Ship: victuuri Fandom: yoi Major Tags: none Other Tags: none Original Work:link by foxrocksthesesocksss Word Count: 935
***
japan, after london, is bright.
hasetsu is a small town compared to the megalopolises victor's played: vienna, that grand dame of europe with its vaulted, stately concert halls; st. petersburg, where victor remains the favored son; paris, where he'd met a beautiful man with beautiful hands playing a lonely piano. katsuki yuuri had left him a brief, tentative message with an address, the last from a series of voicemails and texts sent to each other at strange hours, between time zones.
victor's heard yuuri's voice recite the address so often he feels like he knows it by heart. he's never been, but it must be a lovely place; any place that yuuri calls home must be, victor thinks, to produce such a person. it's small, and quaint, and bustles with life in a way that's different from any other place victor's seen. he draws some stares, but victor's used to that by now; he is, after all, an internationally-renowned concert pianist lately credited for revitalizing the the art.
he checks into the inn with minimal fuss. "i'm here to see katsuki yuuri," victor says, smiling who he presumes is the innkeeper, and therefore yuuri's mother. she looks like him, with a kind, sweet face. "i'm victor nikiforov."
victor is delighted to find out that, when properly surprised, she resembles yuuri too: the round cheeks and round mouth falling open, visibly radiating what victor can see in her expressive eyes. "wait until yuuri comes home," she breathes, grinning. "and sees you."
victor can feel the flush from the baths lingering warm under his skin. the hot water and the steam had been gifts, tension he hadn't known was there slowly unwound and melted down. victor wanders the inn, fascinated by the place, hair damp against his neck and limbs sluggish from the blessed heat.
he spots something familiar down near the inn's front doors, the closest thing they have to a foyer. there's a small, glossy baby grand at odds with the traditional furnishings of the building; it stands out to him because he, like the piano, is an outsider brought into the place.
victor stretches out his hands and carefully lifts up the lid. it's well-maintained, and the bench is a bit dusty, but victor, for once, would like to play something entirely of his own free will. he sits down, tucking his bathrobe under himself while his spine straightens, wrists lifted, as second nature. he plays as his mind wanders, playing ravel with nimble, swift fingers. the waltz only appears soft; it, like katsuki yuuri himself, is one of technical mastery--only an artist can bring out its true colors. the waltz is a singularly composed thing, gentle in its contours but rigid in its form. he changes things as he goes along, switches from ravel to scriabin, daydreams about how yuuri's hands must fly over this same piano. perhaps yuuri did not favor the russians, as victor did, his concert repertoire leaning more toward the romantic and french, but the tempestuous conflict between composition and passion, art form and artist, is a familiar one, shared by them both.
it is only moments on this thought, the idea echoed by his hands, before victor decidedly turns back to debussy, to yuuri and his musical hands. victor plays "re: a person i knew" as a wistful tune, thinks about how curious he's been to see yuuri and the place that he calls home. it would have been nice to dance to, this song, even if it was only between their fingers in the middle of the night, at charles de gaulle airport between flights, when yuuri had managed to make even that sterile place a little more intimate.
bill evans is an energetic romantic, but jazz compositions for pianos never last as long as victor would like. still, he's pleasantly surprised by the sound of someone clapping softly when the final notes evaporate in the air.
if yuuri in paris, tired and stressed from travel and the stale air of airports, was handsome, yuuri in hasetsu, at home, is a dream come true. victor's heart skitter-pat beats and he forgets that he's ever heard applause before; he hasn't, not like this. from one musician to another, the appreciation of craft is always resonant; from one lover to another, a lover of music and (potentially, very soon, victor hopes) a lover of the musician's soul, it ignites victor afire from his toes and to the roots of his hair.
victor smiles at yuuri and can't help but have it be a wide, open-mouthed grin. this must be what it feels like to fly, on the wings of a virtuoso's fingertips playing the sweetest music composed on earth. "yuuri!" victor says, and pats the space beside him on the bench.
yuuri looks hesitant, but still sits down on the bench. he holds himself up straighter for it. victor has never been so endeared to someone in his life. "victor," yuuri breathes, as if victor wasn't the one enthralled by yuuri's presence.
"it's so good to see you!" victor laughs, and hopes that yuuri, once again, might play him a bit of something from his soul: something from the repertoire, or something jazzy, or anything at all that might sound like a love song.
when yuuri plays, touching the keys with hesitant hands before finding his stride, he leaves gaps in the freeform for victor.
it does, in a way, sound very much like no love song victor's ever heard before. possibly, he thinks, and he can't help but delight in this: it's a song made entirely for him.
FILL: TEAM PRINCE OF TENNIS, G
Fandom: yoi
Major Tags: none
Other Tags: none
Original Work: link by
Word Count: 935
***
japan, after london, is bright.
hasetsu is a small town compared to the megalopolises victor's played: vienna, that grand dame of europe with its vaulted, stately concert halls; st. petersburg, where victor remains the favored son; paris, where he'd met a beautiful man with beautiful hands playing a lonely piano. katsuki yuuri had left him a brief, tentative message with an address, the last from a series of voicemails and texts sent to each other at strange hours, between time zones.
victor's heard yuuri's voice recite the address so often he feels like he knows it by heart. he's never been, but it must be a lovely place; any place that yuuri calls home must be, victor thinks, to produce such a person. it's small, and quaint, and bustles with life in a way that's different from any other place victor's seen. he draws some stares, but victor's used to that by now; he is, after all, an internationally-renowned concert pianist lately credited for revitalizing the the art.
he checks into the inn with minimal fuss. "i'm here to see katsuki yuuri," victor says, smiling who he presumes is the innkeeper, and therefore yuuri's mother. she looks like him, with a kind, sweet face. "i'm victor nikiforov."
victor is delighted to find out that, when properly surprised, she resembles yuuri too: the round cheeks and round mouth falling open, visibly radiating what victor can see in her expressive eyes. "wait until yuuri comes home," she breathes, grinning. "and sees you."
victor can feel the flush from the baths lingering warm under his skin. the hot water and the steam had been gifts, tension he hadn't known was there slowly unwound and melted down. victor wanders the inn, fascinated by the place, hair damp against his neck and limbs sluggish from the blessed heat.
he spots something familiar down near the inn's front doors, the closest thing they have to a foyer. there's a small, glossy baby grand at odds with the traditional furnishings of the building; it stands out to him because he, like the piano, is an outsider brought into the place.
victor stretches out his hands and carefully lifts up the lid. it's well-maintained, and the bench is a bit dusty, but victor, for once, would like to play something entirely of his own free will. he sits down, tucking his bathrobe under himself while his spine straightens, wrists lifted, as second nature.
he plays as his mind wanders, playing ravel with nimble, swift fingers. the waltz only appears soft; it, like katsuki yuuri himself, is one of technical mastery--only an artist can bring out its true colors. the waltz is a singularly composed thing, gentle in its contours but rigid in its form. he changes things as he goes along, switches from ravel to scriabin, daydreams about how yuuri's hands must fly over this same piano. perhaps yuuri did not favor the russians, as victor did, his concert repertoire leaning more toward the romantic and french, but the tempestuous conflict between composition and passion, art form and artist, is a familiar one, shared by them both.
it is only moments on this thought, the idea echoed by his hands, before victor decidedly turns back to debussy, to yuuri and his musical hands. victor plays "re: a person i knew" as a wistful tune, thinks about how curious he's been to see yuuri and the place that he calls home. it would have been nice to dance to, this song, even if it was only between their fingers in the middle of the night, at charles de gaulle airport between flights, when yuuri had managed to make even that sterile place a little more intimate.
bill evans is an energetic romantic, but jazz compositions for pianos never last as long as victor would like. still, he's pleasantly surprised by the sound of someone clapping softly when the final notes evaporate in the air.
if yuuri in paris, tired and stressed from travel and the stale air of airports, was handsome, yuuri in hasetsu, at home, is a dream come true. victor's heart skitter-pat beats and he forgets that he's ever heard applause before; he hasn't, not like this. from one musician to another, the appreciation of craft is always resonant; from one lover to another, a lover of music and (potentially, very soon, victor hopes) a lover of the musician's soul, it ignites victor afire from his toes and to the roots of his hair.
victor smiles at yuuri and can't help but have it be a wide, open-mouthed grin. this must be what it feels like to fly, on the wings of a virtuoso's fingertips playing the sweetest music composed on earth. "yuuri!" victor says, and pats the space beside him on the bench.
yuuri looks hesitant, but still sits down on the bench. he holds himself up straighter for it. victor has never been so endeared to someone in his life. "victor," yuuri breathes, as if victor wasn't the one enthralled by yuuri's presence.
"it's so good to see you!" victor laughs, and hopes that yuuri, once again, might play him a bit of something from his soul: something from the repertoire, or something jazzy, or anything at all that might sound like a love song.
when yuuri plays, touching the keys with hesitant hands before finding his stride, he leaves gaps in the freeform for victor.
it does, in a way, sound very much like no love song victor's ever heard before. possibly, he thinks, and he can't help but delight in this: it's a song made entirely for him.