a profession of love, longing, and lostness—for they are hopelessly enamored with the other.
(a short story written two ways, and with an ending where those two parts meet)
inspired by a song that i have loved for a long time: teen top’s ah-ah. here you go. i meant to start on this later, but decided to hastily write a short thing to set off this account; better pieces are coming soon! mostly nezushi and kawoshin.
this is disgustingly cheesy
1. man’s heart is weak, it seems
maybe i miss you
i don’t know about you but i’m thinking of you
The sun coils away from where it had been embedded behind Yuuri’s eyelids, and now the moon droops low in the night sky. A vast array of stars span out across the scape.
He places his hands against the sides of his bed, watching them twitch silently. “I… wonder about you,” he says, heels tapping against the bedframe. His voice is whimsical—aimless utterances fill the spacious room too large for himself.
Sometimes, the human soul is a packaged good with warning labels (big and bright, like tens of suns) plastered atop it. FRAGILE, the things say, neatly placed round the ends, over and over again. The heart is held thinly by frail veins, Yuuri thinks absentmindedly. Worrisome feelings, clumsy, clamber over his socked feet, knobby knees, hips, waist, chest. This isn’t uncommon—no, not really; Yuuri has long become well-accustomed to the fits of anxiety that come and go. Even so, negativity courses through him, sweeping beneath him. People are lonely creatures.
In other words, he misses Viktor.
A song plays quietly from his device. Twinkling in the air, it pulses against the sides of his head, filling the gaps from where he shudders in discomfort (it is merely a sinus headache!, he reasons. Not heartache).
Yuuri has never been much of a singer. Music, he thinks, is for dancing to, because he lacks the talent to produce it. Still, a low hum resonates across the air. His feet kick rhythmically, toes pointed.
“We could dance to it for fun, I think…” he muses, “during the next time we meet.”
His phone lightly buzzes in the midst of deprecating thoughts. Viktor’s name shines against the variegated pixels; Yuri acquiesces to the immediate soothings that have come upon him.
Yuuri—my love!—are you awake, still?
He places bruised knuckles (he’s been falling against his hands on the ice, too distracted by his thoughts) against his lips. Yuuri’s face is lit in a fluster, warm smile unable to be hidden. “It’s so early there, you dummy. Why are you up so soon, Vitya…”
I shall call you in a bit.
Bringing the device to rest upon his side, Yuuri falls back against the sheets. Dark hair splays out across the bed like an inverted halo. Love, in its physical form, is consistently wondrous upon one’s face—evident and held true. His mother swells in it, thin eyes prepossessing and radiant.
In regards to Viktor, it shows in the form of wide simpers and long fingers pressing into Yuuri’s hairs, curved at the earlobe. His eyes are alight, with love. Rose flickers over the sides of deep cheekbones.
“How do you see me?” he whispers, voice feathery-soft. A hand touches the tips of his brow, then the ends of curling lashes. “How do others see me… the world…”
There was an article posted to a gossip magazine a few days back, shared with him through a link over Twitter. YUURI KATSUKI AND VIKTOR NIKIFOROV’S LOVE (AS PREPARATION FOR THEIR WEDDING IN JULY), it had said. The paper launched into a series of desperate analysis and pictures taken in secret. WE HAVE FIGURED IT OUT!, he had read.
A friend of a friend had called shortly thereafter to voice his congratulations. The friend, however, sputtered out his disdain at the idea, brash and blunt. Another friend—enemy—of that friend rang at four in the morning.
“Congratulations.”
“Huh… Otabek? Wait, why?”
“You guys are getting married?”
“What! Where did you hear that?”
“I thought Viktor and you weren’t getting married until you scored a gold medal, Yuuri! Ah, I’m happy for you, though. I remember when me and,”
“I’m—I am not getting married.”
The online world persistently claims to know what goes on between the pair. Yuuri’s lips flat-line, forming a persistent and crooked frown as he remembers its contents, heaving out a breath that billows at overgrown bangs. Somehow, his friends believe in it. “Getting married so soon… from where did they even conceive such an idea.”
feels like everything has frozen but us
let’s play just us two
His phone blares out the love song Viktor had set as the sole notification for his callings. “Vitya?”
“Yuuri! You never did respond; sorry, were you sleeping?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t. How—how’s America?” He rubs his thumbs against the indents of his pockets, dull friction causing the tips of trimmed nails to turn white. The phone is sat at his lap, speaker making his lover’s voice sound faint.
“It’s wonderful, Yuuri! Let’s plan a getaway to Los Angeles as quick as we can. I have to get to the rink soon, but I wanted to say hello. I miss you terribly.”
People inherently crave bonds. They (him included, really) are selfish and alone and helpless. Even so, he welcomes the solace that the man brings to him: an expansion of soft warmth that fills the entirety of his anatomy. “I miss you too. Oh,” he says, feeling his mouth twitch. “I have something important to tell you…”
“Hm?” Viktor says, a breath-like sound. “What is it?”
“Well, I love you.”
The silence that reverberates across the line is vehement. “I love you so much, Yuuri. More than there exists the stars and moons and solar systems and,”
Yuuri’s laughter spills out from his lungs. “Unbelievable—you are unbelievable, Viktor Nikiforov. I wanted to win this time, but you have a hopeless lack of shame and too many surprises. Always.”
He rises from the bed once his spine stiffens from various tumbling sounds of laughter. This simplistic happiness had begun to wilt alongside his ever-growing loneliness, but for the moment it swells over him.
the night sky that i see everyday looks nice today
it greets us but where are you?
hurry up, hurry up
On the other side, Autumn leaves rustle beneath Viktor’s feet.
“Vitya, is the moon out, still?”
2. sleep comes not, for it is you you you
VIKTOR: Yuri—my love!—are you awake?
VIKTOR: I shall call you in a bit.
At times like this, Viktor downs so much coffee he can feel it from within.
q