A/N: Hello, ! I'm porting over a few of my fics back to the place where my fanfiction career began many moons ago. I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know if you do! I'm on Tumblr at .com as well, so please feel free to come say hello. :-)
The first time Yuuri sees him, he's Link Larkin in Hairspray, put on by the university's prestigious musical theater program. It's the first act; Corny Collins and the Nicest Kids in Town introduce themselves one by one, and then he struts up to the old-fashioned microphone: perfectly coiffed brown hair, smartly dressed in a tailored suit, and absolutely gorgeous. He sings in a beautiful tenor, lips almost caressing each word, and he looks perfectly at home on the stage as he sings his heart out and seduces every single member of the audience. When Link and Tracy kiss for the first time, Yuuri has to cover his mouth to stop himself from gasping. At that moment he wants nothing more than to be the curvy, sassy girl of Link's dreams.
Yuuri goes back to see the show three times. That's Victor Nikiforov for you.
It turns out to be a very good decision—a life-changing decision, really. Because while Yuuri didn't exactly plan on getting a job seeing musicals, his creative writing degree starts to lean towards theater criticism on the side, and he hands in a review of Hairspray for one of his assignments. His professor puts in a good word to the school newspaper, and Yuuri's review gets published. Just like that, he's got a gig as the paper's theater critic.
The next time, the theater program puts on an adaptation of the film Moulin Rouge, and Victor is cast in the lead role as Christian. Yuuri finds himself in the center seat in the second row, close enough to see the way Victor's eyes crinkle up at the sides when he breaks into a wide smile while singing "Elephant Love Medley." Watching him, tuxedo-clad, perched against an ornate column with one hand outstretched to the twinkling stars, Yuuri feels his heart ache from the magic of it all. It's by far the most romantic thing he's ever seen.
His review the next day is first time he writes Victor's name in full. Yuuri praises the company's clever adaptation of the original film, noting their ingenuity in stretching a university budget to recreate Baz Luhrmann's gorgeously chaotic world, and he writes: "The cast is truly phenomenal; Victor Nikiforov, as Christian, is a magnetic onstage presence and the picture-perfect definition of a Bohemian romantic." Upon publication, Yuuri slips a copy of the school newspaper through the handle of the stage doors and darts away before anyone can see him.
That production run, though short, is significant; Victor's name starts to spread amongst the theater fans of the city, and beyond. Yuuri is never the one to bring up the subject, but he's now on listervs with fellow critics and goes to the occasional cocktail party. If anyone ever asks, he's always honest about his opinion: Victor is a remarkable talent, and he has a tremendous amount of potential. No, it's okay, Yuuri doesn't need to meet him. Promise.
That summer, the local arts society puts on what they call a "renegade" production of Godspell; it's cast, produced, and rehearsed in six weeks, and given a limited three-show run. The show is famously minimalistic, allowing for a great degree of interpretive creativity, and the director, Josef Karpisek, decides to cast a woman named Mila as Jesus and a thirteen-year-old violin prodigy named Yuri Plisetsky as John the Baptist. Victor is one of the soloists, and sings "Light of the World"; everyone plays multiple instruments, acting as both cast and musical accompaniment, and that's how Yuuri learns that Victor can play both the piano and the electric bass—and also, shockingly, that Victor's natural hair colour is silver-blonde, and he's worn wigs in all his previous roles.
Yuuri attends the premiere: second row, center seat. It's a very spirited production, if a bit on the ragtag side, but the low-fi elements are well blended into the show's aesthetic. Yuuri gives it a good review, and as much as he wants to fawn over Victor, he has to give specific mention to Yuri's brilliant, effortless performance; the kid has the presence of a much older actor. Yuuri then spends the rest of the summer working on poetry for his graduating project and reading books on the history of musical theater.
He briefly wonders about Victor's incredible stamina, to hop from one role to the next like that. His friend Phichit, who picks up occasional stage managing gigs at the theater, speaks to Yuuri in whispers about the little that is known of Victor as a person: of how he disappears at the end of each rehearsal or performance back to an opulent apartment that he shouldn't be able to afford, of how he doesn't talk about his family, and of how he's never had a single non-theater friend come to see any of the shows. And of how he's so fun and cheery that it's impossible to pity him, or even wonder too much; Victor is adored and adoring, charmed and charming.
Yuuri's poems start reflecting upon the loneliness of a life lived under the watchful eye of thousands.
That fall, Victor is announced as the lead actor in the university theater company, an honour reserved for the brightest students in the program. Yuuri isn't surprised in the slightest; he is surprised when Victor tweets that the winter production will be American Idiot, the short-lived musical based on Green Day's 2004 rock opera. Equally surprising is the news that Victor will not be playing the lead character of Johnny; that role goes to another actor, Georgi Popovich, and Victor is cast as St. Jimmy, the drug-fuelled punk rock manifestation of Johnny's dark Id. The director, Celestino Cialdini, is reportedly trying to challenge his actors to step outside of their comfort zones.
Yuuri is now writing theater reviews for shows all over the city; he taps his foot impatiently through what seems like hundreds of productions of Annie and Grease as he awaits the premiere of the university show. He has a few poems published in literary journals, and tries to remember to send copies home to his mother.
In November, Victor posts a photograph to Instagram revealing that he's shaved almost all of the hair off his head and has teased the rest into a near-white mohawk that's nearly a foot tall. He's in full makeup: caked-on black eyeliner, fake lip piercing, studs in both nostrils, and an expression that can only be described as come-fuck-me-I'm-dangerous. Yuuri nearly drops his coffee when he sees the post. He's already going to the dress rehearsal preview show in order to write his review, but upon seeing that photograph he also books the same spot—second row, center seat—for opening night, at full price. On the day of the preview show, Yuuri shows up early and has to loiter awkwardly outside the theater in the dead of winter, so eager is he to see this new iteration of Victor Nikiforov.
The show is a complete disaster.
American Idiot, as a musical, has some fairly significant flaws; while the right director can cover for them, Celestino Cialdini is not one of those directors, and a sense of aimlessness permeates the entire production. Georgi is shockingly miscast as Johnny; it's clear that he is not the sort of actor who can easily step out of his comfort zone, and he swings wildly between far too arrogant and unconvincingly insecure. Yuuri's never done drugs in his life, but even he knows that Georgi's attempt to act like he's high on heroin is hilariously bad. The rest of the cast muddles along, but it's very clear that almost no one is actually enjoying their time onstage and very few have a full and confident grasp on their characters. Three people escape with their dignity mostly intact: Sara Crispino, a freshman making her main stage debut as Whatsername; Christophe Giacometti as Tunny; and Victor as St. Jimmy. Sara brings gravitas and depth to her role, and easily holds her own against the older members of the cast; Christophe, playing against type, is impressively able to convey the vulnerability and agony of a wounded soldier. Victor, meanwhile, is obviously thrilled to be playing such an aggressive character, and while he's a lot of fun to watch (and looks really fucking amazing with that mohawk), he has virtually no chemistry with Georgi.
When Yuuri gets home from the preview show, hastily scribbled notes in hand, he sits down in front of his computer and doesn't write a single word for over an hour. More than anything, he wants to praise Victor, to lift him up, to find something positive that would make the show as a whole worth seeing, but in the end he has to be honest. His review is negative but resigned; he notes the few strong performances but takes no pleasure in panning the rest. He wanted it to work so badly, but that's the nature of live theater; sometimes, shit just happens.
Yuuri spends some time faintly worrying that his negative review will get him barred from the theater, or—worse—be the end of Victor's career, but neither fear comes to pass. The new year brings the announcement of the spring program: Celestino will take the reins again, despite some whispers that he would resign due to the American Idiot disaster, and the show will be a production of Stephen Schwartz's Pippin. This will be the final show of Victor's degree; his role, whatever it is, will serve as his graduating thesis. Yuuri will be graduating too; while he's formally submitted his poetry as his final thesis, he's also been farming out his reviews and resume to arts magazines around the East Coast, because if he's going to be a poet, then trying to find a day job as a full-time theater critic is just crazy enough to work.
Yuuri's final review job for the university paper is, of course, Pippin. He sits in the theater for the preview—second row, center seat—and swallows the lump in his throat as the lights go down. Even though he's only been there about a dozen times in the past few years, the theater has started to feel like home.
Pippin is rather notoriously metafictional; the cast breaks the fourth wall often, acknowledging that they're a troupe of actors in a play about the titular prince searching for meaning in his life. As the troupe's Leading Player, Victor appears onstage in a puff of smoke, playing the role as a dementedly impish circus ringmaster in a pin-striped suit and wielding an ornate walking stick topped with a shiny silver skull. In his writeup, Yuuri describes it as "Jack Skellington by way of Bob Fosse," a quote which shows up on a few posters around town. His review is glowing, and well deserved; Celestino course-corrected beautifully, coaxing strong performances out of every actor, and the cast has exactly the right type of chemistry for the show. Victor's role, however, is clearly the axis around which the rest of the show turns—as benefits his final thesis performance. He strikes a nearly-impossible balance between compelling charm and subtle menace, a character choice that's rarely made for the Lead Player in Pippin because it's so difficult to pull off. But Victor does it, probably better than anyone else has ever managed at the university level. Yuuri can't say a bad word about the production.
Right near the end of Pippin's run, Yuuri gets the news that he's being offered a position reviewing theater for the Chicago Tribune. He accepts, head spinning with possibility, and as he feels his whole life change he knows exactly where he wants to go: the theater. Pippin is completely sold out, but the box office clerk chuckles as soon as Yuuri gives her his name.
"Second row, center seat, right?"
Yuuri doesn't know how or why, but the spot is available for the very last night of the show. He nearly offers to pay double the ticket's worth.
On the night of the final performance, everyone knows that it's Victor's last time on the university stage. He's graduating at the top of his class, and the audience is filled with scouts and agents; rumour has it that he's already lined up several Broadway auditions. Again, Yuuri isn't surprised, but he doesn't expect to feel the swell of pride and joy in his heart.
Good actors deserve an audience, he figures.
He holds his breath as Victor gathers the cast in the opening number, "Magic To Do." Then, midway through the song, the music quiets and the lights come up; the actors skip and spring through the aisles, talking to members of the audience, as Victor spreads his arms wide and welcomes everyone to the show. As the actors continue their interactions, Victor hops effortlessly off the stage, walks straight up to Yuuri, reaches out to take his hand, and coos: "are you ready to have a good time tonight?" Then Victor brushes his lips along Yuuri's knuckles, winks, and strolls back onstage to join the company in finishing the song, singing "We've got magic to do, just for you," and Yuuri believes it with his whole heart.
At the finale, where the Leading Player and the troupe try to convince Pippin to sacrifice himself as a great dramatic end to the story, Yuuri doesn't even mask the tears pouring down his face; as Victor croons "think about your life, Pippin" for the final time, the woman sitting next to Yuuri offers him a tissue—she's crying too. As he joins the audience in a standing ovation for the cast and for Victor, who appears last to take a solo bow, Yuuri wants time to freeze. He wants to see Victor on stage for the rest of his life.
His thesis, the poems he's worked so hard on, is submitted to three publishers, and one accepts. In the flurry of packing and finding apartments and organizing his post-college life, Yuuri flat-out forgets until his agent calls to demand approval of the cover art.
It's not that big of a deal, he figures. Anyway, the theater criticism scene is far more interesting than his poetry. Chicago has a vibrant arts community, and is often the second place where Broadway shows are produced after their initial runs in New York—which is where Victor is, playing Elder McKinley in Book of Mormon on Broadway.
Over the next few years, Yuuri sees every play imaginable, from Rogers and Hammerstein to Parker and Stone, from brilliant reinterpretations of classic operas to poorly executed vanity projects by fading celebrities. But then, without much warning, Victor's agent announces he'll be going on tour playing the lead role of Jack Kelly in Newsies—starting off in Chicago.
By this time, Yuuri doesn't pay for theater tickets. Preview dress rehearsals for large tours are usually full, since the tickets are cheap, but Yuuri always gets his preferred place—second row, center seat. When Newsies holds its press show, Yuuri finds that his hands are trembling so hard he can barely hold his pencil to take notes. The lights fade down and he has to swallow the lump in his throat—and then—
There he is.
Victor looks amazing. He's always been in good shape, but he's particularly lean and toned now, and it soon becomes clear why: the choreography for Newsies is outrageously acrobatic, and Yuuri gasps audibly when Victor launches himself into an effortless backflip during the opening number, "Carrying the Banner." As the charming and rakish Jack Kelly, Victor leads a group of ragtag newspaper boys into a strike against a fictionalized version of Joseph Pulitzer, all while romancing a plucky young female reporter named Katherine Plumber and leaping around the stage like a goddamned acrobat with the rest of the cast. The production is very good, but Victor is the standout—a little too much of a standout, if Yuuri is brutally honest. It's beyond obvious that Victor still belongs on Broadway, but it's not uncommon for actors to get a little wanderlust, and going on tour isn't a bad way to see new places.
Yuuri leaves that opinion out of his review, which is appropriately glowing; he also buys tickets for one of the performances, wanting to see Victor one last time before he disappears on the road. At curtain call, when the cast makes way for Victor to take his solo bow, Yuuri joins the audience in a standing ovation and feels his heart soar. Seeing Victor again is almost like returning home.
And then he's gone again.
The time doesn't crawl, exactly. Yuuri sells another book, this time a collection of short stories; he does a mini-tour of the Eastern seaboard, appearing in lots of little bookstores, but he hates public speaking and mumbles his way through most of the Q&A periods. Once, at a signing in Detroit, Yuuri swears that one of the attendees looks a little like the woman who played Katherine in Newsies, but it's very hard to tell when she's in street clothes and popping bubble gum in a way that makes his ears hurt. He signs two copies of his book for her.
His reviewing continues too. The Tribune loans Yuuri out to a few up-and-coming queer theater websites, and he flies out to New York to see several off-Broadway performances for an exclusive review series. While there, he also manages to catch Christophe as Fiyero in Wicked, and uses his credentials to get backstage after the show. Even though they've never met before, Yuuri takes Chris out for a beer, which turns into three, which turns into reminiscing about their college days. Yuuri never once says Victor's name; Chris mentions him about half a dozen times, and Yuuri calmly lets the man talk and buys another round, listening to stories of making out backstage and falsetto competitions at cast parties. They part ways, numbers saved in each others' phones, with Chris encouraging Yuuri to go backstage more often: "people know who you are," he winks. "They want to meet the man who makes them famous."
That's ridiculous, but Chris is kind of ridiculous. All actors are.
Unbelievably, Yuuri manages to get reasonably busy with reviews and writing and teaching at one of Chicago's smaller community colleges, and two years pass in a blink. One day he gets into his office at the college to find an envelope shoved under the door, with marketing materials inside inviting him to see the new Chicago production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. There's a laminated press pass and a ticket inside for opening night.
That's strange, Yuuri thinks. Normally these things go to the Tribune's Art and Culture department, but sometimes the marketing teams get a little confused, and these producers aren't even holding a press viewing. Nonetheless, he's always enjoyed Hedwig and the Angry Inch, so he confirms the date with his editor and marks his calendar. The play tells the story of the titular Hedwig, a genderqueer rock star with a tragic backstory and a turbulent quasi-relationship with a far more successful rock star named Tommy Gnosis, whom she is following as he tours the country. It's one of Yuuri's personal favourites; he's seen the film version dozens of times, and several performances of the stage play.
On the night of the performance, Yuuri gets stuck in traffic and makes it to the theater just a few minutes before curtain, breathless from running the last few blocks. The usher scans his ticket and says nine words that make Yuuri's pounding heart come to a screeching halt:
"You're in the orchestra section. Second row, center seat."
...Wait.
There's no time to read the program; Yuuri has barely taken his seat before the lights go down, so he tries to slow his heart rate with the largest, most silent breaths he can. Yitzhak the drag queen appears onstage, announcing "Ladies and gentlemen, whether you like it or not...Hedwig!" The musicians in the cast launch into a rocking riff of "America the Beautiful" as Hedwig enters from the back of the theater and makes her way down the aisle. As the actor passes by the front row, head held down and face hidden by blonde curls, Yuuri feels a stir in his gut.
No, it can't be.
Hedwig climbs up onstage, whipping her cape around her, a marvel of gaudy sparkles and mutinous gender-bending. Then she struts up to her microphone, spreads her arms wide, looks up into the lights for the first time—
It's Victor.
Yuuri nearly has a heart attack.
He had no idea. Judging by the gasps in the crowd, it's possible that no one in Chicago knew that the greatest actor of his generation has taken up residence in their midst. Or maybe it's just Yuuri, his brain spinning so quickly that he can't pay attention to the opening number.
Victor is Hedwig. Glorious, badass, vulnerable, tragic, defiant, beautiful Hedwig, standing in the divide between East and West, slavery and freedom, man and woman, top and bottom.
Victor Nikiforov has had several prominent roles over the course of his lauded career, but in this dingy small theater in Chicago he is better than Yuuri's ever seen him. Every other role falls away from Yuuri's memory as he watches, frozen in place, heart aching and soaring by turns as Victor sings about the origin of love and wicked little towns. Hedwig, aching to find the person who will complete her, is by turns a kickass glam rock star and a profoundly sorrowful survivor; Victor pours himself into every single moment in a way that seems effortless—as if he isn't really acting at all. At the finale, Yuuri doesn't even realize he's crying until a teardrop runs down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. He leads the audience in a standing ovation, leaping to his feet without a shred of thought towards his dignity or professional responsibilities. In the confines of this tiny, intimate little space, he's barely three feet from where Victor stands at the front of the stage. Victor bows dramatically—still in character as Hedwig—and as he whips his head up he makes direct eye contact with Yuuri, and for a heartstopping moment Yuuri sees the mask drop. For no longer than one second, Victor looks right at Yuuri with a genuine and mystifying expression of shock. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, before the rest of the world comes crashing back in a cacophony of cymbals and applause. Yuuri feels hot all over.
He doesn't even hesitate. As the audience clears out, he scrambles to find the stage door. A stagehand lets him in with an arched eyebrow, leading Yuuri down the hall and depositing him in Victor's empty dressing room with the promise that the actor will be back in a few minutes. Though by that time Yuuri might just be dead from disbelief that any of this is happening.
The door clicks shut and now Yuuri stands, bathed in warm marquee lights, eyes roaming over every detail of the room—the bouquet of flowers by the doorway, the framed Pippin poster by the window, the ridiculous amount of glitter scattered across the makeup table, the cozy-looking couch, the tiny bookshelf already stuffed with books. Victor, it seems, is getting ready to settle in for the foreseeable future.
Working on autopilot, Yuuri drifts over to the bookshelf and crouches, cocking his head to the side to read the spines. Victor has well-worn copies of "Audition" by Michael Shurtleff, "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavsky, and Uta Hagen's "Respect for Acting"; Yuuri assumes they're from Victor's college days. There are a few graphic novels, a book on the history of LGBT theater, some librettos that Yuuri forcefully stops himself from touching, and—
What the fuck?
—And both of Yuuri's own books.
With trembling fingers, Yuuri pulls the short story collection from the shelf. It falls open on the title page, where he sees his own signature.
Strange.
He opens the book of poetry next, and several yellowed newspaper clippings slide out, nearly scattering across the floor. As he scrambles to put them back Yuuri once again sees his own name, and he takes a closer look at the top clipping: "Moulin Rouge is Magic," by Yuuri Katsuki.
Underneath that: "Godspell is Renegade theater Done Right," by Yuuri Katsuki.
Underneath that: "Despite Best Efforts, American Idiot's Ambition Falls Short," by Yuuri Katsuki.
"Pippin is Victor Nikiforov's Swan Song," by Yuuri Katsuki.
"Newsies Tour Kicks Off Strong in Chicago," by Yuuri Katsuki.
Yuuri hears a small noise behind him, and he whirls around so quickly that the blood rushes from his head. When the black spots in his vision clear, Yuuri sees him: standing like a stranger in his own fucking dressing room, almost looking nervous. Victor's hair is slicked with sweat and he still has some glitter around his eyes, which twinkles as his face lights up with joy.
"Hi," he says. "I'm—"
"—I know," Yuuri breathes, trying and failing to sound calm. "I...I know."
It's hard to tell in the glow of the lights but Victor seems like he's blushing. "...god, I'm so glad you came," he says. "Did you like the show? We've signed a two year contra—"
"—Why do you have these?" Yuuri blurts out, thrusting his book and the clippings out in front of him.
Victor is even more expressive in person, his blue eyes so bright it's almost a crime to look at them directly. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish, apparently lost for words, so Yuuri starts to babble, still trying to process what's going on.
"Are you—have you been collecting—"
"—I had to meet you," Victor stammers. Yuuri bursts out laughing, which elicits a pout. "...is that funny?"
Yuuri gasps for air. "Y-you wanted to meet me?!"
"Yes," Victor murmurs.
"For god's sake, why?"
Something in Victor's eyes darkens and he strides forward until he's standing oh so very close . "Because you're Yuuri Katsuki," he says, hands coming to rest on top of Yuuri's own on the book. "Because I've used your reviews as part of my CV for the entirety of my career. Because you're one of the most beautiful poets I've ever read. Because you made me. Because—" he gulps, Adam's Apple bobbing ever so slightly. "Because ever since college the surefire way to guarantee a good performance was knowing you were in the audience."
"Are you—"
Victor holds up a hand. "Second row, center seat. Every time. It wasn't until Godspell that I connected the dots as to who you were, but it made a difference. You made a difference."
Yuuri pinches his forearm as hard as he can, and yelps at the pain. Then he sighs, running a hand over his face. "Well, I'm not dreaming, and you don't seem like the type to play cruel tricks, so..." he sits on the couch. "This is officially the weirdest fucking day of my life."
The couch dips as Victor sits down too, turning the poetry book over and over in his hands. "Sorry to spring this on you. I think I tend to overdo things sometimes. Comes with the territory," he murmurs, and Yuuri realizes with deep shock that Victor fucking Nikiforov is actually nervous. "Listen, would you—do you want to get a drink? W-with me?"
Yuuri has already nodded yes before he realizes he's moved at all. Victor breaks into a wide grin.
"Let me clean the last of this makeup off. I'm still new to town but maybe you could suggest somewhere? I prefer cocktails with obscure liqueurs and pretentious names."
Yuuri grins back. "Cocktails it is."
Two hours and four cocktails apiece later, Victor sneaks them back into the darkened theater, punching in the alarm code and keeping the lights off. Yuuri whacks his foot on a light and yelps, so Victor swoops under his arm to help him hobble to the dressing room, depositing Yuuri on the couch while he goes to switch on a few lamps. Yuuri catches sight of the row of wigs above the makeup table and dissolves into giggles.
"And what is so funny, Mister Katsuki?" Victor asks grandly, sitting down beside him. Yuuri bites his lip until he's back under control, and asks the first thing that pops into his tipsy brain:
"What made you choose Hedwig now?"
Victor gazes up at the wigs too. "I've always loved her," he says, tone suddenly contemplative. "She's such a beautiful person. Perfectly flawed and deliberately amateurish, just like me."
"Oh come on," Yuuri groans playfully. "Don't pull the humble thing, Victor. You're fucking great and you know it."
But Victor doesn't laugh. He keeps looking at the wigs, his profile stark in the low light. He takes a deep breath.
"Yuuri, I've been alone my whole life," he murmurs. "I've done nothing but pretend to be other people, role after role, because if I could entertain a crowd then...then I had purpose in the world. I had a reason for being. Otherwise, there was nothing." He glances over at the bookshelf: "Your poems were lonely too. They made me feel...god, it's dumb, but they made me feel like someone understood. And even though you've only ever seen me onstage, I—" he swallows. "I felt like you saw through everything, all the costumes and the lines and the songs. I felt like you saw me. I've traveled all over the country and been in dozens of plays, and it started out fun but it never stopped being lonely. After Newsies, I just...ran out of steam. I lost passion and left the tour as early as my contract would allow. And when my agent asked me what I wanted to do next, I told him: I wanted to be Hedwig, and I wanted to move to Chicago."
Yuuri is frozen in place. "Chicago, specifically?"
"Chicago, specifically," Victor nods, still looking at the wigs. "To be reviewed once again by the great Yuuri Katsuki."
"...me? Why?"
Victor's lips turn up into a tiny smile.
"'Cause with all the changes you've been through, it seems the stranger's always you," he starts to sing softly, and Yuuri stops breathing. "Alone again in some new wicked little town..."
He sounds forlorn, mournful, and rough. His voice doesn't project, and the words aren't emphasized the way they are in performance; they come as if from his own heart, as if he's not even aware he's singing. Victor turns to face Yuuri.
"So when you've got no other choice, you know you can follow my voice," he murmur-sings, eyes searching Yuuri's face. "Through the dark turns and noise of this wicked little town..."
The last note seems to hang in the air between them—an unspoken cry of profound loneliness and desire.
Yuuri closes his eyes and swallows hard. "God damn it."
Victor's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "What is it?"
"I'm probably going to have to quit my job."
"Why?"
Yuuri takes a deep, ragged breath. "This," he whispers, and leans in to press his lips against Victor's—gently, chastely, reverently. He pulls away, ready to be slapped or admonished or for the world to end, but instead he sees bright blue eyes, widened in shock. Yuuri numbly reaches up to touch Victor's temple.
"You've got a little bit of glitter still stuck there," he murmurs.
And then Victor pulls him in and kisses him back.