had any battery to begin with.

And his alarm didn’t go off.

“I’ll kill him!” Yuuri gasped as he dashed into the building, making his way towards a set of stairs and bounding up them two at a time. Phichit had been out at a bar all night, and must have come home early that morning, drunkenly stealing Yuuri’s charger because, of course, Phichit didn’t have one of his own. Yuuri loved his roommate dearly, but right at that moment all he could think of was strangling his stupid neck. Or “misplacing” all of his reeds right before his next recital. That would work…

Yuuri shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to scheme about ruining his best friend’s life. He would have plenty of time for that after the meeting.

Yuuri’s first meeting with his new supervisor was – in Yuuri’s mind – one of the most important days on his calendar. This was primarily due to the fact that his supervisor was none other than Lila Baranovskaya – ex-mezzo-soprano diva and Queen of the industry. She essentially owned New York, as far as the music world was concerned, and her word was law. Despite only being Head of Voice at the Institute, answerable to Yakov Feltsman, Dean of the school and formidable in his own right, everyone knew it was her that really held all the power at the Institute.

And Yuuri was late to their first meeting.

Yuuri wondered, not for the first time, why she had agreed to be his supervisor. Her usual focus was on singing, and she’d trained many of the famous classical, jazz, and music theatre singers that now graced auditoriums, studios, and bars across the city. Across the world, even. One of her students had just gone on to win a Tony Award at last year’s ceremony.

Not to mention the fact that Yuuri’s usual supervisor, Celestino Cialdini, one of NYC’s top pianists, was the perfect supervisor. He was kind, allowed Yuuri to work at his own pace, but still challenged him enough that he always felt he was learning. So, it had come as a genuine shock when Celestino had met with him after last year’s finals, and suggested he try a new supervisor.

Yuuri had, of course, assumed it was all his fault. Celestino was an amazing pianist, and Yuuri was clearly not up to standard. Celestino probably had countless postgrad students waiting in the wings with oodles of talent and self-confidence. It was only right that he make time for them instead, and drop the excess baggage.

But then Celestino mentioned that he’d had a meeting with Lilia.

Yuuri finally reached the top of the third floor, glancing quickly down the hall to check the studio numbers and orient himself, running on the spot to keep up his momentum and try and calm the whirlwind in his brain.

Lilia had emailed him over the Christmas break, asking a few questions about his thesis, some basic queries about his skill level and repertoire. Yuuri had felt like he was in a dream – it was almost too surreal. Speaking to her directly was surely forbidden in some way. And her clinical approach had made him feel like he was some kind of specimen, pinned to a wall with Lilia as scientist, poking and prodding and dissecting his talent.

Although she was Head of Voice, her experience and vast knowledge of musical theory made her top advisor to most students at SIM. She would be more than able to supervise his piano thesis, and was a far superior choice than even Celestino when it came to composition.

And despite being absolutely sure Lilia would never agree to tutor him, Yuuri eventually found himself face to face with a disarming email, just a few weeks before the beginning of the semester. It was short, but brutally direct;

“I will be your supervisor, if you’re ready to sell your soul.”

Yuuri blanched at the memory as he came closer and closer to the studio where they would be meeting.

Sell his soul?

Yuuri reached for the handle of the door to the studio, clasping it in a white-knuckle grip. Absently, he thought that really wasn’t too high a price at all.

With the words still spinning in his mind, Yuuri hardly noticed the handle turn itself under his fingers, and suddenly the door was wrenched out of his hands and blown wide open.

He fell forward slightly at the force, scrambling to keep his satchel and notes secure in his grip. When he straightened, his glasses were skewed, and he took a moment to readjust them so he could see clearly…

A tall man stood in the doorway, framed by the light streaming in from the windows of the studio behind him. He had a slightly surprised look on his features, silver hair drifting across his eyes as it shook loose.

Yuuri blinked.

Viktor Nikiforov?

It took a while for Yuuri’s frazzled mind to catch up on what was happening. He was face to face with the Viktor Nikiforov – tenor prodigy and top student at the Institute. Famous son of the Russian Nikiforov power couple. Infamous flirt and heartthrob of the entire school, if not the entire city.

And he was still face to face with the Viktor Nikiforov.

And Viktor was speaking.

His lips were moving.

Was Viktor speaking to him?

“—must be Lilia’s new pet? Don’t let her eat you alive,” and he was smiling. Viktor’s smile was almost too big – it seemed to spread across his whole face, lighting up his eyes and creasing his cheeks into dimples.

Yuuri swallowed.

“Ah… um…. Excuse me?” his voice was breathless, and he could feel it quavering in his throat. His heart was still trying desperately to steady itself after he had sprinted all the way here, but something else seemed to set his nerves on fire and flood his chest with warmth. It felt like his heart was trying to tear itself out of his ribcage.

“Oh, of course,” Viktor stood aside so that Yuuri could pass through, oblivious to the fact that Yuuri had actually been asking Viktor a question. Yuuri didn’t correct him. He was too caught up on the sound of Viktor’s voice.

It was pure music, of course. Every word, every inflection, carefully placed like fingers on piano keys. Yuuri distantly thought he could listen to it for hours.

“Good luck! And I’ll consider your advice, Lilia!” Viktor called back as he moved to leave the studio, flashing Yuuri another grin that made that warmth in Yuuri’s chest spark into some kind of inferno. It was hot in here. Too hot. Was it really winter? Yuuri felt like he had far too many layers on, and why were his cheeks so warm…

And then Viktor was gone, the door closing gently behind him.

“I hope this is both the first and last time you keep me waiting, Mr. Katsuki,” another voice called from across the room. Yuuri yelped and spun around, reaching a hand up to his mouth to quiet his embarrassing noises.

It would be a miracle if he could survive the next hour without going into cardiac arrest.

Lilia Baranovskaya was seated at a grand piano in the corner of the room, dressed casually but somehow still looking ready to step out onto a stage at any moment. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, accentuating her sharp features and highlighting her steely gaze that pinned Yuuri to the floor where he stood. Her lips were pursed, and she slowly moved to stand, eyes roving up and down Yuuri’s figure, as if calculating Yuuri’s worth right then and there. He was acutely aware that he was standing there in his tacky sweatshirt and training pants. Not to mention his musty old bag and crumpled charts tucked into his arms, hair an absolute bird’s nest and glasses still slightly skewed. And he was panting for air like a fish out of water.

“Well?” Lilia snapped, folding her arms and cocking her hips as she waited for Yuuri’s response.

“Y—Yes! I mean, no, it won’t happen again Mrs. Baranov—”

“That’s Madame Baranovskaya,” she clipped, face hardly betraying any emotion.

“Madame Baranovskaya,” Yuuri whispered, instinctively dropping into a stiff bow, momentarily forgetting that he was in New York City instead of Japan. He thought he heard Lilia huff through her nose – was she laughing? Yuuri must be hearing things.

He snapped out of the bow, eyes still downcast; “F—Forgive me, my alarm …” he trailed off lamely, hoping Lilia understood.

“We’ll start at the beginning,” she said simply, working her way around the piano and standing in front of him. Yuuri kept his eyes trained on the floor, watching as her perfectly heeled feet came into view. The shoes looked expensive, and Yuuri distantly wondered at how pretty they looked…

“Discipline,�� she said sharply, and Yuuri glanced up at her, eyes wide.

“Discipline…?” he whispered.

“I will not tolerate laziness. So, we will begin with discipline. Show me your scales,” and she stepped to the side, Yuuri swallowing thickly as he glanced toward the piano.

It seemed to warp slightly as his eyes tried to focus, the shimmering black of its top swirling until it felt like the blackness was going to swallow him. He’d let his supervisor down. He was lazy. He was weak.

He had to prove himself.

*                       *                       *

“So, how’d the meeting go?” Phichit’s drawling voice crackled through Yuuri’s headphones as he moved to join the line at the Campus Café. Yuuri sighed, still absently drumming his fingers against his satchel, his charts spinning through his mind.

“Terribly,” he groaned in response, clutching his satchel closer. Phichit made a commiserative noise on the other end.

“I’m sure it wasn’t terrible, Yuuri,” Phichit said, his voice slightly groggy. Yuuri frowned, remembering Phichit was probably wickedly hungover by now.

“And you could have chosen a better time to come home piss drunk and steal my charger,” Yuuri said exasperatedly. He was somewhat lucky someone had left their charger in the studio, so his phone was back to full … after the fact.

“Ah, yeah, my bad,” Phichit said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll make it up to by making dinner tonight.”

“Mi Goreng isn’t dinner, by the way,” Yuuri tried to sound serious, but he had a smile on his face. It must have shown through in his voice because Phichit was laughing on the other end.

“It ticks all the boxes though! Hits all the food groups … if you squint,” he laughed again. Yuuri grinned.

He and Phichit were roommates – had been since they’d both placed at SIM as undergrads. There were plenty of other international students – even a few other Japanese students that Yuuri knew by name – but something about Phichit just felt like home. They’d both moved to New York around the same time, had left their families behind to pursue music careers – Yuuri majoring in piano, Phichit in saxophone. And Phichit seemed to grasp all the strange cultural nuances far quicker than Yuuri, allowing them to fall into an easy friendship where Phichit would help Yuuri keep up socially, and Yuuri would ground Phichit when he got too crazy.

By the time they’d finished their degrees, they were best friends, and Yuuri could hardly imagine life in New York without him.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, I met Viktor today,” Yuuri said absently, moving up in line and eying the cabinet for lunch options. Everything was ridiculously overpriced, and Yuuri winced when he saw the tag on a sandwich.

He smirked when Phichit gasped on the other end of the line. “Viktor? The Viktor Nikiforov?! Yuuri why didn’t you tell me as soon as I called?!” Yuuri laughed, Phichit practically screeching down the phone.

“It wasn’t a big deal, really. He was in before me with Lilia and we met in the hallway…” Yuuri trailed off, preparing himself as he noticed he was next in line. Yuuri noted distantly that the cashier seemed vaguely familiar – a younger man, quite thin with blonde hair, almost feminine except for his expression which made him look like some kind of street thug.

“Pfft, not a big deal. Yuuri, please, he’s only a fucking god,” and Yuuri could practically hear Phichit rolling his eyes.

“H—Hold on a second, I’m grabbing some lunch,” Yuuri said softly as he stepped up to the counter, taking an earbud out and smiling shyly at the cashier.

“What do you want?” the younger man snapped, staring at Yuuri with eyes like flint from under his bangs. Yuuri swallowed.

“Ch—Chicken sandwich and a long black, please,” he said, voice barely a whisper as his anxiety started creeping across his brain. This kid was looking at him like he was absolute trash.

“Huh? Speak up,” he snapped, leaning forward across the counter and lips working into a deeper frown than he was already wearing. Yuuri panicked. His throat tightened to the point where even breathing was hard let alone speaking. No. Not an option. He could feel everyone around him turning to stare.

“N—Never mind!” he gasped, and turned on his heels, forcing himself not to run, keeping his walk as casual as possible, though every muscle in his body was screaming at him to sprint.

It was only once he found a quiet set of chairs out of the way that he let himself take a deep breath, sitting down exhaustedly and staring at the ceiling.

“—hello? Earth to Yuuuuuuuuuri?!” a voice crackled from the headphones around his neck and he jumped to put them back in.

“Ph-Phichit! Sorry … sorry, I forgot…” he wiped a hand across his face.

“Was it really that terrible? With The Diva?” Phichit asked gently, and Yuuri realised absently that Phichit probably heard the whole exchange at the café.

Yuuri laughed without mirth. “She told me to call her Madame Baranovskaya actually.”

“What?! Man, she really lives up to her street name doesn’t she,” Phichit sighed.

“Yeh. Diva indeed,” Yuuri groaned, leaning forward in his chair. He glanced at his phone, noticing the time.

“Sorry Phichit, I have to go. Minako’s waiting for me,” he said in a small voice, and he heard Phichit tsk on the other end of the line.

“You’d better fill me in when you get home tonight,” his friend warned, entirely serious. “And you’d better tell me about Viktor or I’m burning the Mi Goreng.”

Yuuri laughed. “How do you even burn Mi Goreng. It’s instant noodles.”

“I’ll find a way,” Phichit said, still deadly serious, though Yuuri could hear a smile in his voice.

“I’ll tell you, don’t worry. Bye Phichit,” and Yuuri ended the call, sitting staring at his phone for a while as he smiled softly.

He wondered exactly what he’d done to deserve a friend like Phichit.

*                       *                       *

The Salchow Institute of Music was the most prestigious music school in the country, and internationally it had consistently ranked in the top five for music schools. Yuuri had been just one of countless international applicants desperate to get into the school when he’d applied. Most famous musicians hailed from SIM, and many returned as lecturers or accompanists, only adding to its fame.

The Institute sat right in the middle of Manhattan, surrounded by countless studios, theatres, dance halls, and schools. So, it was no surprise that Yuuri’s family friend and esteemed ballet dancer, Minako Okukawa, had her studio nearby.

Minako had known the Katsuki family for years, originally from the same sleepy town of Hasetsu that Katsuki was born in. So, it was Minako who’d stoked Yuuri’s fires as a young pianist, encouraging him to pursue a career in music from as young as three. His parents hadn’t really understood – confused enough by his decision to even train in ballet under Minako in the first place, let alone his subsequent growing passion for piano. But Minako understood. He’d begun as her accompanist for a while, and travelled with her to New York when she accepted a job as Head of Dance at SIM. And it was her that had snuck the SIM application papers onto his desk one night, and her that handed them in the next morning.

Even this deep in his postgrad studies, Yuuri still found time to work with Minako. He was established and skilled enough now to be her primary accompanist at the studio, and he often helped the dancers there rehearse, and even sometimes performed at their recitals or concerts. He had a regular slot on Thursday evenings with Minako’s Troupe – a group of her best dancers, all top SIM graduates, who often performed at the Lincoln Center and other theatres around the city.

And Yuuri often danced at Minako’s studio himself, still intent on keeping on top of his fitness but even more so, just drawn to ballet as an outlet. He’d always loved the form, and enjoyed being able to make a different kind of music with his whole body rather than just his hands.

He hoped Minako would let him practice tonight, after classes finished. She’d mentioned she had a surprise for him, but he assumed it was another free dinner at their favourite local Yakitori Bar. Maybe he could rain-check it …

Shrugging his scarf closer to his face as he felt he temperature drop, Yuuri made his way through the streets towards the studio, satchel still in his hands. He’d remembered to pack the charts for the Troupe’s latest performance – a more modern rendition of The Nutcracker. It was a selection he enjoyed playing, though it sounded much better with a full orchestra.

The studio was warm, and Yuuri always felt a small sense of coming home when he stepped inside. The walls were a soft wood, with some small framed Japanese etchings tastefully placed along them. There was a Bonsai Sakura tree on the front desk, Minako’s assistant seated behind it. She glanced up, recognising Yuuri and offering him a professional smile. He smiled back, nodding and making his way through to the stairs.

“Yuuri, glad you could make it,” Minako said brightly as he entered the main studio. A few of the dancers were already warming up and he offered them a small smile.

“Hey Minako,” his voice was soft, but being around Minako was as easy as breathing, so he found he could speak a little more confidently. Even if the memories of the other studio he’d been in earlier today still cast an anxious shadow across his mind.

He shed his jacket and scarf as Minako waved him over to the piano, turning back to one of her students and going over some choreography. Yuuri placed his jacket and scarf under the piano seat, relishing the feeling of not being the centre of attention as he sat at the familiar stool.

It was one of the reasons he loved piano. The real star of the show was the instrument – it took up the most room, could be as loud and commanding as any singer, if not more so. But the whole time, the player – Yuuri – could be invisible. Silent. And piano was always the most popular as an accompaniment, allowing Yuuri to truly blend into the background and let himself just melt into the music. Nobody judged the accompanist. Nobody even saw them.

So, after the events of the day where he’d been centre stage under Madame Baranovskaya’s judgement, settling into the role of accompanist was exactly what Yuuri needed to unwind.

The rehearsal went well, Minako leaning casually but gracefully against the grand, offering corrections and advice to her students where appropriate. She sometimes flicked Yuuri a sly smirk or a wink when she said something particularly layered, clueing him in to some inside joke they shared. Yuuri’s nerves soon melted into calm, and he contented himself with getting lost in the music and the movement of the dancers.

Yuuri actually knew some of the dancers personally, having either trained with them on occasion or shared lecture halls when they were studying at SIM. He could tell they were just as relaxed as he was – still working hard and concentrating with sweat dripping down their brows or a look of determination in their eyes, but relaxed all the same. The studio was a comfortable space – Minako having worked hard to keep “real life,” as she called it, firmly outside of the studio. When you walked through the doors, you could step into new shoes, forget whatever you were outside, and focus on dancing. Still, she often played counsellor to her students – God knows she’d done it enough with Yuuri to basically earn herself a psychiatrist’s license – outside of the studio. She’d once told Yuuri, over a bottle of sake at their favourite bar, that artists were the most vulnerable of the human race. They didn’t just wear their hearts on their sleeves, they displayed it on a stage for the world to see.

Somehow, as Yuuri played and let his mind wander, he found himself wondering if that rule applied to Viktor.

Viktor’s status on campus was well known to Yuuri. Phichit as well, who often gushed about the famous tenor in the safety of their apartment like he was some kind of celebrity. And Yuuri thought, absently, that he probably was a kind of celebrity, at least in the music world.

Viktor’s parents were wildly famous musicians – his mother the lead soprano at NYC Opera for almost three decades before her recent retirement, and his father a famous composer and infamous conductor come manager of the New York Philharmonic. Their reputations as ruthless artists and unparalleled masters of their crafts had propelled them into international stardom, and their other worldly good looks and “exotic” Russian lineage made them instant favourites in almost any circle.

Viktor was born to greatness, in every sense of the word. It was almost a joke that he even attended SIM in the first place.

He’d been a prodigy since he was young, taking to singing like a boat to water, and effortlessly moving onto dance and composition, having performed at numerous prestigious events, concerts, and competitions for years. He’d just been granted the lead role of Rodolfo in NYC Opera’s upcoming production of La Bohéme – the youngest tenor on the company’s roster in decades. And not only was his voice stunning, but his looks almost guaranteed him roles in any field. He’d performed in musical theatre last year, showing himself to be an exquisite dancer, singer, and performer. From music companies to media outlets, Viktor had most of New York in the palm of his hand at just 27.

So Yuuri found it hard to imagine Viktor being “the most vulnerable of the human race.” If anything, Viktor was confidence incarnate.

As Yuuri let himself drift, he fell into playing on autopilot, mind sifting through memories and honing in on his run in with Viktor earlier at the school studio.

He was so confident – almost ethereal in how self-assured he was. And it wasn’t arrogant, Yuuri noted. He was just sure of where he stood – understood his own limits quite thoroughly. Yuuri wondered if Viktor was hard on himself during practice. He probably wasn’t as hard on himself as Yuuri, since Yuuri wasn’t naturally gifted or genetically destined to be a musician like Viktor was. Viktor probably just practiced as a formality.

Something about the music he was playing had Yuuri closing his eyes, replaying their meeting and slowing it down like some kind of internal film. He could almost see Viktor’s eyes, hidden in shadow with the light behind him, but still a brilliant blue against his pale skin… silvery eyelashes framing them perfectly … the set of his lips…

“Yuuri?”

His eyes flew open and he stopped playing, realising he’d all but daydreamed off the face of the planet. He glanced over to Minako who was looking at him with an amused expression.

“We’re doing a traditional Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, not Jazz-Interpretive,” she said with a smirk, arching her brow as Yuuri blushed.

What had he been playing?

“O—Oh, sorry,” he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Some of the dancers were whispering to themselves, the few he knew giggling good naturedly. Yuuri ducked his head, focussing on the keys and trying to ignore his embarrassment.

“Let’s pick it up from the t—” Minako suddenly stopped, interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

“I’m so sorry, is this a bad time?” a voice said, and Yuuri felt his heart leap into his throat.

Standing at the door, slightly breathless, hair dishevelled and peppered with snow – it was snowing? – was none other than Viktor Nikiforov.

Instinctively, Yuuri turned to glance out the window. It was snowing. And it was dark. How long had he been daydreaming for? How long had Minako let him play for?

Had Viktor heard…?

Yuuri’s cheeks set themselves alight and he ducked his head again, desperate now more than ever to be as invisible as possible.

And what was Viktor doing here? He was a member of the SIM Official dance troupe, there was hardly any need for him to practice here.

“Ah, Viktor, come in,” Minako said in a friendly tone. Minako knew him? Yuuri felt like his brain was quickly derailing.

“You’re early, of course, but you’re welcome to sit in. We’re close to finishing,” she gestured towards the few scattered chairs at the back of the studio.

The chairs near the piano.

And Viktor was making his way towards the closest chair, right behind the piano stool.

Yuuri tried to remember how to breathe.

“Oh,” Yuuri heard behind him, the voice sounding like some kind of symphony even if it also sounded like it was coming to him from the bottom of a well.

“You’re Lilia’s new student, right? We met earlier?” Viktor was talking. Viktor was talking to him. Talking to him like he wasn’t just playing the starring role in Yuuri’s brain theatre moments ago…

Yuuri gathered all the strength he could muster and turned slightly to face him. Yes. Yes, Viktor was every bit as beautiful in person as he had been in his mind. Even more so. It was almost painful to look at.

Viktor was in the process of undressing, setting his coat and sweatshirt across the back of the chair, scarf unravelling from around his neck. Yuuri found himself unable to look away from Viktor’s movements – it was almost a dance, the way his fingers and hands touched and pulled and stretched and…

Yuuri vaguely registered that Viktor was waiting for an answer.

“Y—Yes,” he squeaked, tipping his head in an instinctive bow which earned him a strange look. He blushed – if it were possible to blush any more than he already was – mentally chiding himself for slipping out of American culture. Nobody in America bowed. There was a slight pause, Viktor watching him levelly as he sat down behind him. Yuuri swallowed.

“I’m Y—Yuuri Katsuki,” he added breathlessly, thinking it was probably normal for humans to introduce themselves in this kind of situation. Viktor beamed a smile in response.

“A pleasure. I’m Viktor Nikiforov. We’re both at SIM I think?” Viktor cocked his head, hair falling over one of his eyes in a way that was very, verydistracting. Yuuri tried to remember the English language.

“Yes, I believe so,” he said softly, glancing away. He couldn’t very well let Viktor know that Yuuri had known they were at the same school since he’d first been accepted. That he and Phichit had followed Viktor’s studies and career meticulously, like he was some kind of musical god.

“I’m glad you’re accompanying. I’ve been looking for someone good to practice with for ages. You’d think it would be easy to find a decent pianist here of all places, but they don’t grow on trees apparently. Or at least, that’s what Lilia would say,” Viktor offered him another smile, humming a little laugh like he’d just included Yuuri in some kind of inside joke. Was it a joke? Yuuri couldn’t tell. He could hardly keep up with the English, let alone understand the social nuances. Where was Phichit when he needed him?

Yuuri distantly wondered that this would make for a great story for Phichit – a terrible story for him.

“Alright, Sugar Plum again please Mr. Katsuki,” Minako’s voice cut across his thoughts. She was on the other side of the studio now, holding one of the dancer’s legs to help them stretch. Yuuri swallowed. Yes. Sugar Plum. Easy.

It was a miracle he made it through the first few bars, let alone the whole piece. He was lucky he knew the song so well, hardly needing to look at the music to know where he was up to. And as accompanist, the song itself wasn’t too hard, just melodic enough to replicate the full orchestra piece and cue the dancers where necessary. It was a relief, because Yuuri found the entirety of his senses tuned to the man seated behind him. Every squeak of the chair he sat in, every appreciative hum, every breath was like an electric bolt through his veins. By the end he was almost sweating where he sat, nerves completely shot.

“прекрасный!” Viktor said from behind him, chair dragging across the floor as he stood, clapping excitedly. Yuuri glanced back towards him, adjusting his glasses as he watched the man burst into a wide grin, bouncing from foot to foot like a child. The dancers all blushed and thanked him, though Yuuri couldn’t help but notice that Viktor’s eyes were mainly trained on him.

On him?

“Thank you, Viktor, I’m sure everyone’s even more in love with you now,” Minako said with a smirk at a few of the blushing dancers. They hid their faces and made their way to the far wall where all their gear was piled up. Viktor laughed.

“Please Minako, they probably don’t even know who I am,” he said with a grin. Minako huffed a laugh.

“Maybe. Though I’m sure they’re smart enough to figure out you’re important,” she glanced at Yuuri, flashing him a strange expression he could hardly read.

“You’d have to be,” she continued, leaning against the grand, “To persuade me to allow you the use of my studio - and my best accompanist - after hours.”

Yuuri suddenly felt the ground disappear beneath him as Minako glanced back at him with the most wicked smirk.

“Wh—What…” his voice choked off. Viktor was laughing. Minako was laughing. What was the joke? What had happened?

“Thank you again, Minako,” Viktor said with genuine gratitude dripping from every word. “I promise you won’t regret the favour,” he added with a wink. Minako laughed again.

“Have fun you two! And surprise, Yuuri!” she flashed Yuuri a grin, turning to leave with the rest of the troupe and completely ignoring Yuuri as he stood and stammered, trying to get the words out but finding he’d completely lost his voice.

Yuuri dejectedly watched her leave, and he felt his stomach sink as he realised he was alone. Alone with Viktor Nikiforov.

Phichit would never believe him.