Chapter Text
In another world, their story might have started with ‘Hi there’, or ‘Lovely sky tonight’, or ‘Hello, stranger’. Or perhaps something less cliché, something like: ‘A commemorative photo? Sure thing!’
But in this one, it starts with an electric blue cocktail, the taste of smoke in the air. And: “You have really talented, um. Fingers.”
He isn’t sure which of them is more shocked, really. The pianist gapes at him for a good, long moment, jaw slack and his blue eyes impossibly wide. At the very least, the rest of the band seems to be enjoying their little intermission -- the singer-slash-trumpet-player freezes mid-puff of his cigarette, while the young drummer with olive skin stares at his snare with his lip twitching, trying not to smile. The pretty redhead next to him doesn’t even try, clinging onto her upright bass for support as she collapses into laughter.
“Thank... you,” comes the confused reply, followed by a soft chuckle. “Is this your first time at Butcher’s Keys? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
Yuuri feels himself blushing to the roots of his hair. Right. What he wanted to say, of course, was that he enjoyed their music, the piano especially, and wished to convey that. Maybe he can go back even further, say something about how he isn’t really into jazz, and he isn’t really into bars, and so therefore he’s doubly not really into jazz bars -- but Phichit insisted, and for some reason it had to be ‘today today today’ . Yuuri was still jet-lagged from his flight and he didn’t think he’d enjoy himself tonight at all, but their music had surprised him. And he had surprised him, the Piano Man with his dancing fingers and beautiful music, and Yuuri wants to thank him. For that. For the music.
He thinks he got all of that out loud, somehow.
And it must have made at least half as much sense to the pianist as it had to him, because the man smiles easily, and turns on the bench to face him. “I’m honored. I’m thrilled to hear that our music has brought you such pleasure.” The pianist leans in closer, and his voice drops low. “We’ve still got a few minutes left before the next set. Shall I play you something at your request? Something that might excite you?”
The first coherent thought that forms in Yuuri’s head, past the internal screaming and minor panic at how hot his face feels, is: is he making fun of me?
Trick question, they’re probably all making fun of him. The bassist obviously is, she’s practically doubled over and in tears. God damn it. He blames Phichit for this, and for taking forever in the bathroom. He blames the 14-hour time difference between Hasetsu and Detroit. He blames Minako-sensei’s voice for somehow being an ever-present entity in his head, popping up at the most inopportune times to say things, like tonight’s ‘You should put yourself out there more!’
He blames the pianist’s eyes, how very blue they are, the way they pop against his pale skin and hair… and wow, now that he’s looking at them up close, they’re even bluer than the drink he’s had, Curaçao and something else, and he swears he counted five liquors in there. Phichit’s recommendation, naturally.
“Yuuri!”
Saved by the bell. “U-umm… m-maybe, maybe some other time?” Yuuri focuses on the rims of his glasses so that he won’t be distracted by the pianist’s eyes. Not that it matters for much longer, because he’s already stepping back, towards Phichit’s voice. Coward. “Good night!”
He whirls around, away from the stage. He squeezes himself through the tiny spaces between the tables, finds Phichit by the wrist, and pulls him out of the bar.
Phichit protests, of course. So Yuuri tells him, through clenched jaw and a haze of renewed embarrassment, why they can never set foot in that bar again.
On one hand, Phichit eventually stops protesting.
On the other hand, he pretty much laughs all the way to the dorms.
‘My name is Katsuki Yuuri. I’m a dime-a-dozen figure skater certified by the Japan Skating Federation. Last year, I managed to make it all the way to the Grand Prix Finals in Sochi, but the family dog died and I ended up stress-eating the night before the competition, flubbed all my jumps, and wound up in dead-last place. Then I screwed up the rest of the competitive season so badly that everyone thought I was injured, but the embarrassing thing is that I wasn’t, it was all in my head.
What else? Oh, I’m 23 years old. I guess that’s important.’
“ -- uuri? Yuuri?”
“Huh?” He snaps his head up, startled out of the imaginary introduction he’s been crafting to go with the imaginary apology that he wants to give to the unfortunately-not-imaginary pianist from two nights ago. “Sorry Phichit, I didn’t catch that, what?”
“I said heads up, I’m gonna try my quad toe again!”
Yuuri glides out of his way, heading for the boards. He doesn’t have to, it’s not like there’s anyone but the two of them on the ice this late in the day. But he figures now is as good a time to take a break as any.
‘I’m getting old, for a figure skater,’ his inner thoughts continue, unhelpfully. He’s starting to wonder if this imaginary one-sided conversation has a point to it, or if it’s just another instance of his ‘mental self-flagellation’ again -- Minako-sensei’s words, not his. ‘I actually thought about retiring this season. I finished up the last of my college credits and even spent a couple of months back home to clear my head. Eventually, I came to the decision -- or my ballet teacher convinced me through a lot of yelling, it was one or the other -- that I should do one more season. Sort of a ‘farewell year’, if that makes any sense. It’s not like I was doing anything back home anyway. And in the end, I think I got bored of being depressed. So… yeah.’
“Yuuri.” Celestino hands him a water bottle. “Have you started giving some thought to your programs for this coming season?”
Yuuri swallows down several gulps of water before responding. “Um, not really, no.”
“I know it’s still early. But I was wondering if you wanted to choose your own music this time?”
Celestino has been asking this every year. Yuuri only brought him a piece once, a soft piano piece that a friend of Phichit’s had composed for him. There wasn’t really any deep or meaningful connection to it at the time; he just liked the melody a lot, and the piano’s simplicity calmed him.
But Celestino didn’t like it, so that was the end of that. Ever since then, Yuuri’s always had his coach pick his music for him, believing this was what was best for both of them.
Now, though, he’s not so sure. Something -- and he’s not sure what it is, but it could be the fact that this is his last year, or Minako-sensei’s words again, or maybe a memory of a night out that he refuses to dwell on -- something gives him pause, and before he knows it he’s saying, “I’ll think about it.”
He can’t read the smile Celestino gives him. He watches Phichit launch himself into the air, counts -- one, two, three, four. But he forgets to check the rotation when he lands, and ends up stumbling to skate in a line.
“Your landings are getting better,” Yuuri tells him, and he means it. “Just a bit more practice.”
“I guess so. I’ll get it done this year, for sure.”
“I think you’ll have it by the Grand Prix.”
“Really?”
It’s hard not to smile when Phichit’s eyes light up. “Really.” He means that, too. The younger skater didn’t seriously start thinking about quads until late last season, and Yuuri knows that all he wants is to land it in competition this year.
Actually, he recalls now, that’s not true. There’s something else that Phichit wants even more, a piece from The King and the Skater that he absolutely wants to use for his Short Program. Yuuri wonders if he’ll try that this year, and what Celestino might say. Then again, the significance of a Thai skater choosing Shall We Skate? won’t be lost on anyone, so Celestino will probably say yes.
The way Phichit laid out his plans, sitting on his bed in their dorm room with his hamsters crawling all over him while he played the music on his phone -- it seemed so easy. ‘This is it. This is the music that I want. Okay.’
Okay.
“Hey, I didn’t realize how late it’s gotten,” Phichit wipes the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he pauses to glance over at Yuuri, who’s still standing idly at the side of the rink. “I’m heading back home, you coming?”
Yuuri chews on his bottom lip. He stares at his skate guards.
“You go on ahead. I’ll follow in a bit.”
Yuuri does not follow in a bit.
In fact, he doesn’t follow at all. His footsteps take him past the main intersection that branches off to ‘home’ and guide him a half-dozen blocks away, down a small side street, until he’s standing in front of a buzzing red sign for Butcher’s Keys . It’s past 10 pm at this point, and he doesn’t need to go inside to know that the live music has already started; he can hear it from out on the street, flowing over him like a warm, jittery embrace.
He stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, and glances at the chalkboard at the front of the bar.
Tonight’s musical guests:
Georgi P and the Sticky Splinters
Trumpet - Georgi P
Drums - Mad Leo Iggleton
Bass - Babs Milady
Piano - Vice
Yuuri can’t remember if this is the same lineup as the last time he was here. He has half a mind not to find out, but something about having doubled what should have been a short walk home only to leave empty-handed irritates him. One drink, he tells himself. One drink and a formal apology to the pianist -- and maybe, just maybe, if he hasn’t chickened out yet: a request to pick at the band’s brains for a musical recommendation?. Then, he’ll leave.
The place is packed tonight, but he manages to snag a spot at the bar. “Evening!” the bartender greets him. “What would you like?”
“Um…” Yuuri squints, trying to remember what a good go-to drink would be. He’s definitely not going to order whatever Phichit got for him last time. Nothing else seems to come to mind though. “Ah, do you have a recommendation?”
“Well, our French 75’s are half-off tonight,” she offers. “Some people say it has the kick of a French 75mm field gun, which to me is a good thing!”
Yuuri’s not sure he agrees, but it’s not like he plans on having more than one of those anyway. “Okay, thanks.”
There’s not much light here. Just like last time, it looks like they’ve focused the lighting on the stage, and dimmed it everywhere else. Which means that he can clearly see now that the band is the same as last time’s, as they start a new song. Georgi P must be the tall, dark-haired man blowing on the trumpet as though he were making love to it, all smooth, sweet notes that cut through the air and the smoke with something earnest. It looks like the drums and bass are laying low for this number, but Yuuri can see the drummer nodding along in time with his soft beats, eyes closed with a smile on his face, while the bassist gazes fondly at…
Wait. Why is she looking at -- ?
“They’re writing songs of love, but not for me…”
Oh.
“A lucky star’s above, but not for me…”
Maybe he couldn’t tell at first, because he’s sitting in a spot where he’s facing the back of the piano, and he’s too distracted by the shock of platinum hair that swishes as the pianist moves. But. Oh.
Georgi is the one headlining the band, that much is clear. But for whatever reason, he’s not the one singing tonight.
“With love to lead the way
I’ve found more clouds of gray
Than any Russian play can guarantee…”
“Here’s your drink, sir. Would you like to open a tab?”
“Ah, yeah… thanks.” Yuuri takes a sip -- holy wow, okay, she was not kidding, it’s basically champagne with a kick, but what a kick it is. At the very least, it jostles him out of his trance long enough to realize a few things. Namely, that the pianist’s voice is like honey, saccharine and rich with just a hint of his accent slipping in here and there.
It makes a bit of sense that he chose the nickname ‘Vice’, because you could listen to that voice all night, every night.
And maybe Yuuri is going to have to re-calibrate: one drink might not be enough to talk to him, when he sings like that.
“I was a fool to fall and get that way
Heigh-ho, alas, and also lack-a-day…”
Yuuri chugs back his drink and barely tastes the kick anymore. He just feels warm, now, and orders another before he can think about it.
“Although I can’t dismiss the memory of her kiss…”
The pianist’s eyes are still so very blue. Yuuri realizes, a few seconds later than he should, that he noticed this because the man called Vice had glanced up, and met his eyes.
Oh.
“I guess she’s not for me…”
The notes from Georgi’s trumpet in his solo that follows run high, divine. Yet all Yuuri can pay attention to are the chords the pianist plays along, imagining them like playful little punctuation marks. He doesn’t even notice when the trumpet drops off again, and Vice picks up the rest of the solo. He hits the keys harder this time, and from the way the notes climb and fall and climb again, he can imagine long fingers dancing across the keys, teasing them, making them sing.
Another French 75 comes and goes. Around this time, someone buys Vice a drink -- something clear, with a slice of lime. Babs Milady ad libs something on her guitar when he stops playing, and Yuuri watches him raise the glass in gratitude, gracing the audience with a wink and a heart-shaped smile.
Yuuri drinks at the same time. Or rather, the pianist chugs and slams it back in one go, sighing with something that sounds like ‘vkusno!’ Yuuri almost chokes on his drink as it burns.
He gets another, and he’s not sure why.
Vice attacks the keys with a renewed vigor after that. His hands come down like he might be trying to break the piano, but the calm smile on his face softens it. By the time the instrumental is over, and he begins to sing again, Yuuri’s not too sure how many French-whatever’s he’s had.
He’s… actually not even sure this is still the same song anymore, at this point. But he vaguely remembers not having eaten dinner, and something about a rule Phichit made up about always alternating cocktails with water. It’s far too late to remedy either of those, but he doesn’t regret this as much as he feels he should.
His head is fuzzy, but he feels light. It’s warm here. Either he imagines it, or Vice actually looks at him when he stands, wobbles, and somehow remains standing.
‘You should put yourself out there more!’ No regrets, says the champagne. Yuuri tugs on his collar, and walks towards the stage.
The next thing he knows, he’s jerking awake with a gasp perched on the edge of his throat. Getting to full alertness is usually a slow and tedious process for him, but the deluge of realizations -- this is not his ceiling fan, those are not his curtains, and these are definitely not his sheets -- short-circuits that part of his brain that’s still fighting off the fog.
He remembers drinking last night. He also remembers Mari’s horror stories about their father during the staff New Year’s party in 2012. Yuuri groans, and covers his face with his hands. His head is killing him, and aside from the drinking, he can recall absolutely nothing useful from last night. But none of that matters more than the fact that these aren’t his sheets.
Stupid, how could he have been so stupid?
The next breath catches in his throat; the one after breaks through, but only after a struggle. He feels a familiar burning in the back of his eyes. His heartbeat starts to quicken.
Not good. He has to get out of here.
He throws off the blanket that was draped over him. He’s still wearing his clothes -- all of them, he finds, which chips at the edge of the panic, just a little bit. Squinting at his surroundings takes entirely too much effort than it should, and the too-bright sunlight leaking in from the window doesn’t help, but he eventually spots his glasses sitting on top of an old night table. He practically stumbles into his shoes on his way to get to them. His bag is waiting for him on the floor by the door.
Emboldened by the fact that, aside from his unfamiliar surroundings, everything else seems to be… okay?… Yuuri takes a deep breath, slings his bag over his shoulder, and yanks open the door.
He immediately registers the pleasant aroma of coffee. Sure enough, there’s a pot brewing in the kitchen, or at least the section of the far wall lined in old mismatched appliances and a tiny counter. Aside from the bedroom, it looks like the rest of this place is just one big room, with a couch in the middle serving as some kind of divider. A small TV sitting on a barstool is playing old cartoons, but it’s on mute.
Which makes sense, because when Yuuri spots the figure seated on the couch, facing away from him, he catches a glimpse of him staring at a phone, and the fact that he’s got headphones on. He spends what must be entirely too much time staring at the back of this person’s head, at the silvery hair which confirms that this is, in fact, the pianist from last night.
The upright piano near the window is kind of a big hint, too, but the hair is what seals it for him.
Now that he’s established that, he’s… not entirely sure what to do. He considers saying something, but that involves figuring out what exactly to say and despite his best efforts Yuuri can think of nothing. Nothing. What should he even expect? Did he make a fool of himself at the bar? It doesn’t look like anything happened last night, but if the pianist had to take him here then he clearly wasn’t in any condition to get home himself. But then why didn’t he call a cab instead? Why -- ?
This is stupid. There are at least a dozen questions Yuuri can think of right now that all start with ‘why’. To be a burden on a complete stranger, to seem weak, was the last thing he ever wanted when he stepped into that bar last night, but he can’t do anything about that now. Might as well make a quiet exit, let the man forget Yuuri ever existed, and figure the rest of it out later.
He can see two other doors from here, one half-opened and leading into what looks like a bathroom. The other one, near a whimsical chair that’s also somehow a coat rack, must be the way out. Yuuri keeps his eyes on the back of the man’s head as he slowly makes his way to that door, trying to be as quiet as possible.
‘Trying’ being the operative word when, on his fourth step, his foot sinks over something soft and a loud yelp fills the air.
Once he’s had time to process all of this embarrassment, package it, and throw it far behind him, he’ll remember this encounter and realize how cute the pianist's dog is. “Ah, s-sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean -- !”
“Makkachin?” The pianist yanks his headphones out and whirls around. When he sees Yuuri, his wide eyes soften, and his face relaxes into a smile. “Morning. How are you feeling?”
Makkachin darts away, making a beeline for the bedroom. Yuuri swallows, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. He forgets he’s not in Japan, and bows low. “Thank you for… for taking care of me? I-I’m very sorry if I’ve caused you any trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all.” The pianist shuts his laptop and begins walking over. “Do you want anything? Coffee? Anything?” After a muted shake of Yuuri’s head, the man chuckles softly. It’s such a pleasant sound that Yuuri almost swears it quells the raging headache he’s got, if only for a moment. “Are you sure? Last night -- ”
No, no, no. He doesn’t want to hear about it. “I have to go! S-sorry!”
He’s a lot closer to the exit than the pianist is to him. So after a mad dash to the door, nearly stumbling over his feet, Yuuri finds himself outside -- literally, outside, blinking back spots in his vision after his eyes are flooded with sunlight. A single set of stairs leads down to what looks like a commercial parking lot. His hand skims over the metal railing, and he gets small chips of paint stuck to his palm when he lets go.
He has no idea where he is.
If nothing else, the pianist doesn’t follow him out. He’ll decide if he wants to count this as a good thing later.
It’s a three-minute walk to a bus stop -- or it should have been, if Yuuri didn’t take a winding route to find it, then waste a few more minutes waiting on the wrong side of the road. He recognizes the bus that eventually pulls up, and breathes out a sigh of relief when he pats his jacket pockets: keys, bus pass, phone, everything’s still there. He boards, grateful that he caught this one because apparently, this bus runs every hour.
He tries to check his phone, but it’s dead, because of course it is.
He’s lived in this city long enough to have a vague idea of how this trip is supposed to go: get off at Phoenix Center, wait another 20-odd minutes, then catch another bus that’s coming back around, because this city wasn’t built in a neat, sensible grid at all. But his head is throbbing and the sunlight is only getting brighter with each passing minute, so he gets off a few stops ahead and takes a cab the rest of the way.
Yuuri closes his eyes and leans his head against the glass. Nothing happened, he tells himself. He took you to his apartment and let you sleep in his bed, but nothing happened. The words sound fake, even in his head, and he imagines they would taste fake if ever said them out loud.
They’re true, though, and that’s what’s odd.
Maybe it fits him, though, in retrospect. After all the horror stories of kidnappers lurking at bars from those crime dramas Mari would binge-watch back home, and all the times Phichit would sneak into their dorm room at stupid hours in the morning with his belt missing and a huge grin on his face, maybe it’s only right that Yuuri’s version turned out anticlimactic, and entirely uninteresting.
Or maybe he spoke too soon. Because two days later, Yuuri is standing in front of the washer, checking the pockets of each of his clothes before tossing them in. And from the left back pocket, one he never uses, of the jeans he wore the night he went to the bar, he finds a single slip of paper.
The light in their dorm's laundry room is awful, and he almost has to squint despite the fact that he’s wearing his glasses. It’s a receipt of some sort, from a drugstore chain -- two different types of painkillers, eyedrops, concealer, and some kind of cough syrup. What? Paid in cash. What?
He racks his brains, trying to remember the last time he bought any of these items, much less all of them together. Did he make a mistake, were these Phichit’s pants?
It makes a lot more sense when he turns the paper over. This time, he definitely has to squint, to make out the tiny, angular handwriting there.
If you’re reading this now, it means you left without saying goodbye, which Georgi warned me might happen. Let me just say I’m glad you didn’t die of alcohol poisoning from the dozen champagne and gin cocktails you put away. I’d be curious to know your secret sometime, after all, I may or may not have a
stereotypereputation to defend.Speaking of things we may or may not have done: you may or may not have requested something from me last night. But it was not something I could deliver in one night, nor commit to in your state. If you remember what it is, and you decide that you no longer want it when you’re sober, then I thank you for the evening and hope you have a good life. Otherwise... I’m at your disposal.
- Victor
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