#i was trying to draw aria's dress as cascading waves but now that i look at it it just looks messy.. :/

[purmeka]

may 2018 // jacqria cosplaying as hella and adelaide, i never got to finishing these lol....

[thehobbem]

Write Me In C Major

So here’s my very first multi-chapter! You can also read it on AO3. Description: Victor Nikiforov has just won his fifth GP and Worlds gold medals and doesn't know where to go from here, but Katsuki Yuuri's music just might give him the inspiration he lacks. (It also doesn't hurt that Yuuri just so happens to be an adorable pole dancer.) Word Count:  4,749

Chris whistled, impressed.

“A new personal best, good for Mila! Think she’ll make the podium again?”

“With that score she has to” Victor answered. “What, you think she won’t?”

“I don’t know, that Crispino girl could give her a run for her money.”

“Hmm, true. She just might be the best jumper among them.”

The two skaters watched as Sara slid gracefully across the ice with a big confident smile on her face and her arms raised as if asking for more applause, which she immediately got from the audience. The whole place hushed into complete silence as she took her position; as soon as the first piano notes began to fill the air, her whole body seemed to ripple. Victor sat up a little straighter, his whole attention transfixed; they could talk about jumps and quads all day, but it was always the little things that caught his attention – the way someone stretched their arm or turned their heads, a clap, a snap, a smile. Sara was in perfect time with the music and every little nuance of the piece was accompanied by a little twist of a leg or a flutter of her hands. Those things could not single-handedly place a skater on a podium, but they did draw you further into their performance. And what was the whole point in performing if not that?

She moves like a sea nymph.

A sea nymph. Where had that come from? Belatedly, he realized the music had suggested it to him: it had such a… watery quality to it. The first notes had been like the gentle trickle of a fountain, but the piano had grown to a crescendo and it was like a waterfall now, note after note falling in cascades and washing over him. It evoked waves crashing against the rocks, only to fall back into a gurgling stream.

And while Sara charmed the world with her mermaid-like movement, Victor visualized a pair of hands flying over the piano keys - one hand clearly not aware of the other, each doing something completely different from the other, each creating a different effect, but both working together to cause a fascinating flood.

Victor caught himself wishing he could’ve skated to that piece.

Where was that piece from? He’d never heard it before. Had Sara commissioned it?

The music dripped into a stop, waking Victor from his trance. He hastily clapped along with everyone else, realizing he hadn’t paid attention to her routine beyond the first minute. It must’ve been very good if the audience’s reaction was anything to go by. It usually was.

The skating season had barely begun, but the wheels in his head were turning towards the next one already. Music that flowed with life. That was exactly what he needed.

***

“Phichit, put down that phone.”

“And how do you expect me to post videos of the final if I put down my phone? Honestly, Yuuri, you shock me. Shock me.”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, trying (and failing) not to smile.

“Have you ever considered… not posting videos of the final? You could just watch the performances, you know.”

“Well, now you’re just being ridiculous.”

Yuuri would’ve taken his argument a step further, pointing out that Phichit would benefit more from actually watching the seasoned skaters rather than filming them – but the whole venue burst into roaring applause and his attention instantly shifted to the ice. His hand grabbed Phichit’s arm with unsuspected strength and the boy winced, but Yuuri paid no attention.

“It’s him,” he whispered reverently.

Victor Nikiforov had just skated onto the ice, smiling and waving at the audience.

Yuuri’s eyes were glued to the skater’s every move. The routine hadn’t even begun yet, and he was already bewitched. When he stopped in the middle of the rink Yuuri could sense the whole world waiting with bated breath, begging Victor to once again captivate them all.

Yuuri already knew the aria and the routine by heart at that point: he’d gone to Osaka just to watch Victor at the NHK Trophy, not to mention he was probably responsible for half of the million views his performance at the Rostelecom Cup had on Youtube. Which was why, as soon as the first verse of Stammi Vicino echoed through the arena, Yuuri could tell there was something different this time: Victor’s face and movements were just as languidly melancholy as before, but as he flowed across the ice Yuuri thought his moves seemed to have a more… fluid quality to them. Like water.

Yuuri beamed with pride, as if he were somehow responsible for this. Only the Living Legend could still make a routine that everyone had already watched countless times feel like something new.

***

“Victor!”

He stopped in his tracks, tired and slightly wary: he’d finally gotten rid of the reporters and all the federation representatives, if he could only reach the locker rooms in peace… He turned nonetheless, practiced smile already on his lips, but to his immense relief all he saw was Sara Crispino smiling at him, bronze medal around her neck.

“Mila said you were looking for me? And hey, congratulations on the gold!”

Even though they’d had very little contact up until now, she hugged him as if they were close friends. He smiled, this time more naturally.

“Thank you, Sara! Congratulations on your medal too! Listen, I wanted to ask you something: I loved the music of your free skate. I mean, I loved the routine as well,” he lied, feeling a bit guilty, “but it’s just that I was wondering where that piece was from.”

“ The Nereid’s Call ? I had it composed for me! I was tired of skating to old ballet pieces, you know.”

Victor nodded, sympathetic. Weren’t they all.

“It was gorgeous! Who came up with the idea of an aquatic theme, you?”

“No, my coach and I were thinking of having something that felt both fresh and classical for my theme this year? So we told him that and he… like, he sat down and watched all of my old routines, back to my junior days, to see what my skating was like. And then he composed The Nereid, and said that was what my skating made him think of.” Then she concluded, blushing slightly, “So the aquatic thing was all his idea, really.”

“Impressive! So who is ‘he’?”

“Oh, sorry! Yuuri Katsuki! You know him, right?”

The name did ring a bell, and he nodded slowly. He’d heard the name being mentioned by other skaters over the past few years – Cao Bin had mentioned him once, if he was not mistaken, and so had Sara’s brother? Jaime Estévez, too, right before retiring. But he’d never paid much attention: Yakov only worked with German and Italian composers and Victor had lazily followed his lead so far.

“I know of him, yes. But I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Do you have his contact?”

“He’s here! And he’s adorable, he even came to wish me and Mickey good luck! He composed Mickey’s short program music last year, so Mickey kinda likes him… Let me see…” she looked around, searching for the composer in the crowd – and as she grabbed Victor’s hand to drag him along, he started to nervously look over his shoulder, expecting Michelle Crispino to angrily pop out of the ground at any moment.

“Look, there! With Celestino and Elena!”

Celestino Cialdini was always a good reference point, standing one head above most everyone else. He and his skater Elena Deschamps, the newest gold medalist for the women, were talking to two young men – a tiny enthusiastic one (a skater, right? He’d definitely seen him before) who was doing most of the talking, and a fashionably dressed one who quietly listened to the others and nodded sometimes.

“Wait here!”

Victor did as she asked, standing close enough to be able to see their faces, but not enough to understand what they said, the noise in the arena still chaotic and everywhere. He saw the quiet man turn to Sara, his face lit up in a warm smile.

Oh.

The expression “cute as a button” flashed in his mind and for the first time he felt he understood its meaning.

But he then watched as his smile faded a little and his cheeks turned pink, and when he glanced at Victor a look of sheer horror crept into his eyes. He shook his head and started backing off slowly, like a little frightened animal, and after a couple more words he practically fled to the exit.

Sara came back, a little crestfallen.

“He said he was in a hurry… places to go and all. But we’ll probably see him tomorrow!”

Victor nodded and gave her his Victor Nikiforov Smile™, distractedly.

Funny, he hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry before seeing Victor.

***

The last group has just entered the arena. All eyes are on Victor Nikiforov, who’s going for his fifth consecutive World Championship gold. He will be skating last.

Yuuri watched Victor on TV, practicing the moves of his free skate on a hallway.

A few months ago he would’ve liked nothing more than to sit next to Minako, watch Victor get the gold again and celebrate. But seeing Victor now just reminded him what an idiot and a failure he was. He walked away.

“Hey, Yuuri! Aren’t you gonna watch it with me?” a tipsy Minako asked.

“Sorry, sensei, I got work to do,” and he disappeared before she could argue with him.

His tiny studio in the back was the only safe place these days, no one ever bothered him there. His parents, Mari, Minako, they all felt like they could barge into his bedroom or when he was at the hot springs at any given time – but not the studio. “He’s working,” they’d say in hushed tones and he’d be left alone. Yuuri had composed precious little since he’d come back home, though. Most of the time his time in the studio was spent just sitting on his old couch, rewatching his last performance or rereading the crushing reviews.

“A flop in every sense of the word”, “amateurish”, “depressing” and “a wretched affair” were some of the bits that had been floating around in his brain for half a year now. Some of the critics had been gracious enough to add “not like his usual self” and remember his past - more successful - performances, but most of them had been merciless.

As if the knot in his stomach and the sting in his eyes hadn’t been enough torture as he’d sat on the piano bench that night. He’d been wearing his lenses as usual but the keys right under his nose had still been a blur, and he’d felt rather than seen his hands shaking. The usual silence that preceded the beginning of a performance had seemed to stretch on and on into eternity, unnaturally, unbearably long. A few murmurs from the crowd. They were all waiting for him and no one else. He’d been this close to throwing up all over the Steinway grand piano.

The first note hit had already been the wrong one, and it hadn’t gotten better as the recital went on. He’d either played too loud, attacking the keys as if they’d personally killed Vicchan, or tried to compensate for it, touching them so lightly they couldn’t even make the sound intended. With every note screwed up he’d imagined what the critics would say the next morning, what his old teachers would think, the comforting, supportive smile his parents would give him, which would only make it worse – they’d say it was okay but it was not . And the more those images swirled around his head, the more notes he missed, in a vicious, cruel cycle.

In the end, he’d still had to stand up and thank the lukewarm applause, which had been one of the most mortifying parts of it all: had it been up to him he would’ve closed the piano and run away from the stage without looking back, but that was not how it was done. The audience had politely played its part, offering him the applause he clearly had not earned, and in his turn he’d stood up and bowed once, before he’d felt they’d both had enough of that charade. He’d walked away as quickly as his last bit of dignity allowed him, hoping his face was not burning as badly as he felt.

And there was that invitation, sitting on the side table and gathering dust. He’d gotten it almost a month before, right after coming back to Hasetsu, but still didn’t have the courage to answer.

He didn’t even know what to answer.

Did he actually want to play in front of an audience again? It had never felt comfortable, Yuuri hated being the center of attention – ironic, considering he’d spent the first half of his life dancing, and the second half making music; both had led him to performing in public, to people who were watching, people who had even paid for it. However, the emotions that shook him to his very core were his. He couldn’t just bare them, so when he danced, when he played, the outside world ceased to exist. He did it for himself, and that was what usually allowed him to perform well.

Until that recital, that is.

Yuuri leaned his head against the piano, closing his eyes: did he truly want to risk going through something like that again?

The answer had to be a resounding “no”, right?

So why hadn’t he answered the invitation yet? Such an easy thing to do.

And an invitation by Minami Kenjirou, too, of all people.

“It’s nothing personal, Katsuki-san, it’s just that Minami-kun’s score suits the movie better. It’s more… alive.”

The director had praised his score in the end, but Yuuri didn’t need empty praise. His music had simply not been good enough, why not just say that? He’d also suggested Yuuri take a vacation, hadn’t he been working non-stop for a few years?

Sure, let’s pretend this has nothing to do with the critics saying my last score was ‘bland’ and ‘generic’, he’d thought at the time, but kept quiet. Yuuri was much too proud to say anything, so he’d just mumbled something about being tired and needing time off.

And none of that was Minami’s fault, really.

Maybe it was the year. It had started with him losing award after award and ended with him running away from Victor Nikiforov who, against all odds, had wanted to meet him.

Him.

Plain, old, mediocre Yuuri.

“He loved The Nereid’s Call and wants to talk to you!”

A decade-old dream coming true in the cruelest possible way. How could he face Victor Nikiforov, a man who’d broken, like, all the records and made history with the same ease a bored barista made coffee? He stood on top of the world while Yuuri was digging his way beyond rock bottom. There was no way he could make a fool of himself in front of Victor, and fleeing from him had been the only available option.

A dull pain in his head made him realize he’d been leaning his forehead against the piano way too hard for way too long, so he sat up and straightened his shoulders.

What did he want to do now ?

Compose? What? He had nothing for the moment. The score the studio had asked for was done (and discarded, but he pushed that thought aside for the moment), as well as the music for Elena Deschamps’ free skate – that had taken quite the while, too. She had a Grand Prix title to defend this year, and Celestino had been particularly demanding. Yuuri had reworked the piece three times. At least this year Phichit would go with Shall We Skate? and Terra Incognita, so he didn’t have to worry about him.

The question came back: what now?

He laid eyes on the single music sheet on top of the piano and felt his face burn. Maybe he could work on that?

The kanji he’d scribbled there formed his own name. That had to be the stupidest working title he’d ever given to a piece. But, well, it was about himself, so. He could think of a better, official title when the piece was done.

If it were ever done.

Because no matter how many times he played it, how much he tinkered with the chord progression or modulated it to a new key, it was still not good. It should be so simple and yet few pieces had given him as much pain as this one. But he’d started it, might as well see it to the end.

***

Maccachin jumped on the couch, tail wagging happily and tongue sticking out, looking at Victor as if inviting him to sit next to her.

“I know, I missed home too”, Victor answered her unspoken comment.

Victor put down his bags in a corner of the living room; he’d left the airport and gone straight to the dog hotel to pick her up. He was exhausted from the flight, but there was no way he’d leave her there for one more night.

She barked and he scratched her behind the ears.

“Sorry, girl, I need a shower first, okay? And then I’ll keep you company.”

He turned on the TV so she’d have the background noise she loved and went for the shower he so desperately needed. When he finally came back, still drying his hair with a towel, Maccachin was quietly chewing her favorite plushie while sprawling on the couch.

“Any room for me there?”

At his motion of sitting she immediately made room for him. In no time, Victor was lying on the couch with Maccachin half under his legs and half on top of him. He wondered if she had any idea of how large she was and smiled at her.

“Forgot to tell you: I got the gold again! Fifth time! You proud of me?”

She licked his hand and wrist for some long seconds, and he took that as a “yes”.

He got his phone out and scrolled through his social media, his mind miles away from the pictures and statuses he was supposed to be liking.

The season was finally over; he had the next two days off (wasn’t Yakov generous), and after that he’d be back at the rink, training for the next one.

Assuming that was what he wanted to do.

But he was just so, so tired.

The problem was not the skating, but rather… the exertion of shedding skin year after year. Every season a new Victor Nikiforov, every season baring his emotions for the world to see - emotions that he, quite frankly, hardly remembered. Every routine a story: of wonder, or pain, love, discovery, bliss, death, and the effort of scraping the barrel of himself to tell stories he barely knew was leaving him emptier by the second.

So what now?

He’d vaguely toyed with the idea of retiring, but had never dared to speak of it, not even to Maccachin. It was not something to be taken lightly – besides, if he ever as much as breathed the word “retire” Yuri would kill him, Yakov would have a heart attack and Victor would get shouted at for days. The mere idea of it all was stressful enough to make him not want to retire till he was 87.

But he could retire if he wanted to.

… Did he?

He still had a few good years of competitive skating in him, and he still loved the feeling of gliding on the ice, landing difficult quads, telling stories and dazzling audiences. He didn’t mind baring his soul for them to see, it was just that he was running out of emotions, with no idea where to find new ones.

He focused on his phone for one second and his train of thought was broken: he’d mechanically liked one of Sara Crispino’s pictures on Instagram, and he pursed his lips. Thank God the season was over and he didn’t have to see Michelle for a half year or he’d never hear the end of it.

He smiled nonetheless: the picture showed the two siblings in front of a cathedral in Florence, and they seemed to be having fun. Sara was as graceful as always, of course. Her free skate was still vivid in his mind, she’d make it to the top of the podium someday. That had been some good skating.

Some great music.

The Nereid’s Call. That piece had enraptured him at the Grand Prix, and again at the European and World Championships. He opened Youtube and looked for it, but the only results “the nereid’s call” yielded were of Sara’s routine, none of the piece itself. He hesitated then, but finally typed “yuuri katsuki” in front of it. Again, the piece was nowhere to be found, maybe he hadn’t released it yet? But there were many results for Yuuri Katsuki, which made sense. Although Victor wasn’t an expert in music, he had the distinct impression The Nereid was a technically difficult piece, so Yuuri was probably good at what he did.

Well, he’d never called, so that was that, he supposed. He was just not interested in Victor – rather, in making music for Victor.

It wasn’t that big of a deal though, right? He could ask signore Scandello to compose for him again, the result was sure to be gorgeous. Stammi Vicino was proof of that.

He glanced at the search results again, and one in particular called his attention.

Yuuri Katsuki New York 2015 performance flop

Victor frowned and clicked on the video. It started with Yuuri, in a tuxedo and with his hair slicked back (looking extremely handsome, he might add), walking onto the stage under considerable applause, though he hardly acknowledged the audience. He collapsed rather than sat on the bench and stood very still for a few seconds, as if he’d been turned into stone; he didn’t even seem to be breathing. A whole minute went by in deafening silence, and the only move he’d made was to weakly rub his knees. At last he seemed to snap back into reality and hastily started to play – and the very first notes just sounded… wrong. Painful, even. Victor’s frown deepened as the piece went on and by the time the video ended with Yuuri hurrying off the stage under polite applause he was this close to having a headache.

That couldn’t possibly be Yuuri.

“If I win this dance-off you’ll skate for me, right?”

Not Banquet Yuuri.

Though it was awfully close to the Yuuri who’d run away from him after the GPF.

The stark difference between the two Yuuri Katsuki versions he’d met had kept Victor baffled for weeks, and now this. Was he the same person who’d composed The Nereid? Or was Victor idealizing the piece (and its composer) by now? Was it really that good?

He went back to the previous search and clicked on the first video of Sara’s free skate, closing his eyes and tuning out the commentators to focus solely on the music. One minute in, though, and he knew he’d been right: that piano solo was every bit as inspiring as he’d felt back in December, the waterfall of sounds every bit as entrancing.

He could associate Banquet Yuuri to The Nereid’s Call (even though breakdancing and pole dancing could hardly be said to walk hand in hand with piano solos), because they were both so alive. More alive than Victor had felt in years. But Recital Yuuri was… wounded.

A quick Google search later and he was skimming through an article:

                        Yuuri Katsuki Review – A Wretched Affair

The Japanese pianist and composer Yuuri Katsuki made his first (and hopefully last) appearance at the Snow Hall Festival. What had been anticipated as an interesting debut at the traditional New York festival turned out to be one of the most deeply unmusical experiences the audience present that night will ever have.

Uncomfortable, he skimmed through the rest:

Awkward… depressing… piano was savagely attacked… truly gruesome… clangorous… falling apart on stage…

Victor stopped, the reviewer was quite ruthless. But right at the end the word “nomination” made Victor sit up a bit straighter (and startle awake a fast asleep Maccachin).

Google. Wikipedia.

He stared.

1 Early Life

2 Career

3 Works

         3.1 Television

         3.2 Theatrical releases

         3.3 Other works

4 Awards

5 Personal Life

6 References

7 External Links

He didn’t bother with “Early Life” and “Personal Life”, only 2 lines long each, going straight to “Career”, “Works” (quite long) and “Awards”, spending more than half an hour clicking on link after link trying to understand.

Then back to Youtube, “yuuri katsuki”. There weren’t many videos of him live performing, but there were many other things to watch and listen to:

Top 10 Katsuki Yuuri Scores [10 videos]

The Flying Palace, composer Yuuri Katsuki [21 videos]

Katsuki Yuuri and Ogino Takeshi at the recording session of Amaterasu’s Cave

A Night of Winters – Katsuki Yuuri (The Flying Palace)

Spice and Candy OP 1 “If You Find” (Katsuki Y.)

EPILOGUE – THE FLYING PALACE (YUURI KATSUKI)

Katsuki Yuuri plays Stammi Vicino

Your Serenade Without Me (Y. Katsuki)

Katsuki Yuuri’s Nighttime and Daybird Score [19 videos]

Wait. No, hold on.

Victor blinked.

Katsuki Yuuri plays Stammi Vicino

He clicked.

Yuuri at the piano in what was most likely his own house – he seemed to be in a living room (maybe?), a long, messy bookcase to his left and a black & white poster of… someone Japanese above the piano.

Victor had already seen Yuuri wearing nothing but boxers and a (god-awful) tie, but even though he was fully clothed here, this was somehow even more intimate, almost invasive. Like waltzing into someone’s bedroom without their permission. He had his hair down, dark sweatpants, a worn-out white t-shirt and no glasses.

This was Domestic Yuuri.

The video began after Yuuri had been playing for a few seconds, and Victor would recognize those notes anywhere anytime. It was his Stammi Vicino (well, technically it was signore Scandello’s). He’d half hoped, half expected that, considering Yuuri was so involved with ice skating music – what he had not expected was to hear Yuuri start singing at anche tu sei stato forse abbandonato. He sang in a low voice, clearly only for himself, as if he could not help it. Victor noticed with a start that there was no music sheet in front of the pianist, he had his eyes closed, playing it by heart. Perfectly. The notes, the low-key singing, the execution, all flawless, but more than that: it was brimming with emotion, the emotion Victor had hoped to emulate in his free skate; infectious emotion, giving him goosebumps right away and even bringing tears to his eyes at ho paura di perderti. Had the song always been this poignant, this disillusioned?

The silence took over Victor’s apartment when the video ended, though the music still echoed loudly in his mind, along with all the Yuuris he’d ever had a glimpse of.

He looked through his contacts until he found the one he needed.

Mila!       21:34

                                                                                  Hi! =D                                                                                         21:34

Listen, do you have Sara Crispino’s contact?                                                                   21:35

                                                                                    Sure! (?)                                                                                          21:35

He didn’t answer the implicit question and waited.

                                                                                Sara                                                                                                                              21:36                                                                                Message       Add to a group

Thanks! <3              21:36

***

Yuuri woke up but didn’t get out of bed right away; he didn’t have anything to do or anywhere to go, so he just stared (squinted) at the ceiling for a while.

Notification sound. He grabbed his glasses and then the phone: Phichit. He smiled a little and answered, but he wouldn’t see it right away, he was probably on his way to the rink, if not there already. Yuuri checked for other messages, Facebook, Instagram (not that he ever posted anything there, but), LINE, e-mail.

He blinked.

Stared.

Rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared again.

Victor Nikiforov > New music

Incredulous, his eyes dangerously close to popping out of their sockets, he opened the email.

Dear Yuuri:

I hope this finds you well! I was wondering whether we could talk about the possibility of you composing a piece for me to use this next skating season. We could talk over Skype whenever convenient for you.

Sincerely,

Victor Nikiforov