I don't own Yuri on Ice.
Alternate universe. Set in Manhattan 1930s. Jazz AU, Musician AU...? I don't know what to call it.
Chapter 1
"Morning."
Katsuki Yuuri straightens his glasses as he pushes the door ajar and trots into the club. Greeted by a smile from the lone man at the counter, he wonders why the morning feels so dull, not to mention a pinching ache at the back of his head.
"Hungover, Phichit-kun."
It has been three years out of Japan and he still hasn't been able to address people without the suffix. The man's smile widens when Yuuri utters his name. It seems he likes it that way. The club right now stands in a stark difference from its star-studded jazzy night-time alter ego, with its empty chairs and random clunks of pots and pans in the kitchen.
"Wow, you survived the night, didn't you?"
Yuuri scratches his head. "Eh?"
It is a legitimately curious monosyllable; Yuuri seems to have no memory of last night and the splitting headache isn't letting him think too much about it. Also, Phichit's smug grin is throwing him all kinds of wrong hints.
"You were so drunk I found you in the dumpster last night," Phichit answers. He looks on proudly even as Yuuri lets out a yelp.
"Wha- whaaat? In front of everyone?!" He bites his lip nervously. It isn't a hidden fact that the Katsuki family has a tendency of going off the rails when drunk. Yuuri remembers a bit now; it was a party Celestino had called him to - it was supposed to be a simple get-together for the orchestra and the regulars and the actors to get to know each other for the new musical. It's coming back in flashes - throughout the party Yuuri had been binging on champagne to celebrate his lack of social skills. He hopes that is all there is to it.
"Um, so... what did I do?" Yuuri prods carefully.
"I don't know, Yuuri," Phichit is way too happy about this escapade, "I went to take out trash last night and found you in the dumpster. In your tie and underwear."
Another yelp. Oh, no no no no no. Did he strip? He hoped whatever he did, he did it on his way back here and not at the party. Or did he? Who has the rest of his clothes? He hopes it's the dumpster. God, this suspense is scary.
"So," Phichit tunes into his thoughts, pouring out some coffee he just prepared, "how's the musical going?"
The musical. His first shot at something big. Still in production, actors are being auditioned. It's his first go on the chair, and his position will depend on how well he does. Yeah, after last night, he's probably fired.
Yuuri lets out a guttural noise. "Ugh. I'm done. I'm so done. I'm baked and ready to be carved."
"Seriously, what's it about?"
"Uh, I don't know. I heard the director's a newbie," he guesses if he hits a hammer over his head it might just stop hurting like that when he tries to focus, "I think it's about some playboy who seduces women around the town left and right - spaces out for a lot of musical numbers. I heard they're also adding some kind of war subplot for extra drama. I don't know - I don't care. It's my first big deal and now it's doomed."
To be honest, Yuuri never thought this is how his life will be. He dreamt of being famous - classy famous, not a one-trick pony; he took up what he loved the most - the piano. No ill feelings there, he still loves it, but training years and years in western classical music, he saw himself at big gigs playing Beethoven's Appassionata and not responding to back-me-up-sugar at a local club from singers who can't hold a tune to save their lives.
And now, a sub in a musical and he has probably lost it again, thanks to his drunken antics.
"If you worry so much, you're gonna gray up all your hair," Phichit laughs, "You're one of the best in the business."
The best in the business who still hasn't received a major break at the age of twenty-four. Yuuri groans over his coffee. Phichit is arguably his favourite person at the club. He accompanies him on the sax and doubles up as a waiter when there is staff shortage (which is often these days). The club is like their second home, and currently not in very good running - so everyone has to double their roles.
"Here's hoping at you getting famous and we finally hiring a decent Canary*" Phichit raises his coffee mug in the air as if proposing a toast, "Yuuko's not coming back with her triplets and all, Minako is getting too old for this shit."
When the last singer, unable to catch the audience's attention, decided to literally spew orgasmic noises into the microphone, Minako-san took it on herself to sing at the club until they find a better one. The problem is, she's almost forty-five, and prone to mood swings. As a result, often it's Yuuri playing out jazz numbers without a spotlight to fixate upon.
"They can't fire her. She's family."
It's true; she has been like family to Yuuri. She helped him get a job at the club right when he dropped to Manhattan from his village Hasetsu wanting to be a pianist. Yuuri knows it sounds like blackmail but he doesn't feel too guilty about it; if they fire Minako, they'll lose Yuuri too, and going by the club's condition, they can't really afford that.
"No, I mean, Minako had her golden days," explains Phichit, "She now wants to sit back and relax. And get drunk, of course."
Minako is also a raging alcoholic who has always thrown her own unique set of tantrums. Suddenly Yuuri's life feels like a series of unfortunate events with a team of misfits.
"Gah, I'm getting late for the rehearsals," he says dismissively, "Can't wait to get fired. Abyssiniya*, Phichit-kun."
The road is bustling with energy. The sun is up, as Yuuri hastens through the sidewalk, flipping through the music sheets. There is a rather intense scene where the playboy (What was the name of the character, though? Hector? Victor? He's close but his head is a little too fuzzy to remember.) is seduced by the seamstress that is solely backed by the piano. The morning coffee somersaults in his stomach. He hasn't practiced this bit; whatever he did last night, he has no way to redeem himself either.
The theatre stands before him like some Indian fort across the ocean. "Okay, deep breaths, get going," he tells himself, as he pushes the door open and steps in quietly, his eyes on the music sheets, trying to coordinate his fingers to the unfamiliar composition.
And then he rams into someone and the sheets are flung into the air, flying all across the place like a bunch of pigeons.
"I'm sorry - so sorry," Yuuri doesn't so much as look up as he falls to his knees to collect the pages as they lie clattered all over the floor like his dreams.
"Can I help you?"
It is a young man, and a fucking gorgeous one if he might say so. The man is staring down intently, his icy blue eyes curious, and his mouth holding a smirk that kind of looked like a heart if Yuuri squints too long at it. With that observation alone, it strikes Yuuri he's probably been gaping at him for the last two minutes. He spells out somehow. "Huh?"
"D'you want an autograph?" the guy chimes in happily. In a heavy Russian accent.
"Um-"
"Photograph?"
"No I -"
"Aren't you a fan?"
"What -"
"A reporter? One of those dirty playing critics maybe?"
Yuuri grabs onto the notes and stumbles back to his feet. "Wait, stop right there, who exactly are you?" For some reason, he feels the insane need to hide his sheets inside his overcoat when the guy tries to peek at it.
"You don't know me?"
"...No."
He looks genuinely surprised. "Wow."
Yuuri backtracks. "Wait, should I know you - hey, is that a dog? Is that your dog? What the hell's a dog doing in a theatre? He's not even on leash!"
The man has long silvery blonde hair plaited up to the waist. Seriously, it makes him look like a European medieval prince, thinks Yuuri. Meanwhile, the man pays no attention to Yuuri's panicking over the dog and reaches out to cuddle the poodle. "He has a name, mister."
His shoulders slumped, Yuuri sighs. He doesn't want himself be seen with this guy. They don't need another shining reason to fire him. "Okay."
The poodle walks over and sniffs at Yuuri's feet. Impulsively, Yuuri bends to scratch its head. "Well, seems like Makkachin likes you. You got off easy," the poodle's owner throws him a sideways glare.
Shake it off, Yuuri. He tries to be polite. "Okay, are you auditioning here today?"
"Yeah. I'm auditioning for Victor."
"I think you should go ahead and talk to the director... What's your name?"
"Victor."
"Yes, I get it... you're in character. But what's your real name?"
"Victor is my name."
Another sigh. Yuuri decides not to further this odd conversation and pass by him. The dog woofs, but Yuuri keeps walking towards the stage. He isn't as late as he supposed; there are hardly a few orchestra members around. He exhales, not daring to look back again. The storm has passed.
"Hey, backing band!"
Did he just call me backing band?
Yuuri wheels at him. Yes, that is a heart-shaped grin, and an innate glee at roasting an innocent struggling pianist. The medieval prince is holding up a sheet of paper. "I found one of these under the seat here. I think this is yours."
Yuuri paces towards him and snatches it out of his hands. "Thank you."
"Wow... you're rude," the guy's eyes are so piercing that Yuuri thinks he has to look away. It's almost as if the guy is demanding an apology for having a paper taken out of his hands. Talk about being extra. Yuuri fumbles about for a reply, and when it can't get any more awkward, the moment is interrupted by a resounding call.
"Oi, Yuuri! Still lazyin' around, are ya? Shake a leg, start up the damn piano."
Well, Yuuri has his excuse now.
Yuuri believes honesty is not quite the best policy when it comes to questions about last night. Also, he tells himself if nobody else brings up the topic, he is not going to pull them down into the mud and let them take that secret to the grave. So instead, he traces new ground in topics.
"What is up with that guy?"
"Which guy?"
"That guy."
He throws a dismissive glance at that silver-haired guy who stood right below the stage near the front row talking to one of the scriptwriters. It is when Yuuri receives another nudge of an elbow from the fellow cello player. "He's a dollface, but you need to stop staring, bud."
He turns to shoot her a death glare. "I wasn't staring, Mila."
"I won't blame you though," it is almost as though Mila's eyes brighten up when she speaks about the guy, "He's been around for the last two days. Victor's an impeccable singer. And a dancer. He's brilliant. That hair, those eyes -"
"Yeah, yeah," Yuuri gets this intense urge to roll his eyes and yet listen more about it, but neither surfaces, "Wait, his name's actually Victor?" So he wasn't messing with Yuuri that time. Yuuri bounces up with a defence. "He literally takes his dog with him everywhere."
"Yeah, I don't get what the big deal about him is either," it just happens that this really young actor selected to play Nimble Seer Cat can't help but overhear the talk. He likes being angry, almost to a level that it seems he nourishes it like a hobby. Right now, he ties his blond hair into a ponytail and sinks into the empty chair beside Mila.
"Are we on the same page?" Yuuri asks him, "It's like a Christmas miracle."
"I don't like you, so."
Also, the kid hates Yuuri. Yuuri figures it might be because they are namesakes.
"Still on the same page." It has taken him a day or two to discover how smiling takes over the kid's nerves better than any comeback can.
"I could've been a better playboy than any of these dumbfucks." The kid Yuri grumbles under his breath.
"You're fifteen. And you are a dancing cat. Suck it up," chirps Mila.
"Shut it, hag!" the boy practically runs under the chair to avoid human touch when Mila reaches out for a playful hug. Yuuri tunes them out as his eyes fall on Victor again.
With the silver hair and all, he looks like he has some kind of spotlight over him all the time. He's cheerful, sociable - already a favourite amongst the cast. He's neither the kind of person Yuuri takes an interest in, nor are they alike in any way, and yet there's something about him that isn't letting Yuuri shift his gaze away.
Seriously, who is this guy?
"Here, pass me the gobble-pipe. None of your damn horses can play a tune right!"
Yuuri flinches as the director storms up to the stage and takes a saxophone to show their conductor Celestino how it's really done. It doesn't work too well with him either; he walks off the stage asking for a cigarette break. It is turning out to be a gruelling and unproductive day.
However, Yuuri seems content over the fact he hasn't been thrown out of the production yet. Without Celestino hovering over like a bumblebee, he can play a little more freely.
The director slumps into the front seat again and yells, "Let's get done with the Victor auditions."
The orchestra begins to disperse, and even as Yuuri starts to follow suit, he is interrupted by another batch of yelling.
"Oi, you! Yes, you, the pianist! Stay on the stage, we'll need some backing."
A little unnerved at being called out like that, Yuuri trots back to his position. He's dead sure that this Satan of a director is going to ask him to play that solo part, the one he hasn't got the hang of yet. Clumsily, he runs his eyes through the sheets again.
Wait, I'm the only pianist out here. There's this long line of actors who don't even know if they're getting the job. Can't afford to be more scared than them.
His pep-talk to himself doesn't help much. His fingertips are still trembling.
Turns out it isn't that big of an ordeal as the director-man isn't letting anyone stay on stage for more than a minute. Six people in, and Yuuri already feels bored and exhausted, tapping the same chords over and over and over again.
"Next!"
As soon as Yuuri notices who is walking into the spotlight, he looks away and fixes his gaze at the piano keys. Weirdly enough, his heart thumps faster even as the notations on the sheet appear to be floating out of place. Focus focus focus focus. He mumbles it like a mantra, the piano at the go.
Mila was right. This guy is... really good. In fact, so good it's hard to take him for a newcomer. He's difficult to keep up with - a smooth voice, barely any mistakes. He's passed the legato and already onto the staccato - three minutes in. Yuuri thinks it's a safe bet to say he's selected. When he finishes, it's almost as if the set is re-energised.
"Bravo! Bellissimo!" It is Celestino clapping from near the doors, in a surprisingly good mood after the skirmish. Either the last audition cheered him up, or there was something in his cigarette besides tobacco.
"Hi."
It is less of a greeting and more like a whisper against Yuuri's ear. Alarmed, he almost jumps out of his stool, and in an attempt to turn, loses his balance and lands on his butt to the floor. Of course, it has to be that guy.
Jesus, does he have no sense of personal space?
"Victor!"
He holds out a hand at Yuuri. "So you're the pianist, huh? What's your name?"
Yuuri pulls himself back to his feet without the helping hand. If he embarrasses himself in front of this man a third time today, he is going to throw himself off a cliff. "Y-Yuuri. I'm Yuuri."
"Nice to meet you, Yuuri."
Yuuri ignores the sudden heat under his collar. "Same."
"So, Yuuri, I wanted to tell you something."
"Okay...?"
Victor takes a dramatic pause. Maybe it's an actor thing, maybe he is stringing words together before he speaks. Yuuri wonders what it's about - Victor's face is hard to read, and he stares so deep it's as if he's looking into someone's soul. Random thoughts aside, Yuuri's heart pounds harder with every second he waits... and truth be told, he doesn't like this sensation one bit.
"I hope you were having an off day today because I thought we couldn't get the chemistry right."
Excuse me?
"...And then he proceeds to tell me that my playing was flat on sex appeal. He said he wanted a certain bang at the end but instead it was more of a fizz. Like, what is that even supposed to mean? I am an adult of twenty-four, I can totally show mature sex appeal if I want to!"
It is around seven in the evening, and as Phichit hands out drinks to the customers and grins throughout Yuuri's rant, Yuuri doubts if he has even listened to a part of it. Yuuri huffs and plunges his head into his arms on the counter, when he hears Phichit cooing.
"I think someone's in love."
"That's great, Phichit-kun, but can we focus on my problem at the moment?"
"... I'm talking about you, you jackass."
"Huh? What?" Love is alien terminology to him in any case, but this sounds... this sounds beyond that. On what earth will he be in love with someone who is borderline eccentric, has no sense of personal space and is so full of himself he's knocked Yuuri down twice in a single day, didn't even apologise for it, and instead called him on his incompetence and told him how to do his job?!
"Yuuri, you've been talking about him for the last two hours."
That doesn't prove anything, does it? Yuuri tries to move on. "Isn't it time for my jam yet?"
"Yeah, you'll be going right after. And please take requests this time."
"Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault no one here knows anything about music," and he isn't projecting it without proof. Last week he ran out of options and played Hungarian Rhapsody with jazz improvisations and the customers took it as the new hot theme of the town.
After a while, he takes the piano. Even as he adjusts the stool today's events run a repeat in his head, what with the icy blue eyes and sheets flying all over the place. Yuuri pulls out the sexiest song he has. He'll show them the sex appeal of one of the dime-a-dozen pianists of Manhattan.
Love... huh? Can it even -
Naaah.
*Canary: A female singer
*Abyssinia: I'll be seeing ya
(yeah I kind of researched some 1930s slang, lol)
Denial about love and lots of friendly bickering are my favourite kind of love stories. No idea how it goes with this universe, but I tried, hehe. Please leave a review if you like!