Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

July 2018

“So, uhm, Mr Nikiforov –”

“Viktor, please. I really don’t think we need to bother with these formalities, do you?”

Yuuri chances a glance from the writing pad on his knees up to Viktor’s face, and finds himself almost blinded by a dazzling smile. He looks so relaxed, so confident, it’s unfair. But, then again, he has done this thousands of times before. To him, Yuuri is just another one in a long, long line of people who come to him asking questions that he doesn’t care about.

“I … yeah, no, that’s – that’s fine by me”, Yuuri manages, and then looks up at Viktor’s face again. “Viktor.”

Impossibly, Viktor’s smile grows even brighter. Yuuri hastily focuses back on his notepad, its bumped edges and the hastily scribbled down questions that his boss wants him do ask, the most important ones underlined.

“So, ah, first of all … congratulations on finishing your new record. From what we hear, it’s something to look forward to.”

“Thank you very much! It’s going to come out this fall, and with all the hard work that went into it, of course all of us who contributed to it would be very happy if it’s well-received.”

“I’m sure it will be”, Yuuri says with a small, awkward laugh. He is still avoiding looking into Viktor’s eyes, instead fiddling with the corner of the sheet that his questions are written on. “You, uhm, as a musician” – Yuuri looks up again, and Viktor is still watching him, shoulders enviably relaxed, hands patiently folded in his lap – “you’re not known for your interpretations of baroque music, and yet, you decided to focus almost exclusively on it in the last few months. Can you – can you tell us why that is, and what do you connect with it?”

That one question felt like it took at least ten minutes to ask. Yuuri has no idea how he is supposed to get through three more of these.

“Well, I think that continuing to broaden one’s horizons, to try and learn new things and to keep evolving, even after one’s formal education is concluded, is the most important thing for an artist, and there is a lot that different styles of music can teach us. If you think about it, the beginnings of the classical solo concerto and the sonata form can be traced back directly to the early baroque era, and to fully understand them, you need to understand where they came from, what changed, what stayed the same, and how the performance conditions developed and influenced the style of music that was written and performed. Of course, these are all things you can learn in school, you can learn the theory of it, but I’ve always believed that music and the way it influences people and is influenced by people isn’t something that can be fully grasped without putting it into practice. And if other people can hear my … let’s call them experiments, and learn something from them, or just enjoy the result, I think that would make me very happy and I would consider that a great success.”

“Oh.”

Oh. That is … a far deeper and more thoughtful and elaborate answer than Yuuri had been expecting. It takes him a second to get back with the plot. He had been hanging on Viktor’s lips while he had been speaking, almost forgetting that he was here to interview him and not to enjoy listening to his thoughts. Awkwardly clearing his throat, he taps his notepad twice, looks down at it, and, disappointingly, doesn’t find an appropriate response to what Viktor has told him written down there.

“That’s …”

He looks up at Viktor, and Viktor is smiling so very patiently, like he knows how overwhelmed Yuuri is right now. Yuuri glances away again, very quickly, but not without noticing that a few strands of hair have come loose from Viktor’s bun, falling messily around his face and giving him a look like he just came here from practice, or a run, maybe. Viktor looks like someone who runs. It’s unfair how good he looks when he isn’t even trying.

“So, uhm …”, Yuuri says, desperately trying to get his mind back on track. He should have told his boss that this wasn’t a good idea. “About the baroque music. Is there anything specific about it that you enjoy, or is it just … the general, you know … time-travel concept?”

Viktor laughs, and Yuuri blushes, even though it’s not an unkind laugh. More … happily amused.

“Oh, yes, of course. I think … people always think that baroque music is easier, because it sounds, if you hear it at first, a lot simpler than, say, a late romantic concerto. But there is a lot to learn and a lot to get used to, and there are ways in which it is more difficult than those really impressive sounding pieces that came with the concept of virtuosity. I have been enjoying the challenge.”

“Can you give an example for our readers?”

“Well, for example, the sound is a lot more transparent than in a lot of romantic pieces. You’re not playing up against a fifty, or hundred-piece orchestra, the ensemble is very small. And the music itself … I’m not really sure how to express it … there is no waste of effort. No note that doesn’t have purpose. You can hear every single one of them, you can’t cheat at all. There is no wiggle room, you can’t slur a run or smudge a note when you don’t get it right away, because everyone would hear it. It requires a lot of precision, to get the right tone and the right pitch on the first try. Of course, ideally, these things should be aimed for in any other piece too, no matter what period it is from, but I think, in other periods – the classical not so much, but later – it’s much, much easier to hide a mistake. Oh, well, and getting used to playing without vibrato took a while.”

Yuuri laughs quietly, and he feels his shoulders relax a bit.

“Yeah, I imagine it would. Speaking of – this was your first project done on period instruments and with baroque performance technique, right?”

Yuuri doesn’t need Viktor’s confirmation to this question, he already knows it is. He knows Viktor’s earlier records, he knows what he has already done – a lot, considering he isn’t even thirty, by many of his colleagues not even considered a full-fledged musician yet, even though he outshines them all – and what he hasn’t done, which isn’t much.

“Have there been any difficulties with that? Overall, how has the recording process been for you, and would you say it was very different from how you usually work?”

“Working with period instruments always means having to adapt in certain way. The acoustics are different, the way the instrument responds is different … the tuning gets really old after a while.”

Yuuri laughs again, and Viktor gives him an effortlessly charming smile. He looks almost painfully confident and at ease in this situation, like this is just another Wednesday for him. It probably is.

“But I wouldn’t say there were any significant difficulties, no”, Viktor continues. “I’ve had my baroque violin for a few years now, even though I haven’t performed on it yet. I’ve been working a lot in a direction of more historically informed performance in private. I think I was well prepared for this, so I wouldn’t say there were any extraordinary challenges. Every recording you make is different, depending on whether it’s solo music or chamber music or orchestral works, depending on the equipment and time you have and so many other factors, so in that regard, this one isn’t anything special. I’ve worked with a very experienced, truly amazing team for this, the ensemble was great, and I have them to thank for everything going so smoothly.”

“So, with everything going so well, would you consider doing this again?”

“Well, that depends. Will you interview me about it again?”

Yuuri’s mind screeches to a halt. All of a sudden, his face is burning so hot he is convinced it must be on fire, and his grip on his notepad tightens to an almost painful degree as he gapes at Viktor, desperately trying to come up with a response. Viktor just smirks at him, patiently waiting for him to say something.

“I – I … I don’t, uh –”, Yuuri stammers, not even really sure where he is going with this.

“I’ll take this as a maybe, then”, Viktor laughs. And then, as if nothing happened, suddenly he is all business again, calm, easy smile and tidily folded hands and everything. “Well, I’m not opposed to doing it again.”

Yuuri’s mind feels a bit sluggish, and it takes him a moment to realize what Viktor is talking about. He nods, looking back down at his notepad, cheeks still glowing, the only proof that he didn’t imagine what just happened.

“It’s not all up to me, though, of course. First, we’ll see how this record will be received. No sense in making a record when there is no one that will listen to it, right?”

Yuuri snorts, but not because what Viktor said is funny, more that he said it at all. There is no chance that this record won’t be a resounding success, no matter if it’s good or bad or simply mediocre – not that Yuuri thinks that anything played by Viktor would fall anywhere other than in the first category. If classical music had superstars like pop music, he would be one of them. A once-in-a-generation talent that outshone world-class soloists as a teenager already, a thoughtful and hardworking mentality paired with effortless charm and shockingly bright confidence. People will buy his record because he is that, because he is Viktor Nikiforov, no matter the quality of the music.

“I suppose so”, Yuuri says, and Viktor nods.

“Well, and after that, who knows? As I said, I’m not opposed. I’ve had a great time working with this team, and if the opportunity arises, I’d be happy to do another project with them. Not right away, of course, what with my tour coming up, but in one or two years, if the interest is there, why not?”

“Well, we’re certainly looking forward to it.”

It’s the line Yuuri was given by his boss, but he really means it, even if it comes out a bit wooden and stiff. He is looking forward to Viktor’s record a lot, far more than he can show if he wants to keep up some pretence of professionalism.

“I’m very glad to hear that”, Viktor says with a dazzling smile. Probably also just a practised response.

“You mentioned your tour”, Yuuri says quickly, even though that’s not a question on his notepad. He doesn’t have any questions left, what he is meant to do is bring this interview to an end thank Viktor and let him go, then. But for some reason, he finds himself wanting to draw it out. “Can you tell us a bit more about that?”

“Oh, it’s just a small thing … but I’m looking forward to it a lot. Chris and I will be visiting a few European cities – sorry, I’d have to look up which ones exactly, but Munich and Vienna and Prague are on the list, definitely – and playing some Beethoven and Brahms. It will be great.”

“And we wish you the best of luck with that”, Yuuri says with a terribly forced smile. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the new record with us, we’re all looking forward to when it gets out.”

Yuuri lets out a very slow, very controlled breath, and then reaches out to shut off his voice recorder. The moment the little blinking light dies, his shoulders sag, and he lets out another breath, this one so deep it’s almost a sigh.

“This was your first interview, right?”, it comes from the other side of the room. Yuuri flinches. He almost forgot that Viktor wouldn’t just disappear with the end of the interview. He doesn’t question how Viktor knows that he hasn’t done this before. He probably does thorough background checks on every interview request he accepts. Or, more like, he probably has someone do it for him.

“Yeah”, Yuuri says quietly, bending down to pick his bag up from the floor. It’s probably very rude, he thinks as he stuffs his notepad and voice recorder into it. But Viktor is going to leave in a second anyway, so it’s whatever.

The gentle touch against his shoulder comes unexpected.

“You did great.”

He didn’t even notice Viktor leave his chair and step up to him. Yuuri doesn’t remember being this out of it in … ever. Not even when –

“Thank you”, he says, firmly chasing the thought away. It may sound a bit clipped, but the sooner Viktor lets go of his shoulder, the better for Yuuri’s state of mind.

“No, I mean it”, Viktor says. Instead of letting go, he tightens his grip, and starts stroking his thumb over Yuuri’s shoulder with his thumb. It feels nice, grounding, and Yuuri is tempted to give into it, except he can’t, because he can’t risk embarrassing himself any further than he already has. He stands up abruptly, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as Viktor’s hand falls down to his side and – oh. It seems that Yuuri did not quite think this through, because, suddenly, they’re very, very close.

“I’m – sorry”, he chokes out, but Viktor only smiles, and takes a very, very small step back. Just so that they don’t have to lean back to see each other’s faces. Yuuri clears his throat and takes a step back himself, a bigger one, that brings him out of Viktor’s personal space. Awkwardly, he looks up, hand cramping around his backpack strap, and says, “well, uhm. Thank you, again, for the interview.”

“Oh, that’s not problem at all. I enjoyed myself a lot. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m always happy to talk about music.”

And then, he throws Yuuri a wink that makes his knees go soft. Yuuri was not prepared for this, for any of this. This is not what he came here for, this is not what he expected when he, very hesitantly and with only an underlying wisp of muted excitement, accepted this assignment. He expected Viktor to be professional, distant, maybe a bit aloof. He expected Viktor to look down on him, the way a lot of other top-class musicians do with those who make their living writing about their performances.

In short, he expected pretty much anything – except for this. And he doesn’t have the first idea about how to deal with it, how to respond to Viktor’s flirting or even his casual friendliness. Viktor is acting like they’re friends, or … something.

At least until he looks down at his watch, and a little crease forms over his nose.

“I’m so sorry, I’d love to stay longer and talk some more, but I have a rehearsal in” – he checks again – “half an hour, so I have to get on my way.”

Yuuri just nods dumbly, because how else was he supposed to respond to that? It’s not like he would have expected Viktor to stick around in his stuffy little office for any longer than necessary. That he didn’t abscond right after the interview was concluded already came as a surprise.

“I’ll send you the final version of the article before it gets printed”, Yuuri says.

“Oh, that’s very nice, thank you. Don’t expect me to have much to say on it, though – unless you miss some critical point of what I said”, Viktor says, a cheerful grin on his face that mellows what could be a sharp accusation into a harmless joke.

“I wouldn’t”, Yuuri still replies, almost indignantly.

“No, of course, I know you wouldn’t. Anyway – I have to go. See you!”

And he makes his way to the door before Yuuri can respond. Yuuri looks after him, feeling a bit stunned, a bit like a hurricane just went through his office, or maybe his head.

Viktor stops in the door, so suddenly as if he had run into an invisible wall, turns back around so abruptly that Yuuri almost, and smacks his forehead.

“I totally forgot!”, and he takes his elegant satchel off his shoulder to take out what looks like a pile of paper, but turns out to be sheet music that he unceremoniously hands to Yuuri. “Here, this is for you.”

Yuuri looks down at what he is holding, sees the composer’s name front and centre, stark black against bluish-grey paper, and underneath that, the name of the piece, and then, he looks back up at Viktor’s face uncomprehendingly.

“What is this?”, he asks.

“That’s … the Brahms Double Concerto”, Viktor explains slowly, and Yuuri blinks.

“Yes, I can see that. I mean – what do you want me to do with it?”

Now it’s Viktor’s turn to look confused, even though Yuuri doesn’t understand why. Is this something he does regularly? Just randomly hand journalists sheet music after they interview him? What reaction did he expect Yuuri to have? In Yuuri’s -admittedly limited – experience, this isn’t part of standard interview etiquette.

“Play it, of course. With me, if you want to.”

Yuuri blinks again, the words dropping in his head like rocks in a well, leaving behind nothing but an empty echo. It takes him several seconds to realize that this – this really just came from Viktor’s mouth. And he hasn’t started laughing, or even smiling yet, he is still looking at Yuuri with sincere, if slowly getting slightly concerned, eyes. Which may mean that he is actually being serious. Stiffly, like the motion is controlled by someone else, Yuuri stretches his arm, holding out the hand with the sheet music to him. The title is staring at him, almost mockingly, and for a moment, he has to close his eyes.

“I’m a music journalist”, he says, carefully trying to hide the slight strain on his voice.

“Yes, but I happen to know you’re also a brilliant cellist”, Viktor says with a patient, if a little bit unsure smile, while Yuuri can do nothing but stare at him incredulously. “Listen, I really have to go, I’m sorry. Just think about it, ok?”

Yuuri gapes after him as he disappears down the hallway leading away from his office door, leaving Yuuri with the sheet music in his hand and a thousand questions in his head. Only after Viktor is long gone, he starts being able to move again. With mechanical movements, he closes the door, and then he looks at the score in his hand again. It’s an urtext edition, of course. When he carefully thumbs through it, a small piece of paper with horribly wonky handwriting on it falls to the floor.

A phone number, accompanied by a smiley face.

February 2017

Yuuri had been so, so excited when he got the acceptance letter from Saint Petersburg Conservatory.

He hadn’t expected to get accepted when he applied, considering he wasn’t some fourteen-year-old prodigy, he was just some twenty-year-old transfer from Kyushu who came neither from money nor from an exceptionally musical family. He expected them to toss the application letter he wrote to them right after reading it, because, well, he wasn’t some kind of shiny person or anything.

And shiny persons, that’s who goes to Saint Petersburg Conservatory. They’re picky with their students, but in turn, they have produced some of the biggest, most recognizable names of Western classical music. Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich, Prokofiev. Their students are the best of the best. Getting into a good school is meant to be the very first step to a career in classical music, but everyone knows that, in a way, making it into Saint Petersburg Conservatory means already having made it as a musician. No one gets in without having won countless competitions since a young age, without having weighty connections in the world of classical music, and without showing boundless talent beyond that.

Yuuri didn’t really have any of these things. He had a few competition wins, but nothing hugely notable on an international level. His cello teacher, Minako, had retired from performing years ago, why exactly, she had never told him. She didn’t have any strings to pull, all she could do for him was phone some old contacts, so at least he got the opportunity to play for some notable cello professors, in hopes that one of them might remember him and some talks would trickle through to Saint Petersburg. The most valuable thing for his career that she could give him was the Goffriller-Cello that had already been handed down to her from her teacher. And about the talent – well. Yuuri was hardworking. He loved music. That had to be enough.

So, no, Yuuri really wasn’t a shiny person by any stretch of the imagination, not like the other students he would be surrounded by at the Conservatory. He was nothing like those Christophe Giacomettis and Georgi Popovichs and Sara and Michele Crispinos. He was the very furthest thing from the Conservatory’s star student, Viktor Nikiforov, an exceptional violin prodigy who was playing with world-class orchestras before reaching his teens.

Yuuri didn’t even expect to be invited for an audition, but he still did his best to prepare well for it. And they wanted him. Holding that acceptance letter, Yuuri probably was the happiest he had ever been in his entire life.

He moved to Saint Petersburg for the fall semester of 2016-17, excited like never before for getting a new teacher, learning new things. He practised more than ever before, widening his repertoire, trying out new styles, venturing into the world of contemporary music, which, before he came to Saint Petersburg, had never held much appeal for him. Yuuri met people, a whole surprisingly diverse and international community of young musicians that studied at the Conservatory, and he made friendships that felt like they could last forever.

Yuuri was happier than ever before, exploring new possibilities and newfound freedom. Not that his parents never let him have any freedoms, of course, but Saint Petersburg wasn’t Hasetsu. In Hasetsu, people knew him. They knew him since he was a child, because he was the cello kid. The one that went away for competitions or the rare concert once in a while and had to tell all about, after.

In Saint Petersburg, however, Yuuri was just one of many. So, so many talented musicians, so many well-known musicians, too, so that the interest in someone like Yuuri, someone so utterly unexceptional, practically equalled zero. No one asked him to play in their concerts, and he was offered barely any collaborations, certainly nothing outside of school.

Yuuri loved it. He loved getting swallowed up by a community of more experienced, more popular, more talented musicians than him. He loved the anonymity of it. It gave him space to learn, and grow, and explore, all at his own pace. It gave him space to experiment with technique and expression and the kind of music he wanted to play for the rest of his life. The only expectations for actual results to be produced were the exams, and Yuuri could live with those. He prepared well for them, aced his recital and history of music and only did slightly worse in music theory.

It was like a dream, and that’s exactly how Yuuri should have known from the beginning that it couldn’t last.

Looking back, he can’t tell when it started.

After the exams were done, around the middle of February, it was like a hush had fallen over the entire school. There was an entire week after the exams when the building seemed full of tense anticipation, quiet whispers and nervous laughter. Some students left to visit their families, but most stayed, impatiently waiting to get their grades on the exams and making use of their free time to do anything but study and practise.

Yuuri stayed in his practice room. His friends, especially Phichit, a lively Thai clarinet student he met on his very first day at the conservatory, tried dragging him out with them, but Yuuri refused. He was focused on the Beethoven sonata he had played at the recital, tweaking and improving and working and just completely surrounded by music and nothing else.

And then, at the end of that week, Phichit burst into his practice room, an excited grin on his face, and instead of telling Yuuri that the results of the exams were out, which Yuuri expected, he said, “Yuuri, Yuuri! The program list for the concert has been announced!”

Maybe that’s when it started. The realization that this was not meant to last.

“What concert?”, Yuuri asked, and Phichit’s eyes widened dramatically.

“You don’t know?”

“What am I supposed to know?”

“The end of term concert, Yuuri!”

“Oh, that”, Yuuri shrugged, already picking up his bow again, impatient to get back to his piece. There was a tricky phrase that he was working on, that just wasn’t quite coming together the way he wanted it, like an itch that just refuses to go away, and he had felt like he was close to cracking it before Phichit had interrupted him.

Phichit, who was now looking at Yuuri in outraged disbelief.

“Yuuri, this is the concert of the term! Everyone in the Saint Petersburg music scene who is a name or has a name will be there! How can you be like this?”

Yuuri just shrugged again. He had never cared much for all the pomp and drama that’s made around classical music. He knows about the Saint Petersburg Conservatory end of term concert because it’s impossible not to, with who all attends and plays there. Famous alumni of the school and accomplished students hand-picked by a committee of teachers or personally by director Feltsman. Yuuri had heard other students talking about it, hoping to get invited, speculating who might be and who might not, and who else might come. Yuuri didn’t really care. He wasn’t here to play in this concert, he didn’t even really want to. Most of all, he just wanted to finish his work on his sonata.

So, when Phichit shoved the list of invited students under his nose and Yuuri read his own name there, he didn’t feel happy, or honoured, or excited. He only felt a cold, dark dread coming over him, thinking about all the eyes that would be trained on him, all alone on that stage.

“I can pull out, yeah?”, was what he asked Phichit, and Phichit boxed his shoulder for it.

“You can, but you won’t.”

“Phichit, I really don’t want this.”

“Yes, you do”, Phichit said firmly. “Do you even have a clue about the opportunities this could get you?”

Yuuri did know, was the worst thing. If you wanted to make it big in the classical music world, the reception after this concert was one of the best ways to make the right contacts. There have been people who were offered record deals and life-changing collaborations right there in previous years. It has been a gateway event for many great Saint Petersburg-based musicians. But Yuuri still didn’t want to. He wasn’t ready, and he knew it. He had known it when Phichit showed him the list, and he still knew it when he saw Phichit’s smile turn mischievous, when he knew his opinion was about to get forcefully changed.

“You know who else is going to perform at the concert?”

“Who?”, Yuuri asked, almost exasperated.

“Viktor Nikiforov.”

Phichit said it quietly, with a teasing grin, and Yuuri’s grip on his bow tightened.

“Ah?”, he said, trying hard to sound mildly interested at the very best.

“I know you like him”, Phichit said.

“There is nothing to like, I don’t know him.”

“Ah, but you like his music. I know you do, I’ve seen your browser history and your Spotify homepage. Also, I know what the last picture was that you liked on Instagram. I know all your secrets, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“You are incredibly creepy, I don’t know why we’re friends.”

“Because you love me, any because you need someone to be your voice of reason when you’re about to throw away the best career move you could possibly make and an opportunity to meet your … idol slash celebrity crush or whatever.”

“It’s not a celebrity crush”, Yuuri said. “He’s a good violinist, I like the way he plays. That’s it.”

Except, maybe, it was a celebrity crush. A very small one. Of course, Yuuri admired Viktor’s playing, and maybe, in some of his wilder dreams, he hoped to work together with him in some way, some day. But also, maybe, Yuuri had spent a bit too much time the evening before looking at the pictures from the photo shoot for his newest album cover that Viktor had uploaded on Instagram, sighing over the perfection of his blue, blue eyes and artfully braided silver hair.

But it’s not like that any of that mattered, because Yuuri wasn’t going to play at the concert, anyway.

Except that Phichit seemed to have made it his sole mission to whittle down Yuuri’s resistance, always being around with his annoyingly reasonable arguments that would keep Yuuri up at night, buzzing around in his head like a particularly persistent swarm of mosquitoes.

By the beginning of the next week, they sat down together in front of Yuuri’s laptop to compose an email confirming his participation in the concert. And afterwards, for the first time in weeks, Yuuri accepted Phichit’s invitation to go out. They went to a nice club and Yuuri got nicely buzzed and went home with a nice man with very nice brown eyes that were so very different from the blue ones that he couldn’t help envisioning instead.

July 2018

Yuuri doesn’t know what to do with the sheet music Viktor gave him. He doesn’t know what to do with the phone number he gave him. He doesn’t know what to do about the offer Viktor made him.

When he gets home after the interview, he drops sheet music and phone number on his table without giving either of them a second glance and goes straight to bed, despite the sun only just starting to go down.

The next morning, he gives the table a wide berth, makes himself a cup of very strong, very black coffee and then sits down at his desk in front of his laptop with his voice recorder and notepad. Yuuri isn’t quite sure if he is ready to hear Viktor’s voice again, but this is his job, and it must be done. Better to do it now, while he is still too tired to think about it much, instead of later, when those nagging thoughts would become harder and harder to ignore.

He listens to the recording of their interview, scribbles down some notes as he goes, and types it up into something that vaguely resembles a cohesive article.

Usually, writing helps him calm down and make his thoughts quieten down, but he is discovering that this is not the case when he is writing about Viktor, while having Viktor’s voice in his ears. Writing about Viktor makes him think a lot of things, things that he wants to ignore, that he has been very consciously ignoring for the last one and a half years.

He grits his teeth and tries to work through it, but he knows his writing isn’t the usual standard he can deliver, sentences poorly strung together and botched phrases and no smooth flow, more a blocky, awkward mess. It’s frustrating, because usually, this does not happen to Yuuri. He likes writing, usually. And he is good at it, usually. Otherwise, he would not have gotten this job with the situation he was in at the time. But today, the words just won’t cooperate. He knows that whatever he writes right now will have to undergo a lengthy editing process after he is done. And technically, that’s not a problem, because his deadline for the article is still a few days away, so he does have the time. But it does hurt his pride, a little bit.

Around lunch time, he finally gives up. The article is far too wordy, still missing an entire question and already over the set character limit, and he feels disappointed and a bit angry and also very hungry with a feeling of underlying nausea from ingesting coffee and nothing else. He slams his laptop shut, buries his face in his hands for a moment and resists the urge to scream. Then, he gets out his phone, opens his delivery app and has his thumb already hovering over his preferred Japanese restaurant before he stops himself. Yes, he needs comfort food, but he also needs something to motivate himself with to get this done. He decides that he can get katsudon when he has handed in his article, and instead makes himself some quick pasta like any poor university student would.

Except he’s not a student. Not anymore.

He realizes his mistake when he sets down his pot with pasta on the table and finds himself confronted with, of course, the sheet music he left there the evening before. And that innocent looking piece of scrap paper with a phone number and a smiley face that seems to stare at him more accusingly the more he looks at it. Yuuri briefly considers taking his pasta over to his desk. Then, he realizes how ridiculous he is being, running away from a piece of paper in his own apartment, and he decisively sits down at the table.

He tries not to look at the book of sheet music while he eats, but after he is done, it becomes impossible for him to pretend it doesn’t exist. He knows that, at some point, he will have to do something about it, and if it’s just texting Viktor that he isn’t going to do it and giving back his sheet music at the first opportunity that presents itself.

Carefully, he pulls it a put closer to him after pushing away his empty pasta pot. He brushes away the note with the phone number on it – that’s for Later Yuuri to worry about – and carefully opens the book.

It’s new, he realizes. He isn’t sure why that surprises him. Maybe because usually, when musicians first decide to work together on something that one of them doesn’t have in paper form, all that gets handed over is an illegal copy on loose sheets of paper. Or, with a lot of luck, a very old spare edition they had lying around, with yellowed, torn and creased pages. But no, Viktor actually went to the trouble of getting Yuuri a brand-new piano reduction of the score, with both a separate violin and cello part. He bought this … for Yuuri. Yuuri carefully traces his fingers over the staves, deep black against off-white paper. It’s beautiful in the way that all new sheet music is beautiful, unmarred by pencilled-in notes and memories of exhausting practice sessions. Just the pure music, caught on paper, to be released by a musician’s hands. Yuuri can almost hear it, following the line of the first theme down the page. It’s a well-known piece, he has heard in before in concerts, and he has even thought about wanting to play it himself, one day. But not anytime recently. And he doesn’t want to think about it, and he hates a little bit that Viktor is making him.

Because he wants to, that’s the problem. He couldn’t deny it to himself even if he tried, he positively aches to play this music. He wants, so desperately, to make music again, real music the way it’s meant to be, in a hall where the sound can blossom with colour in the air, not just alone in his apartment where it all gets swallowed up by his walls and furniture. He finds himself envisioning fingerings, little dynamic markers, little splashes of colour, not quite an interpretational concept, but maybe the beginnings of one, just looking at the sheet music, without really meaning to. He hasn’t done this in too long. He hasn’t seriously sat down to learn a new piece, to study its structure, to learn its story and its secrets and all its little details in far too long.

It would make no difference if he just … tried it out, a bit, right? He can play a bit, enjoy what is there to enjoy in just the cello part, and he can still turn down Viktor after, no harm done. It’s not like Viktor will know.

Making a sudden decision, Yuuri gets up, takes the sheet music and deposits it on the music stand that is already set up across the room, constantly overflowing with far too many other books. It falls shut when Yuuri sets it down, almost like it’s trying to tell him what a colossally stupid idea this is. There is no such thing as “just trying things out” for him, not in this instance, and Yuuri knows this. He still can’t make himself resist the temptation.

When he unpacks his cello, the warm amber colour of the varnish gleams back at him more invitingly than it has in ages, not like it’s mocking him, more like it’s teasing, enticing, like it knows that, for the first time in over a year, it will finally get some real work again.

Not real work, Yuuri reminds himself. He will only play the opening, maybe a few sections from the second and third movement, and then he will pack his cello back up and go back to editing his article and return Viktor’s sheet music. Maybe he will send it to him per post, that would probably be better than handing it over in person. Seeing Viktor in person again might make him want to change his mind, and Yuuri can’t risk that.

He tries to keep all this in mind as he adjusts the height of his stool, tunes his cello, applies rosin to his bow, hands quick and eager. But the moment he opens the book again, pinning the cover down to the music stand with a magnet so it would stay there, and takes in the music written down there, black on white, everything else completely flies out the window. He can almost hear the orchestral opening, he doesn’t have to count beats, he knows where his entry is. He doesn’t have to think twice about it.

It's not perfect right away, of course. The opening notes aren’t quite as strong and bold and confident as he would like them to be, a bit more hesitant, trying to find his way into the piece, into the right colours and bow strokes for Brahms, and he fumbles around a bit in the first passage of eighth notes, fingers struggling to find the correct positions right away. But Yuuri can feel that it’s there, everything that he is looking for, he can hear the orchestra, so clearly that he is almost confused when there is no solo violin after the second brief tutti. He keeps playing on his own, going further into the movement than he meant to, smudging over some parts that don’t work out just from sight-reading and revelling in long, drawn-out legato phrases.

He finally stops himself around the middle of the movement, right before a longer passage of sixteenth notes that, with no preparation, look like cramped up fingers and frustration to him. Instead, he goes on to the second movement, more legato, more languid, warm harmonies, and finally, the third, a theme with a loose and bouncy rhythm, lively and cheerful and almost relaxed, a feeling like summer afternoons.

At some point – Yuuri doesn’t even know how long he has been practising, seriously practising, not just playing, which had not been the plan, playing around with different ways of phrasing, different strokes and colours and dynamics and emotions – he finally lets his bow hand drop to his side, expressionlessly staring at the sheet music in front of him.

He shouldn’t have done this, and he knew it before he did it. He should not have opened it. He shouldn’t have accepted it in the first place, but why, why did he have to get out his cello and play it, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough, that he would never be satisfied with just this? Knowing the long buried and put to sleep dreams inside him that it would wake, knowing that having to stop now would just hurt more, would just tear open old wounds that had taken so long to heal?

He shouldn’t have done it, and he did it anyway, because he had never been able to resist the pull of music when it started calling him, not since a very, very young age. His mother used to tell him stories of when he was a toddler, how he would sit in front of the radio when she tuned into the classical music station that she liked listening to when she was cooking, how he could just sit there, for an hour or longer, and just listen, and afterwards he would be singing the melodies he had heard while playing with his toys. He had never been able to resist it.

And he had known that this time would be no different, and he had known that he couldn’t afford slip-ups like this, and he did it anyway.

Technically, it’s not too late to stop. He could still give it back, still tell Viktor that he isn’t interested, that he should find another cellist for his experiments. But that would be a lie. Yuuri is very interested, and that is kind of the problem. Now that he has gotten a taste, he wants to know more, he wants to know what this would sound like together with the violin part, what they could create together, and finally, what it would be like if they worked together with a full orchestra. Now, Yuuri has gotten curious.  

He has his phone in hand, typing out the number Viktor had given him before making a conscious decision to do so.

Yuuri: Hi, this is Yuuri

Yuuri: If it’s ok with you, I would like to have a look at the concerto together, just to see if this would theoretically work.

Just so that he can get the idea out of his head, because of course the answer to whether he and Viktor would work well together, obviously, will be a resounding “no”. Yuuri doesn’t need to have played with him to know that. As people, they’re already so fundamentally different that he can’t imagine them finding the common ground needed for a fruitful musical collaboration.

Yuuri: Are you free sometime this week?

And then, he has to resist the urge to throw his phone. He wants to take the messages back right after sending them. He silences his phone, because he doesn’t want to know when Viktor answers, and then un-silences it, because what if he does and Yuuri misses it? Then, he silences it again, because Viktor will probably take a while to answer and he might as well get some work done while he waits, right? Except, when Yuuri sits down at his desk after putting his cello away again, he can’t really focus on anything, least of all the article he is supposed to finish. Instead, his mind stays hung up on the messages he sent to Viktor, going over them again and again, half-panicking as he tries to determine if the tone he used was right, if maybe, he came across as rude, if Viktor might not want to speak to him again after reading them – was Yuuri too demanding? Too straightforward? Should he have waited for Viktor to contact him first? Between the two of them, he is the professional musician, after all – but no, Viktor doesn’t even have his number – and would that even be a bad thing, if Viktor never talked to him again? Maybe, if he didn’t answer, if Yuuri just waited for his reply in vain for a few days, maybe then Yuuri could, after getting over his initial disappointment, just forget about it all, and things would go back to normal. That would be nice. Boring, drab and colour- and music-less, but nice, because it’s also controlled, predictable, and safe.

Yuuri tries hacking a few words into his laptop, but ends up deleting them after reading over them a few times – forced-sounding, awkward phrases – while restlessly dragging his thumb over the corner of his phone in his pocket, again and again.

After half an hour that feels like three, Yuuri takes out his phone, checks for notifications and finds none. That is when he seriously starts considering deleting his messages, throwing the sheet music Viktor gave him out of the window and forgetting about all of this. He even opens his message app, thumb hovering over the “delete”-button, but he just doesn’t quite manage to bring himself to actually press down on it. He ends up just staring at his phone screen for so long that he can watch Viktor’s replies popping up under his messages.

Viktor: Hi Yuuri, great idea!

Viktor: I’m free tomorrow after four? You could come to my place, or I could get us a practice room at the cons if you would prefer that, whatever is more convenient for you :)

And then, the third message is an address. Just like that, no questions asked, Viktor just gave Yuuri his home address. For a moment, Yuuri is struck completely speechless by so much reckless trust. To Viktor, he is just a journalist, after all. One that he wants to play a concerto with, for whatever reason, but a journalist, nonetheless. Yuuri knows the lengths some of his … colleagues, for lack of a more degrading term, would go to for information like that.

After processing this, Yuuri has another look at the address Viktor sent him and finds that it’s actually not too far from where he lives, although in a better, significantly more expensive area. With slightly shaky fingers, he starts typing again, all the while asking himself in his head what the fuck he thinks he is doing, here.

Yuuri: Your place works for me

Yuuri: Should I bring something?

Viktor: Just yourself and your cello is enough ;)

Yuuri: Alright, see you tomorrow

Yuuri does not throw his phone. Very precisely, with much control, he puts it down on his desk, the screen facing down. And then, he buries his face in his hands and lets out a very, very controlled scream. What is this, what is he even doing? He should be running, fast, in the opposite direction of … whatever this is, before he gets hopelessly tangled up in something that he knows can’t end well. But it’s like all his rationally thinking braincells are taking a nap right now, leaving only his irrational wishes and desires in charge.

And that’s how, the next day, he finds himself standing in front of a very beautiful, old apartment building where no regular musician could ever afford to live, looking up at the ornate façade and feeling very out of place with his scuffed cello case and washed-out, well-worn jeans. He feels even more out of place when he enters the building and finds himself confronted with a concierge, who he approaches only very hesitantly, while she watches him with raised eyebrows.

“I’m … here for Viktor Nikiforov”, he says carefully, and she nods, still watching him with an unreadable expression.

“He is expecting you. You know where to go?”

Yuuri nods, and she gives him the tiniest of smiles and gestures at the elevator behind her. With a hasty nod, Yuuri makes his way past her desk, practically punches the button for the floor Viktor had told him, and almost sags against the elevator wall when the doors slide shut, before he remembers the cello case on his back.

The elevator ride is far too short. It feels like Yuuri barely blinks before the elevator doors open, spitting him out into a hallway with an old-fashioned wooden door on either end. This is where Yuuri stops, for a moment unsure of where to go – Viktor only specified the floor – before one of the doors opens, revealing Viktor’s smiling face.

“Hi Yuuri! Good to see you again.”

He looks distractingly good. Messy bun, relaxed shoulders, a dark blue shirt that accentuates his slim build, black trousers that cling to all the right places.

“Yeah, you … you too”, Yuuri says a bit belatedly, not meeting his eyes. He probably should at least make an effort to look a bit – a lot – more enthusiastic, before his attitude makes Viktor reconsider his offer. But then again, that would probably for the best, if Viktor himself decided that this wasn’t going to work out. It would save Yuuri a lot of trouble and awkwardness.

“Come in, you can leave your shoes by the door – can I offer you something, or take something for you, your cello, or –”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks”, Yuuri says, keeping his hands on the straps of his cello case while he toes off his shoes. It’s something to hold on to, at least.

“Alright, just make yourself at home, I’ll be back in a moment!”

And with that, Viktor disappears into a different room, leaving Yuuri on his own to take in the place. In a way, it feels like a relief. At least like this, Yuuri can breathe, and it’s easier to keep his mind on track. He steps into the living room on his socks, very carefully, as if trying not to get caught doing something forbidden.

It’s a nice place, Yuuri finds. Not that he expected anything less from Viktor, but it’s nice in a different way than he expected. Less “I’m a rich star musician”-nice (although, Yuuri would not like to imagine what the rent must be around here) and more lived-in, comfortable, practical. It very much looks like a musician’s household, with overflowing shelves of sheet music covering an entire wall, chairs and music stands standing around as if an ensemble rehearsal had just ended, a pile of books with loose copies poking out of it haphazardly stacked on top of the small Steinway piano that takes up one of the corners of the room. It seems a space very much intended for practical use, with lots of open space to accommodate at least a quintet, for sure. No TV or coffee table that Yuuri can see, just a small couch that looks a bit like an afterthought, crammed into a corner just like the piano. It feels almost like a practice room, in a way, and it immediately sets Yuuri more at ease. This is a space intended to make music in.

The one object that immediately draws Yuuri’s attention is Viktor’s violin, placed on the piano together with his bow next to the stack of sheet music. It looks so unassuming, small and not really like anything special, but Yuuri knows the sound the right hands can draw from it. He even heard it in person, once. Carefully, he takes a step closer, keeping his hands firmly by his sides. He doesn’t want to touch, just the thought feels almost like a sacrilege. He only wants to look.

“Yuuri, you can –ˮ

Yuuri whips around so fast he almost knocks his cello case into the piano, and he hastily takes it off his back.

“Sorry, sorry, I … was just looking”, he says. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to defend himself, after all, Viktor told him to make himself at home, and he really was just looking. Maybe it’s because he knows how sensitive musicians can be about their instruments. He certainly is up there with the worst of them, never daring to leave his cello in the care of others and barely ever letting anyone too close even when he is around. Viktor doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest, though.

“That’s ok, don’t worry. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? A Guarneri del Gesù, she was a gift from an old friend.”

He steps up next to Yuuri, picking up the instrument and brushing a non-existent speck of dust off the varnish. Yuuri follows the movement of his fingers, so casual and relaxed in handling something so priceless.

“Yeah, I … know that”, he says a bit belatedly, blinking up at Viktor and feeling a blush rising on his cheeks. He probably shouldn’t have admitted that he knows what violin Viktor plays. Is that the kind of thing he should know about Viktor? “Very … beautiful.”

Viktor smiles, and then lifts the violin to his shoulder while gesturing around the room with his bow hand.

“Set yourself up wherever you like. You can use one of the chairs, or the piano stool if you would prefer that. Feel free to use any of the music stands, if you need one, if there is anything on it, just put it … somewhere, wherever there’s –”

“I think I’ll manage”, Yuuri says, interrupting Viktor’s blabbering. Viktor shuts his mouth and smiles at him instead, looking almost a bit rueful.

“Sorry, I know I talk a lot when I’m excited”, he says. He keeps watching Yuuri as he sets up a music stand and a chair for himself, while starting to pluck a melody that Yuuri vaguely recognizes from a violin concerto he last heard a while back. It should be irritating, but for some reason, Yuuri thinks it’s almost endearing. He just seems so genuinely excited to be doing this, and Yuuri is completely helpless to getting infected by his good mood, even though it makes some part of his mind wonder how long it will take for Viktor’s excitement to turn into disappointment when it turns out that Yuuri isn’t what he was looking for with his experiment, after all.

“All done”, he finally says, sitting down with his cello and expectantly looking up at Viktor. Viktor smiles, walks over to the piano, and Yuuri watches him trace his fingers over the lid briefly before lifting it. It’s just a small gesture, barely a fraction of a second, but it looks gentle, almost affectionate. For a moment, Yuuri gets lost in staring at Viktor’s fingers, slim and long, like they were just made to draw the most incredible sounds from his instrument, so much that it catches him completely off-guard when Viktor plays a d-minor chord, making him jump. Viktor doesn’t laugh, or comment on it, though. When Yuuri looks up into his face, cheeks already warming up with another blush, he sees a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Like he knows exactly what Yuuri was thinking about. Yuuri’s face heats up further, and he swallows around nothing before lifting his bow and averting his eyes. He focuses on tuning, reminding himself firmly that this is what he is here for. The music, and nothing else. They both tune their instruments, and he keeps his eyes firmly to himself, his hands and his cello, until they’re both done and he has no choice but to look up at Viktor again, who, luckily, busies himself with his sheet music, allowing Yuuri another moment to just look, and try to get his mind wrapped around the situation. He doesn’t really succeed, and when Viktor looks back and their eyes meet again, it still takes him a second or two to remember how to breathe and act normal.

“So, tell me, what do you have in mind?”, Viktor asks. Yuuri blinks at him, and for a moment, he feels like he forgot how to understand Russian.

“Excuse me?”

A rehearsal, that’s what he had in mind. Or something like that. It’s what they agreed on, isn’t it?

“I mean, musically”, Viktor clarifies.

“Oh.”

That makes sense. Somehow. At least in theory, but in practice not so much, because Viktor in the one with the diploma and the worldwide concert tours and record deals. He is the one who suggested – whatever this is, in the first place.

“Uh, I haven’t thought about it much”, Yuuri says quietly. That’s a lie. He has thought about this piece at length. It robbed him of his sleep the night before, and against his better judgment, he got up early this morning to go over it again, the temptation just too strong to resist, to fumble his way through the first movement, and he came up with all sorts of ideas on what to do with it, even as he tried to stop himself from doing so. “It’s just, it’s … you know, new. For me.”

“Oh, that’s alright. If you want, we can just try it, see how far we get – how far have you practised it?”

“Uhm”, Yuuri says, his best to ignore the feeling of his hands breaking out in cold sweat, to tell his body that there is no reason to get nervous about this, even though he has no idea what Viktor would expect from him, what he should have done in preparation for this. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter, that it would be a good thing, even, if this were to not work out. The quicker they can get this over with, the quicker he can get all those ideas out of his head again, the quicker his life and his state of mind can go back to normal again. And still, despite him telling himself all this, it’s hard to come up with an answer for Viktor.

“I’m, I mean … define practised”, he eventually says helplessly.

“Ok”, Viktor says, and the laughter in his voice helps set Yuuri a bit more at ease. Should he feel like that? Should it feel that good, Viktor laughing off his awkwardness? Yuuri can’t tell. “So, you know the piece, right? How well?”

“I’ve heard it in concerts before”, Yuuri says. His palms still feel sweaty, but they don’t feel like he is about to drop his bow anymore, and his shoulders relax a fraction, and when he chances a hesitant look up into Viktor’s face, it’s easy to give him a smile. A small one, but a smile, nonetheless. “I liked it, a lot.”

“That’s a good start. And have you played it before?”, Viktor asks, responding with a smile of his own. Yuuri’s shoulders relax a bit further.

“I haven’t, no. I looked at it yesterday, I played through the first movement … sort of, at least, and I practiced some parts a bit more. I’m not making any promises, though, so … maybe don’t expect too much?”, Yuuri says, and then, when he is finished speaking, he can feel his cheeks warm up a bit. Maybe he should have been a bit less honest. He has always valued openness when working together with other musicians, but he knows there are some that don’t appreciate being told that their partners aren’t perfectly prepared for whatever they have planned. Viktor doesn’t seem to mind, though.

“Ok, we can work with that. How about we just try playing it from the beginning, for now? I mean, this isn’t anything formal, right? We can just try things out, and when something comes up, we’ll adapt. Sound good?”

 “Yeah. Great”, Yuuri says with a relieved sigh.

“Ok”, Viktor says with another dazzling smile, lifting his violin up to his shoulder. “Just start whenever you’re ready, and I’ll find my way in.”

Yuuri nods and lifts his bow hand. It’s shaking. It shouldn’t be shaking. Shaking will ruin the tone. But he also doesn’t want to keep Viktor waiting while he makes himself calm down, so he tries to make it work, somehow.

The entry feels rushed. Not in that it’s too fast, if anything, Yuuri set the tempo too slow. But he isn’t prepared for it properly, he didn’t take the time to think through the orchestral opening beforehand, and every note seems to catch him off-guard. Instead of confident and bold, his opening notes sound scratchy and hesitant. He doesn’t get into the piece right, he struggles to find his balance, and after a few bars, he gives up, barely keeping in a frustrated sigh.

“What’s wrong?”, Viktor asks after a moment of oppressively awkward silence. Yuuri reaches forward to rearrange his sheet music on the music stand just to give himself something to do other than avoid Viktor’s eyes, embarrassment burning on his face.

“Nothing”, he says, trying to hide the strain on his voice. Viktor will probably realize now that this was a mistake, that asking Yuuri to play a concerto with him was the very worst of bad ideas, and Yuuri reminds himself that this is a good thing. The sooner he can get out of here, the sooner he can be left alone with his humiliation, the sooner he can get back to his drab and grey life, the better.

“It’s ok, just try it again”, Viktor tells him lightly. “I don’t have anything planned after this, so we have time.”

Yuuri doesn’t exactly want to try again. He wants to pack up his cello and run away. But he is still looking at the sheet music, and it’s staring back at him, taunting and tantalizing, so much to explore, so much to play with, and he remembers the intrigue that had gripped him the day before, that overwhelming itch in his fingers to stretch them properly again, to take on new challenges. He isn’t quite ready to give up yet, no matter how strong the urge to hide may be at the moment.

He sits up straighter, steels himself in determination that he hasn’t felt in … years probably, stares the music back down, and lifts his bow.

It feels better, this time, when he plays. Not quite the colours he wanted, the pizzicatos not entirely as crisp as he planned, but it’s progress, and he can hear the subtle delicacy of the piece. He makes it to Viktor’s entry, and he actually feels excited, just a little bit, to hear what will happen. He counts the bars of tacit, not looking at Viktor, and then … a slight frown tugs at his lips when he hears Viktor play.

It’s not bad, of course. Technically polished, pristine. Embarrassingly far out of Yuuri’s league. It’s just that, Viktor’s interpretation is far too aggressive. Way too much, way too soon. If he were a student, Yuuri would write it up as a mistake and correct it, but Viktor is a world-class soloist. This has to be intentional, and Yuuri … dislikes it.

All the better, if their interpretations of the piece don’t match, is his last though before his own entry.

Yuuri tries his best to rein Viktor in a bit as soon as he joins him, his playing almost a bit too cautious in an effort to catch Viktor’s attention – and it does. Their eyes meet briefly, and Yuuri can hear Viktor falling into step with him, their sounds blending together into a whole, satisfying and rounded. And just as he starts to feel somewhat comfortable again, just as he starts feeling able to focus on himself a little bit more again, Viktor gives a push. A push for more power, more urgency. And Yuuri has no choice but to follow, if he doesn’t want to make the whole thing fall apart. He grits his teeth, bites his way through the passage, and the moment Viktor’s grip relaxes, he tries to pull it in again, just a little bit, back into comfortable territory again, territory that feels like his, territory that feels familiar. The sixteenth-arpeggi that they hand off to each other feel light, almost playful.

But of course, Viktor couldn’t just leave well enough alone. As they fall into the unisono part, he starts pushing again, and Yuuri, feeling his hand cramp up from how unused he is to playing the piece in Viktor’s style, desperately tries to force himself to relax, until it feels like they’re chasing each other up the runs, and his mind blanks out.

He can almost hear the orchestral tutti taking over after their final chords together, and then, he blinks, and the illusion fades away. For some reason, he feels vaguely out of breath as he leans back in his chair and looks up at Viktor, finding him already looking back.

Viktor isn’t smiling, for the first time since Yuuri got here. He isn’t projecting calm and relaxedness. Instead, there is intrigue on his face. A light in his eyes that is hard for Yuuri to interpret.

“I liked that”, he says after a moment of quiet.

“Yeah, me too”, Yuuri finds himself answering without meaning to. It’s not a lie. He can still hear it, he is still struggling to tear his mind out of the fog of music, of notes and rests and fingerings and bowings. So much tension. So much potential.

He wants to tell himself that they don’t match. There is something screaming in the corner of his mind, reminding him of why this is a bad idea, why he should be telling Viktor to shove his double concerto where the sun doesn’t shine and hightailing it out of here, why he should be nipping this whole insane idea in the bud before much can come of it, why it would be better for everyone involved if he did. But Yuuri finds himself silencing that voice, pushing it aside without a second thought. Because in truth, he knows that they do match.

Their interpretations may not, at this point – it’s their first time playing together, with little to no prior discussion, so not much else was to be expected – but they found an understanding, while they were playing, and it was effortless. They were actively communicating their first time playing together, and it felt instinctive, to look out for Viktor’s cues, to listen to his push and pull, to follow, or to take the lead. It felt so easy to tell him what he wanted in the music, and so frustrating when Viktor didn’t listen, because Yuuri knew he understood.

Yuuri doesn’t remember ever finding an understanding that easy, that instinctual, with any ensemble partner he’s had before. No matter how much he may want to, he can’t deny that to himself. It’s thrilling, and it is so very inconvenient. Because now that he got a taste, Yuuri wants more. He wants to see where this would lead.

But all his reasons for not wanting this remain, as unmovable as a mountain range. It’s just that he now doesn’t have an easy excuse anymore that would allow him to get out without anyone needing to get hurt.

“Let’s try it again?”, Viktor asks, and Yuuri finds himself nodding eagerly, already lifting his bow again. Like a marionette being moved by strange hands. Except he isn’t sure what would happen if the strings were cut. If, maybe, it might not even make a difference.

“You take the lead this time”, Viktor suggests. “Show me what you want to do, and I’ll try to adapt.”

“Sure, yeah”, Yuuri says, and when he plays, this time, Viktor really does follow, adding sweetness to the warm tones of his cello, and Yuuri can hear that Viktor – Viktor understands his interpretation, he understands the subtle nuances of his playing, easily picks up on them and elevates them, gives them colour and depth. And when he asks for the lead back without words, just with a quick look, this time, Yuuri hands it to him unresistingly, and he follows Viktor along curiously, waiting to see what he would suggest. There is an easy, open exchange of ideas between them as they make their way through the first movement, step by step, or sometimes, one of them skipping ahead, sometimes one of them holding back, to try again, to try out more, to do something different. Ideas tossed out, sometimes eagerly picked up, sometimes hesitantly accepted, sometimes firmly rejected. They don’t talk – not with words at least, most of the time. The occasional number of bars, an “again?” or “good” thrown into the room, but most of their conversation happens through the music. There is no need for clunky words where a small cue is enough and says so much more.

But while there are not a lot of words, there are … looks. God, so many looks. Hesitant looks mostly, at first. Looks only when it’s necessary, eyes just flicking away from the sheet music that Yuuri is still clinging to, just long enough to meet Viktor’s, to convey whatever needs to be conveyed, a quick, alarmed “WAIT WAIT WAIT, I’M DOING A RITARDANDO THERE” here or “WHAT WAS THAT WHY ARE YOU SO LOUD” there. Always answered. Some, quickly, apologetically, accommodatingly. Others, mischievously, unyieldingly, insistently.

As Yuuri gets more comfortable, the looks grow longer, more frequent. Usually, when Yuuri knows his pieces well enough, he likes looking out of the window while practising, or closing his eyes. Now, though, his eyes find Viktor’s whenever they leave the sheet music, and he always finds Viktor waiting already, watching him attentively. It makes Yuuri feel warm when he notices for the first time, warmer than he has any right to be. It makes him lose focus for a moment, eliciting an ugly scratch as he messes up a string crossing, and Viktor’s answering chuckle doesn’t help. It means he noticed. And for some reason, Yuuri doesn’t even mind.

About an hour into their rehearsal, Yuuri gives up trying to resist. He gives up any pretence, to himself and otherwise, that there is anything about this that he doesn’t want. He will just have to deal with the consequences later.

Whole phrases find their shape just through shared looks, lingering, prickling under Yuuri’s skin even when Viktor looks away, at his own sheet music, or his hands, or when his eyes flutter shut, pulling Yuuri into an especially intense part of the piece, painting pictures of music all around them. Yuuri feels almost helpless as he lets himself get swept away with them, and yet, there is a thrill to it, like the allure of a forbidden fruit. Yuuri finds himself looking for more all the time, wanting to dig deeper, to uncover every last bit of what Viktor has to tell him.

Once, Viktor’s arm brushes against his shoulder as he reaches out to show him something in his sheet music, and Yuuri almost flinches at how intense the sudden contact feels. A shiver runs down his body, and when Viktor looks back at him to check whether he understood what he was asked, he can only blink helplessly.

“There, in one-twelve …”, Viktor starts, and then trails off. Still looking into Yuuri’s eyes. Probably seeing everything that’s going on in his mind spelled out, clear as day, even though Yuuri himself doesn’t know what it is.

He wants Viktor to touch him again, to see if it was only coincidence, if it was only the surprise that made him react that way. Or if it would feel the same.

Viktor’s lips move, falling shut. Yuuri’s eyes follow the up-and-down of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“Right”, he says. It comes out maybe a bit strained. Or maybe, Yuuri is starting to imagine things. It is very hot in the room. Yuuri’s eyes flick back up to his, with maybe a little detour. Viktor’s lips look very soft. A very pretty shade of pink against his light skin. “Right, in one-twelve … you know what I mean, right?”

And Yuuri nods, and then Viktor straightens up again, removing himself from Yuuri’s personal space. Which is probably for the better, even though Yuuri’s thoughts have veered enough off-course by now to mourn the loss of contact.

They continue playing, and slowly, Yuuri’s focus finds its way back to the piece again. Mostly. Every time their eyes meet now, it feels like something snaps between them, like sparks flying from the tension. Tension that translates into their playing naturally, and it doesn’t even sound bad, and Yuuri doesn’t know whether to be happy or cry with frustration about it. He likes this. He likes this a lot. Right now, he wants nothing more than to keep working on it, to keep exploring.

But he knows it can’t last. He knows this won’t end well, and he knows that, at the end of it, the deeper he lets himself fall now, the more he will get hurt when it inevitably all falls apart. Not only that – Viktor is invested. Yuuri isn’t stupid enough not to see it. He knows Viktor wants this too, is just as excited as he is, if not more so. It would be kinder to end this sooner rather than later.

And yet, when Viktor asks, “one more run-through, and then we’ll call it a day – for now?” … Yuuri finds himself nodding, lifting his bow again, falling back into the music. Effortlessly interweaving his part with Viktor’s, still with a noticeable push and pull to it, but smoothed out now, so much more controlled than their first attempt. They work so well together, so much better than Yuuri had dared to hope at first. So much better than he had wanted to hope. Even with Yuuri trying his best to resist at every turn, fighting tooth and nail against Viktor’s magnetic pull, in the end, they find their way to each other, finishing the first movement beautifully in agreement.

It’s not perfect.

But it could be, if given time.

Time that Yuuri is so very reluctant to let go of.

“I really liked that”, Viktor says, just as he did after they first played the opening together, and Yuuri nods, avoiding his eyes. It feels different, without the excuse of the music between them, to look. More vulnerable, somehow, even though Yuuri doesn’t think that his eyes now could possibly show Viktor anything that they haven’t already. “I think this could be really good. I would like to keep seeing –”

Then, he breaks himself off, awkwardly clearing his throat. Yuuri already finds himself nodding, pretending he didn’t hear what Viktor just almost said. Pretending it didn’t affect him. Pretending he doesn’t want the same.

“I think so, too. I’ll … think about it.”

Which means no. Or at least it should. Yuuri can see in Viktor’s eyes, when he dares to glance up for a moment, that he understands what it means, and that he doesn’t believe him.

“Text me when you’ve made up your mind, then”, he says. “I’ll be … my tour is starting the day after tomorrow. With Chris. So, I’ll be away for a month or so. And I’m planning the Double Concerto for … probably the Christmas concert. So, you have plenty of time.”

“That’s … yeah, that’s great”, Yuuri forces out. It would be easier if Viktor would give him a deadline, probably. If he had less time to mull it over. Less time to get attached. To get even more invested.

Viktor watches as Yuuri packs up his sheet music and his cello. He doesn’t offer his help, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t leave the room. He just watches. Yuuri can feel his eyes, taking in every single one of his movements, and wishes he could feel more creeped out. Instead, it just makes him feel warm. Almost hot, on the verge of uncomfortable.

Finally, Viktor walks him over to the door, and holds it open for him.

“I look forward to hearing from you”, he says. It sounds so formal, and it doesn’t make Yuuri want to leave. It feels like there is still something to address, like there is something they left unfinished. Something that makes Yuuri hesitate to walk out that door.

With a slightly awkward smile, he looks up into Viktor’s face, a hesitant goodbye already hanging on his lips, and – oh. Viktor is very close. Closer than he thought.

For a moment, they’re both frozen, looking at each other.

Yuuri couldn’t say who moves first. He lets go of his cello, and suddenly, he finds himself backed into the doorframe, Viktor’s arms caging him in, hungry lips on his with almost bruising force. A gasp escapes him as, for just a moment, he is unsure how to react, before he brings his arms up, one to Viktor’s shoulders, one tangling into his hair, and he kisses back just as desperately.

He should not be doing this. This is a bad idea. Bad idea. Very Bad Idea.

The words keep echoing in his head, but he forgets what they mean when he feels Viktor’s tongue sliding against his, teeth pulling on his lips, strong, confident hands holding him, calloused fingers finding their way under his shirt, digging into his skin. Vaguely, Yuuri is aware that the door is still open, that at any moment, someone could come by and see, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling Viktor closer, gasping at a brief sting of short fingernails, a puff of hot air blowing against him as they come apart for a moment. They stay close, so close, tangled up in each other, but for a moment, they just look, both breathing heavily.  

Viktor’s eyes are mesmerizing. Yuuri feels like he could stare into them for hours, drowning in their deep, deep blue. They tell so much, and hide so little. Like he isn’t even trying. Sometimes, when he looks into them, Yuuri almost feels like Viktor is throwing his feelings and thoughts at him, hitting him with such force that he almost wants to stumble back. But still, he can’t seem to look away.

“Yuuri”, Viktor breathes. It sounds like a question, so Yuuri nods, even though he has no idea what he is agreeing to. Right now, he feels like he would say yes to anything. Anything to keep Viktor’s hands and eyes and lips on him.

The hand under his shirt moves, fingers lightly stroking his skin, sending a shiver skittering through him.

“God, you look …”

Yuuri’s eyes keep getting caught on Viktor’s lips. Their colour has darkened, and they’re slightly swollen now, glistening with spit. Yuuri knows how they feel on his now. He wants … he wants so much. And when he looks into Viktor’s eyes … Viktor looks like he wants to devour him. And God, does Yuuri want that. He craves it.

“You look like sin, Yuuri”, Viktor says. His voice sounds wrecked, and they haven’t even done anything. Yet.

“Are you going to do anything about it?”, he whispers breathlessly, maybe more confidently than he feels. He even manages a coy little smile, before his lips fall open in a hitched moan as Viktor pulls him flush against his solid chest. He hears the door slam shut, and then his back is pressed against it, and Viktor’s teeth are tracing along his jawline down to his pulse point. Yuuri leans his head to the side a bit to give him better access, cradles the back of his head to hold him there, because it feels so good, good enough to make his eyes flutter shut and his mind go empty.

Yuuri doesn’t remember ever being this quickly and easily aroused. He doesn’t remember ever being this desperate to get his hands on another person, this desperate to feel someone else’s skin, this desperate to be touched. He doesn’t remember ever having a partner figure him out this quickly, find all the spots that make him shiver and moan, that make his knees buckle, that make his hips twitch in search of friction only a few minutes in.

While Viktor’s lips and tongue and teeth are busy with his neck, his hands roam over his back, applying gentle pressure in places, rucking his shirt up until they have to part for a moment so Yuuri can shrug out of it completely. The polished wood of the door feels cool against his naked skin, and at first, Yuuri flinches away from it, before Viktor distracts him with another kiss.

“Ok?”, he whispers against his lips, and Yuuri can’t help but nod, biting down on his lip to keep in another soft moan when he feels Viktor’s warm breath on his skin. The kisses that follow are a bit softer, gentler, having lost some of their urgency. Yuuri can feel a smile on Viktor’s lips as he gives him a row of small, close-mouthed pecks, kissing along his cheekbone before finding his lips again. Yuuri opens his mouth for his tongue willingly, and, oh – that feels nice. Deep and unhurried and achingly gentle and intimate. It makes him want to be closer, until there is no more space left between them.

Yuuri’s hand falls down to Viktor’s waist while the other loosens the elastic in his hair, sending a waterfall of shining silver tumbling over his shoulders. Unconsciously, Yuuri pulls him closer, until one of Viktor’s knees slots in between his, until the space between them melts away. Viktor’s thigh is warm and solid between his, and when he moves, it presses up against him in a way that makes his mouth fall open in a gasp, breaking their kiss as he tries to catch his breath for a moment.

“Alright? Do you want to stop?”, Viktor asks, sounding vaguely concerned. His hands take up a stroking motion against the naked skin of his back that’s probably meant to be soothing, but that only makes it harder for Yuuri to focus, especially since he can feel the bulge at the front of his trousers pressed against his hip. Yuuri feels a bit dizzy. But he knows what he wants.

“No, no”, he gasps out. “Just … surprised me.”

Surprised is an understatement. Yuuri came here with the intention of discussing the possibility of playing a double concerto together, maybe trying some things out, thoroughly disappointing Viktor and then going back home to his regular life and forget that any of that ever happened. He did not expect to end up trapped between Viktor Nikiforov and his door and enjoying it. He did not expect to be so turned on it feels like he might black out if he doesn’t find some relief, and soon.

“Can I keep going?”, Viktor asks, and Yuuri almost can’t nod quickly enough.

“Yes, please.”

There is a smile on Viktor’s lips when he buries his face in the crook of Yuuri’s neck to press kisses to his collarbone. His hand finds the back of Yuuri’s thigh, encouraging him to wrap it around him, and when he grinds his thigh up again, it’s intentional, and Yuuri lets out an embarrassingly loud moan.

“You sound so pretty”, Viktor whispers, and Yuuri feels like maybe, he should say something back, something similar, something about how soft and beautiful his hair is, maybe, or how good his lips feel on Yuuri’s skin, or how much Yuuri adores the rough feeling of his callouses as his fingers slide lower on his back, dipping beneath his waistband.

He doesn’t get the chance though, his mouth occupied with gasps when Viktor’s hand cups his ass, pulling him in, guiding his hips into a rhythm that makes heat flood his veins.

“Does it feel good?”, he asks, and Yuuri doesn’t even have it in him to roll his eyes, even though the answer should be fairly obvious from the way he clings to Viktor, the moans that fall from his lips.

“Yes … yes it does”, he just so manages to get out, and Viktor’s answering smirk gives him a little thrill. It should be illegal to look so beautiful, Yuuri decides.

For a while, he just lets Yuuri rut against him, occasionally answering with a roll of his hips, letting out a small groan here and there, still peppering his neck with kisses and little nips of his teeth. Then, Yuuri makes the mistake – or maybe the good decision – to let his hands wander lower – to let his fingers brush over his trapped erection for just a moment – and Viktor growls. The noise sends blood rushing to Yuuri’s groin, it makes him want more, to hear it again – but when he reaches out, his hand is batted away, and suddenly, he unceremoniously finds himself picked up, legs tightly wrapped around Viktor, strong hands supporting him.

The whine that escapes him gets swallowed up by a scorching kiss, hands shamelessly palming his ass, drawing moan after moan out of him.

“Viktor”, Yuuri whispers urgently when they have to break apart for air, “Viktor, I need …”

“Do you want to …”

“Yeah”, Yuuri answers, not even letting him finish. Whatever Viktor wants. Whatever Viktor will give him, right now, Yuuri will take it all. He will worry about the consequences later.

They stumble through the apartment, exchanging kisses and touches and whispers along the way – not to the bedroom, just to the couch in the living room, where Viktor puts Yuuri down and presses a quick kiss to his jaw.

“I’ll be right back”, he promises before disappearing into another room. It gives Yuuri a moment to breathe, to compose himself. In theory, at least. In truth, his thoughts feel so wild, he knows there is no hope of him sorting through them before Viktor comes back. So, he chooses not to think at all. He closes his eyes, lets his hand wander down to the fly of his jeans, opens it to relieve some of the pressure. He lets out a long, slow breath, rolling his palm over his erection, relishing in the pleasure the simple touch brings.

When he opens his eyes again, Viktor is standing next to him – how did Yuuri not hear him coming back? – pupils blown wide, just watching, slack-jawed. A lazy smile spreads over Yuuri’s face at the sight. It makes him feel strong, powerful, desired. It makes him feel good.

“Want to give me a hand with this?”, he asks, coyly fluttering his lashes. He watches as Viktor swallows heavily.

“Yeah”, he finally rasps out, dropping to his knees next to the couch. Yuuri’s smile widens when he sees him place a condom and a bottle of lube somewhere next to his knees, before hooking his fingers in the waistband of Yuuri’s boxers and jeans. He still checks back with Yuuri, asking permission with a look into his eyes, before slowly, oh so slowly, pulling them down.

Yuuri doesn’t get the chance to think about the awkwardness of being naked while Viktor remains fully dressed, because the moment it is revealed to him, Viktor starts pressing kisses to the skin of his hip, wandering closer to his groin and making desperate anticipation build in Yuuri’s gut.

“Gorgeous”, he whispers into the crease of his groin, before kissing his way further up, bypassing Yuuri’s erection entirely. It makes a frustrated whine rise up in Yuuri’s throat, which is promptly silenced when he feels Viktor suck a bruise next to the jut of his hip bone and he realizes he likes it. Yuuri has never been much for marks, always just found them annoying to cover up, but with Viktor … he realizes he likes being marked by him. The feeling of belonging to him, even though he knows it’s just a fantasy.

Viktor’s clothes chafe a bit against his sensitive skin as he moves further up, but Yuuri almost finds himself unable to mind, because Viktor is so careful. So … almost reverent, the entire time intent on giving Yuuri pleasure. Thumbs stroking his hips as butterfly-light kisses find their way up his stomach. Gripping tighter, more secure, holding him in place when his tongue lavishes his nipples, teeth scraping over them, making Yuuri squirm in desperation. By the time he reaches his face, kneeling over him and looking down, they’re both breathing heavily.

“What do you want?”, Viktor asks. Yuuri has to blink and suck in a few breaths, wait for his head to clear up a bit before he can properly process the question.

“What?”

Viktor only lets out an affectionate chuckle, tracing one of Yuuri’s cheekbones with his fingertips.

“I mean – what do you want to do. Do you want to keep going like this, or do you want me to blow you, or do you want to fuck me, or –”

Yuuri, unable to listen to Viktor’s voice any longer, quickly grabs his face and pulls him down into a fierce kiss. He keeps his arm around his shoulders when they part again, a string of saliva still connecting their lips.

“Viktor”, he whispers, his voice strained, “shut up. And fuck me, please.”

“Ok”, Viktor says quietly. He is smiling. Not even smirking, no, this is a warm, honest, happy smile. For some reason, it makes something in Yuuri’s chest grow tight.

Viktor makes quick work of his clothes, carelessly dropping them on the floor before picking up the discarded bottle of lube and the condom. The latter, he places in Yuuri’s hand for safekeeping before opening the bottle and drizzling lube over his fingers. 

“How do you want it?”, he asks casually, and a shiver runs through Yuuri, envisioning his options. But he feels comfortable right now, and he likes looking at Viktor’s eyes, and playing with his hair.

“Like this, if you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all”, Viktor smiles back, leaning down to drop a kiss to his neck. At the same time as his lips touch Yuuri’s skin, slick fingers find his entrance, and a soft moan leaves Yuuri’s mouth. Viktor rubs over him a few times, applying gentle pressure, the whole time watching Yuuri’s face for any signs of discomfort, but Yuuri gives him none. Instead, he pulls him down into a kiss again, pressing back into his hand to make one finger slip past his entrance.

Viktor quietly laughs against his lips.

“Patience”, he croons, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand. On the contrary, after giving Yuuri a moment to adjust, he presses deeper, circling and crooking his finger until he brushes against his prostate, making Yuuri sigh and push his hips forward, seeking out more.

“There?”, Viktor asks, and Yuuri nods, biting down on his lip when the pad of Viktor’s thumb presses down on his perineum, right behind his balls.

“Again”, he whispers, almost begs, and Viktor is happy to oblige, keeping up the careful massage while peppering Yuuri’s collarbones with kisses, some light and quick, some more lingering, sometimes with a hint of teeth. And Yuuri would be happy doing this forever, because it feels good, so, so good – if only it didn’t make him so desperate, if only there weren’t the insistent pressure building inside him, building and building with no release in sight.

“Could you … hurry it up a little, maybe?”, he asks, embarrassed at how thin and thready his voice sounds. He can feel Viktor’s answering pout against his skin.

“But I’m enjoying myself”, he says, his eyes widened innocently. But all it takes to make that composure is for Yuuri to lift his thigh a bit, to brush against the head of his cock, which Viktor has been carefully keeping away from any friction until now. His jaw goes slack with a moan, his eyes flutter shut as his hips sharply jerk forward, seeking out more pressure.

“What was that?”, Yuuri asks, and Viktor swallows heavily. Yuuri likes seeing his control breaking down, likes feeling it in the way the movement of his fingers inside him speed up, less focused on ramping up his pleasure and more goal oriented. He makes quick work of preparing him now, adding a second and then a third finger as soon as Yuuri tells him he can take it, carelessly wiping them on his thigh when he takes them out and wasting no time while putting on the condom.

“Ready?”, he finally asks, looking into Yuuri’s eyes. Yuuri takes a moment to take in the look of him – hair sweaty and dishevelled, showing clear signs of Yuuri’s wandering hands, pale chest coloured with a splotchy blush, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black. His hands are tight on Yuuri’s hips, probably tight enough to leave bruises, and Yuuri can’t bring himself to mind. He can’t really bring himself to believe that this is real, so any concerns what state he himself might be in after are completely secondary, right now. All he can think about it how ethereal Viktor looks. How good it feels, having his hands on his skin. How much Yuuri wants to feel him inside.

“Yeah”, he says quietly, eyes not leaving Viktor’s. They only flutter shut when he feels the head of Viktor’s cock rubbing against his entrance, when he feels Viktor lining himself up with one hand and slowly pressing in. Yuuri’s back arches, hips coming up to meet Viktor as he breathes through the initial discomfort. Yuuri knows how to relax his body, and Viktor is being careful, more careful than most that Yuuri has been with, but he is also big, and initially, there is a small sting to the stretch. It’s nothing, however, against the feeling of Viktor fully seated inside him, so pleasantly heavy and full. Yuuri gasps out a series of short breaths when he bottoms out, fingers digging into the cushions beneath him.

“Holy – fuck”, he gasps out. “God, you feel good.”

In lieu of an answer, Viktor just swoops down, claiming his lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he starts to move in shallow little trusts, each one punching another strained moan from Yuuri’s mouth. One of his hands wanders up his stomach again, the touch gentle but firm enough to not tickle, and finds his nipple, thumb rubbing over it in time with Viktor’s thrusts.

The angle isn’t perfect, but Yuuri doesn’t mind, for now. It still feels good, and – he can feel Viktor’s groans against his lips. It’s a different kind of thrill, a different kind of pleasure, knowing that this is for him, that Viktor is enjoying himself, because of him. Yuuri hooks his legs around the small of his back, lifts his hips to meet his thrusts, buries his fingers in his hair, keeping him close.

And then, Viktor starts talking.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect, I can’t believe I” – he breaks off with a groan as he thrusts in – “I can’t believe I almost let you … just go. Imagine how much I would have hated myself for missing out on this.”

He cups Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri instinctively turns his cheek into the touch, eyes falling shut when he feels Viktor’s lips on the underside of his jaw. Lips and teeth, nibbling and sucking, and it feels way too good for Yuuri to want to stop him.

“You know, the next month, when I’m away … this is all I’ll be thinking about”, he gasps out when he lifts his head again, making Yuuri look at him.

It’s just a line, Yuuri tells himself. He probably tells that to all his pre-tour hook-ups. And still, the words make him shiver, looking into Viktor’s eyes, seeing his earnestness. It’s just the light, Yuuri tells himself. And then, he stops thinking about it, when Viktor’s taut stomach brushes against his neglected erection, making heat light up his veins, a gasp escaping his mouth.

It takes him a moment to think of an answer to give Viktor.

“Shouldn’t you focus on your work?”, is what eventually comes out.

Me too, is what he wants to say. In his case, as sad as it is, he knows it’s most likely true. This is a fantasy that teenage Yuuri would have jerked off to in the dead of night, face stuffed in a pillow to keep his groans in, come true. Yuuri is not going to forget this any time soon, even when Viktor will have long since moved on to better and brighter things. Things that aren’t useless and broken.

“I probably should”, Viktor agrees with another trust, well-aimed, brushing up right against Yuuri’s prostate. Making his back arch, pulling a desperate moan from him, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Viktor’s shoulders. “But do you think I could? When I remember … this?”

And all of a sudden, it’s too much for Yuuri. He needs Viktor to stop talking, and he needs to take control of the situation, now, because he can feel his mind rapidly slipping into dangerous territory. He can’t take what comes out of Viktor’s mouth too seriously, he reminds himself firmly, and desperately wishes his sex-addled brain would believe it.

With his hands, he pushes at Viktor’s chest, making him kneel back, slipping out of him. There is a look of confusion on his face, carefully questioning, but Yuuri makes sure to soon settle his doubts by straddling his lap, knees bracketing his thighs.

“Is this ok?”, he asks, probably needlessly, if the way Viktor has already folded his hands around his waist, holding him, is any indication. “I want –”

“Yes, yes, of course”, Viktor hurries to reply, and lets his forehead rest against Yuuri’s collarbone when he sinks back down on his cock again. It’s easier for him to control the angle like this, and the depth; he goes slowly, just to feel Viktor’s thighs quivering with the effort to keep still, and then takes the last bit quickly, with no warning, just to hear the punched-out gasp Viktor makes.

“You will be the death of me”, he groans, bringing a satisfied smirk to Yuuri’s lips.

He lifts himself up, then sinks back down again, angling his hips so Viktor’s cock perfectly presses against his prostate, pleasure clouding his vision. They find a rhythm with each other, Viktor thrusting up whenever Yuuri comes down, and the rest of the world falls away. Yuuri’s ears feel like they’re filled with cotton balls, muffling all sounds except for the slick noises of skin on skin and their harsh gasps that fill the apartment. Colourful sparks fly before his eyes every time Viktor hits that spot inside him, everything else blurring into one dull mess. At some point, the strength to hold himself up leaves him, and Viktor catches him against his chest, holding him close, whispering words that Yuuri can’t understand.

Yuuri never wants to stop. He wants to forget everything else, everything he doesn’t want to think about, and just live in this moment forever. But he knows he can’t. He knows Viktor is going to leave, no matter what he may want, and he knows, he knows it’s better that way, he knows he should be glad, because Viktor being away eliminates temptation. Yuuri will have a whole month on his own to come to his senses.

And yet, it makes him angry. That Viktor would do this with him, and then just leave. Angry enough to leave a mark on him, too, at the base of his neck, and he drinks up the bitten-off gasps Viktor makes when his lips are on his skin.

“Yuuri, I’m getting close”, he says at some point. Yuuri goes to the effort of pushing himself up a bit, bringing some distance between them so he can reach his own erection, only to find Viktor getting ahead of him. He traces his fingers up the length, almost making Yuuri flinch with how soft the touch is on his oversensitive skin, but then he wraps him up in a reassuringly firm grip that has him thrusting up, desperately seeking release. Viktor inside him follows his movements, burying himself even deeper, deeper than Yuuri thought was possible in this position, and it makes a whine rise in his throat that Viktor silences with his lips.

“It’s ok, let me”, he says between soft kisses, and Yuuri just lets himself fall. Viktor is right there, after all, catching him safely. Stroking him and thrusting into him at the same time, keeping a steady rhythm until Yuuri’s orgasm envelops him like a wave of soft warmth. He kisses him through the aftershocks and only after Yuuri has gone completely slack in his arms does he speed up his thrusts, just a little bit, chasing his pleasure until he buries himself deep inside, a drawn-out groan falling from his lips as he spills into the condom.

For a while, they just hang in each other’s arms, both breathing heavily, trying to recover. Viktor eventually eases himself out of Yuuri, making him wince slightly, but soothing him with a kiss. He leaves briefly, only to discard the condom and get some wipes to clean up his hand and Yuuri’s stomach, and then he arranges them on the couch so that Yuuri is wrapped up in his arms, head resting on his shoulder.

It's so quiet, and so comfortable, and so warm, and Yuuri feels so safe and taken care of. He wishes he could just let himself fall asleep like this. But he forces himself to keep his eyes open, to focus on the feeling of Viktor’s hands stroking his back, loosening some knots that long practice hours have left, pressing occasional kisses into his hair. Yuuri wishes he could forget everything else, everything outside this apartment. He wishes this could be real. He wishes this could last.

But eventually, he makes himself sit up, effectively breaking the hazy calm off the moment.

“I should … probably get home”, he admits quietly. He almost feels ashamed of saying it, a warm flush creeping into his face, unable to look into Viktor’s eyes, afraid of what he might find there – hurt, or indifference. He doesn’t even know which he would prefer.

He knows it’s better this way. Better not to get attached. Better not to get hurt again.

But still, it’s hard, letting go.

“… Ok”, Viktor says eventually, and Yuuri lets out a breath as he nods.

“Would you … would you mind if I took a shower?”

“No, of course not.”

Viktor lets him get up, picks up his discarded boxers and hands them to him to cover himself with, and then gets him a fluffy-soft towel and shows him the bathroom.

“Use whatever you need”, he says, before leaving him alone. Yuuri is sure he only imagines the disappointment in his eyes.

He showers quickly, efficiently, not letting his mind linger on anything for too long. Not the quality of the hair products Viktor uses. Not the bottles of nail polish on the sink. And especially not the memory of Viktor’s touch as he washes himself down.

When he steps out of the bathroom again, the apartment looks different. Viktor used the time to crack open a window to let the stuffy air out, get into sweatpants, make himself tea, and pick up their clothes that were strewn all over the floor. Yuuri finds his neatly placed over the arm of the couch, and he tells himself that, after what they just did together, getting dressed while Viktor watches, leant against the table, tea in hand and messy hair tied back up in a bun, isn’t awkward at all.

His cheeks still burn when he finally turns to face him, fully dressed once again. For a moment, his eyes drop down to Viktor’s naked chest, lingering on the dark purple love bite on the base of his neck, before Yuuri manages to drag them back up to his face. There is a faint, knowing smile on his face. Yuuri wants nothing more than to kiss it off, and he tells himself it’s because he thinks it’s annoying. Not because he desperately wants to kiss Viktor again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer? You can have some tea, too”, Viktor offers, holding out his cup as if to demonstrate. It smells nice. Yuuri would like it, probably.

“No, thanks”, he mumbles. “I really have to … I still have some … work. Deadlines, you know.”

It sounds like an excuse. Probably because it is. Yuuri doesn’t have anything to work on that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

But Viktor doesn’t question him. he only shrugs, as if to say, “suit yourself”. He walks Yuuri to the door again and holds it for him while he picks up his cello, shamelessly shirtless in full view of anyone coming up the stairs at that moment.

“Think about it”, he says and when Yuuri can only give him a helplessly confused look in response, he adds, “the concerto.”

Right. The concerto. That’s why Yuuri was here. Right.

“I will”, he says. “And you … uhm, well, have fun on your tour.”

Viktor doesn’t reply anything to that, he just inclines his head with a faint smile. Yuuri nods awkwardly, and before he can react, he finds himself pulled into a quick, hard kiss.

“Think of me, yeah? And I’ll see you in a month”, Viktor says when he lets him go. Yuuri blinks up at him dazedly, unable to speak, to think, to do anything.

“I’ll … yeah”, he eventually manages weakly. Then, he mechanically turns around to make his way down the stairs, not allowing himself to look back for fear of what would happen. Fear of what else Viktor might come up with to further muddle up the state of his already thoroughly confused mind.

The whole way home, Yuuri feels as if he is in a state of trance. That final kiss keeps replaying before his eyes, and no matter what, it won’t leave his mind, won’t leave space for anything else. It’s a miracle he even makes it home, considering it’s getting dark and he did anything but pay attention to his surroundings. He probably shouldn’t be out on his own with his cello at this time. He knows better than to do that. But it’s not like he looks like much, with his tattered jeans and threadbare t-shirt and well-worn sneakers. No one would mug him, no one would think it worth the effort.

Yuuri feels exhausted when he finally steps through his own door. His stomach is grumbling, but he doesn’t have the energy to make himself something to eat. He just puts his cello in the corner, refusing to look at it – like what happened today was its fault – and strips down to his boxers before falling right into his bed.

He tells himself that it will help. Surely, everything will make more sense after a night of good sleep.

It doesn’t work, of course.

All he gets is one blissful moment of unawareness right after waking up before the memories come rushing back in. And nothing is resolved, of course. It’s all still just as confusing and messy and muddled and strange as it was the day before. With the only difference being that now, Yuuri is one day closer to the time he will have to make a decision, without having made any progress.

And Yuuri doesn’t immediately make that his priority, either. He firmly shoves all the mess to the back of his mind without letting himself look at it too closely, and then makes himself get out of bed. He showers, washing off the scent of Viktor’s fancy products with his own, more affordable ones, and then makes himself breakfast, which he eats while going through his emails. He deletes some spam, answers something from a colleague, unsubscribes from some annoying sheet music publisher’s newsletter. The usual.

After breakfast, he sits down at his desk, and makes himself work on his articles for two hours, polishing some expressions, cutting down on some word count, adding some information here and there. It’s dull work, but it passes the time and keeps his mind busy. Mostly.

Only after the two hours are up does Yuuri let himself think about anything else.

Thinking, in this case, means taking his sheet music from his cello case and putting it on his music stand, taking out his cello and letting it rest between his knees while he stares at the cover of the Brahms double concerto. He wants to practise, but he doesn’t want to be reminded of what happened the day before. It’s a tricky situation.

In the end, he runs through some exercises and etudes, letting his fingers play, improvises some melodies full of hasty runs and trembling trills, and finally finds himself running through the middle section of the first movement of the concerto from memory. He is sure that there are some things he remembers incorrectly, but it doesn’t matter, right now. What matters is the music, naturally letting it blend into the third movement after a while, which he has practiced less, so it doesn’t come as easily to him, and he has to look at his sheet music. He tweaks a few phrases, running through them again and again to make his fingers remember, and eventually, he lets his bow hand fall to his side.

He feels empty. Like he played all his messy feelings out into the world, leaving him hollowed out, stripped bare.

When he agreed to yesterday’s rehearsal, Yuuri thought he didn’t have a lot to lose. And in a way, that was true. He had nothing. The worst that could happen, from what he could have known then, was that it didn’t work out – and he was convinced that it wouldn’t. He was convinced that they couldn’t possibly match, and that it didn’t matter. He would just return to his life, and everything would continue as normal.

Nothing could have prepared him for what really happened.

He couldn’t have expected the easy understanding he found with Viktor through the music. There was no way to foresee what happened after.

He didn’t expect to find so much he would want to keep in the short time he spent at Viktor’s place.

He didn’t expect that he would get to hold Viktor in his hands the way he did – and he didn’t expect that letting go after would be so hard.

And he didn’t expect to stumble upon a project that makes his heart beat higher, that makes him excited like nothing has in a long, long while. A project that makes it hard to remember the reasons why he ever gave all this up in the first place.

He walked into Viktor’s apartment the day before with nothing. No expectations, no plans, no destination in mind. And he walked out with his arms full, his head confused, and all sorts of wild dreams blossoming up, only to wither in seconds and make space for the next one.

Suddenly, Yuuri has a lot to lose.

Nothing that formally belongs to him – yet. But so many things that he hasn’t allowed himself to crave in the past year, closing himself up against any potential further heartbreak, suddenly deposited gift-wrapped with a bow on his doorstep.

Only that Yuuri has learned to distrust pretty things. Especially those he can’t see inside of. He has learned to expect seeing vipers instead of gifts after the decorative layers are peeled away.

He tries to remind himself of that, now. Desperately tries to call back the pain he felt the last time he tried to hold on to things that he knew would inevitably crumble to dust in the end. But for the first time in over a year, his mind refuses to listen. Refuses to remember. Refuses to answer the call of rationality and common sense.

Yuuri knows it won’t work out.

He already knows he will be disappointed in the end.

He knows that, after this is over, he will have to start over. Will have to pick all the pieces he painstakingly glued back together over the past year up again. He knows he will hate himself for that, after.

But still, he wants.

He wants this concerto, and he wants Viktor. For the moment, he can’t bring himself to care about how it will end.

He already has his phone in hand before the decision consciously registers in his mind.

Yuuri: Ok, I’ll do it.

Yuuri: The concerto.

Then, he switches the phone off, drops it in his empty cello case and buries his face in his hands.

Oh god, what has he done.