Chapter Text
When Victor received his first brochures for Nepela Academy and began to daydream about attending, this tableau is exactly what he had pictured. He’s lying on his back in the wide front lawn, cool green grass brushing his bare arms where he’s rolled up his sleeves. His head is pillowed on Mila’s lap and her fingers are busy plaiting clover blossoms into his long silver hair.
It would be idyllic if not for the sound of Chris and Yuri’s inane bickering overriding the birdsong.
“You misunderstand,” Christophe says, accent rendering his words round and haughty. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m telling you that you are an infant without any sense of logic.”
Victor doesn’t need to see Yuri’s face to know the underclassman rage. If Yuri is silent, it’s because he's boiling.
“You two are killing my mood here,” Victor says. “I was drowsing. I was almost asleep. What the hell are you even going on about?”
“The First World War,” Chris answers.
“The Russian Revolution,” says Yuri.
Well, there’s half the problem right there. In the ensuing silence, the other thing interrupting Victor’s rest creeps back to the forefront of his thoughts. He, too, has a history exam tomorrow, which he should be studying for rather than napping. Out to kill two birds with one stone, he props himself up on an elbow and searches the nearby grass for his book bag.
Everyone’s things are piled together beside Georgi under the tree, satchels overlapping, textbooks and papers spilling out to intermingle in the grass. Georgi has his own dark leather bag propped up against his side and is deeply engrossed in a paperback with a lurid, pastel cover. Victor eyes the rest of the bags—Yuri’s leopard print stacked on top of Mila’s transparent plastic, and Chris’ red vinyl on the bottom.
Victor’s stomach clenches. His bag isn’t there.
He sits up, and Mila makes a frustrated, throaty sound as he pulls away and breaks her concentration on the braids. “Have you guys seen my book bag?”
Everyone stops to glance around, but it only confirms what Victor already noticed—his things are nowhere to be found.
“Did someone steal it?” Georgi asks, combing through the grass beside him with his fingers.
“We go to a fancy-ass boarding school,” Yuri snaps at him. “Who the hell do you think would steal Victor’s stupid backpack?”
Victor tries to trace his steps. They’d walked straight out to the lawn from ballet practice, all together. Spring is only just gaining ground here after a cold and wet winter, and he’d been eager to get out of the stuffy old red brick buildings of the academy and enjoy some sunlight and blue sky for once. He can’t recall setting his bag down with the others…
Some of the tension drops from Victor’s shoulders. “I think I left it in the dance studio,” he says. “It’s probably still in my cubby.”
As he climbs to his feet, Christophe snaps his own history book closed on his lap. “Do you want help looking?”
“No, it’s fine,” Victor says. He grabs his blazer from Mila’s lap and tosses it over his shoulder, just in case one of the teachers spots him and tries to nag him for being out of uniform—not that it really matters, considering the things Victor has done to his uniform. “I’ll go in and grab it. It should only take a moment.”
He strides off, cutting straight through the lawn rather than using the pebbled pathways. After hours, there’s no one around to tell him not to.
Victor heaves open the double doors of the main building and slows his pace as he goes inside for fear that the clack of his soles on the floors will draw attention. The halls still echo with his steps, but he doesn’t mind having an excuse to take his time. It gives him a chance to admire the school without crowds of sweaty, desperate teenagers all around him.
He’s always loved the collision of new and old visible in the halls of Nepela Academy—the polished oak floors with their years of scuff marks, the shining steel lockers installed in an era when fewer students opt to live on campus, and even the bright blue shade of the women’s restroom signs that betray the academy’s long history as an all-boys school. The last thought makes Victor’s nose wrinkle. He can’t imagine attending a school with only boys. It would probably smell even worse, less mildew and more locker room.
Slowing even further, Victor moves to hug the wall as he approaches the dance studio. He needs his bag, but he’d rather not run into Madam Baranovskaya by accident if he can help it. She’s none too fond of Victor’s tendency toward forgetfulness, and her tongue is sharp and precise as a surgeon’s needle when she disapproves. Victor’s mama always says it’s because Lilia has such high standards for her students, but some days Victor could do without her comments.
He slides along the door until he’s close enough to turn his head and peek into the room through the slitted window. Catching sight of movement, Victor stops, transfixed.
There’s no sign of Lilia, but the studio is far from empty. In front of the mirrored wall is a dancer, a boy with black hair clad in dark leggings and a loose tank top. His back is to the door, and he shows no sign of noticing Victor, engrossed as he is in his dance.
Although the dancer began en pointe, this is not ballet. The boy’s movement is jerky at times, then sinuous. He curves and bends as if his bones were made of clay, or water. Though the ballet studio is sound-proofed, Victor can feel a beat thrumming against his fingers where he presses to the door, a steady deep bass that vibrates through his bloodstream.
It’s not as if Victor’s never seen contemporary dance before—regardless of what some of the other students have said, his family does own a TV—it’s only that he’s never seen it in here—this room, this school.
Lilia must have said it a hundred times this semester alone: Dance is the most human of arts, and ballet is its pinnacle. It’s no secret what she thinks of other styles and forms. So, where did this student come from, using Lilia’s studio outside of lesson hours?
With his back flush against the door, Victor can feel the moment it ceases to vibrate with the music, even before the dancer sags, falling forward to rest his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Slowly, Victor turns the handle and opens the door a sliver. When he hears no music, he pushes it open and steps inside.
The dancer doesn’t seem to notice Victor’s reflection in the mirror, staring down while he catches his breath. At the sound of Victor’s voice, he jumps.
“That was incredible,” Victor says, a wide grin stretching his face. “Wow! Where did you learn all that?”
The other boy spins around to face him, and now Victor can see his dark brown eyes, half-hidden beneath black hair that clumps and sticks to his forehead in sweaty streaks. He gapes at Victor, who clasps his hands behind his back, rocking on his toes as he waits for an answer.
“Nikiforov.” Another voice, snapping from over his shoulder. Victor turns to find a teacher waiting, scowling out at him from the doorway of the studio’s little office space. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Do I send students over to interrupt your practices?”
Victor recognizes the young teacher, with her long hair and her dancer’s grace, but he’s never had her in class. It takes him a moment to place her name, and her countenance only grows more stormy as she waits for him to respond.
“No, Ms. Okukawa,” Victor says once he can get his tongue to cooperate, straightening his posture out of habit.
“Do you think Madam Baranovskaya would be pleased to know her prince is interfering with another student’s progress?”
“No, Ms. Okukawa,” he repeats dutifully, then rushes to add. “I didn’t mean to interrupt! I was coming to get my book bag.” Victor nods to the cubbies against the wall, where his gold bag is impossible to miss tucked in among the miscellaneous shoes and clothes piled on the other shelves.
The teacher’s disapproving look doesn’t disappear entirely, but the downward twist of her mouth recedes. “Oh, very well then,” she concedes. “But be quick with it.”
Victor leaps across the room and retrieves his things, hugging his bag against his chest. He turns his head slightly, checking the reflection over his shoulder. He wonders if he could linger long enough to get another look at the dancer, but Ms. Okukawa’s eyes are still narrowed, following him as he steps lightly to the door. She doesn’t turn away from watching until Victor actually pushes the door open.
As he moves into the hallway, Victor can hear her clap her hands together behind him. “Okay, Yuuri,” she calls out, sounding much more cheerful than she was for him. “That was good. Let’s start again, from the line—”
The door clicks shut, soundproofing cutting off the rest of her words. Victor leans back against the wood panel until he feels the beat of the song start to vibrate up his spine again.
So. Yuuri.