Melody of the Sea
Viktor x Yuuri
Summary: Best-selling, award-winning author Viktor Nikiforov hits his worst case of writer's block since he first launched his career. He takes to the sea in hopes of getting his inspiration back, but ends up finding something far beyond his wildest imaginations. AKA the Siren!AU that nobody asked for.
Chapter One: Struggle and Strife
The warm sunset hues turned her hair a brilliant vermilion, bright gold dancing over flyaway strands. He embraced her tenderly, tasting sea salt in the air and from the hot tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Don't go," she choked, her fingers digging hard into the back of his shabby gray coat. Her delicate makeup was ruined by her current cryfest, ugly trails of black mascara sliding down over her high cheekbones.
He exhaled over the top of her head. "I must," he replied solemnly. "The Archduke awaits me."
"You don't have to do this. Let me come with you, please. My father will—"
"Will...?" he whispered, sudden fear overtaking him and making all his muscles stiffen. The power and influence of Charlotte's family was not to be underestimated. He was but a lowly seafarer, and to have Charlotte willingly surrender herself to his arms was a precious memory that he never wanted to let go. "Will what? Will he execute me in person when he sees what we have become?"
"Oh, Lupin," she cried, pulling herself away from his embrace, a sudden fury present in her pale face. "Do you not want this? Do you not want us to happen?"
"Charlotte, darling—"
"I can't do this if you're not with me, Lupin. Please tell me: what is it that you want from me? From us?" She sounded so terribly desperate that the weathered seaman couldn't help but try to answer her.
"I… I want…" his voice trembled uncertainly. He could feel himself reeling, as if on the edge of a vast, yawning precipice. "I… I don't know what I want."
At that point, Viktor hurled his cheap, plastic ballpoint pen into the wall and sank into his plush office chair with a frustrated groan. He covered his face with his hands, uncaring of the blue ink stains smeared all over his fingers.
This was the seventeenth time he had tried to write this emotionally-charged farewell scene between his two characters and for some reason, he just couldn't get it to feel right. They always ended up arguing or fighting at the end and that wasn't supposed to happen! No, Charlotte and Lupin were supposed to say their farewells in a lovely sunset harbor scene, with Charlotte crying and waving as Lupin set off to fight for her hand in marriage. But. It. Wasn't. Working.
Yakov had already yelled at him about the approaching deadline for his current work in progress, but Viktor wasn't even close to done. He wasn't even a third of the way through his draft. He put his hands down and glanced outside his window with a sigh.
The penthouse he lived in was located close to the shore of this seaside town, Hasetsu, so whenever he looked out he got a lovely view of cerulean waves lapping against the fine white sand. Seagulls circled overhead, eyeing bits of bread dropped by carefree beach-goers. The sun sparkled against each rolling crest and wave, shimmering like diamond dust to Viktor's tired eyes.
He got up to retrieve the unfortunate pen that had fallen to the floor after his little fit of frustration. But when he sat back down in his chair and glanced down at his worn notebook, nothing came to him. Each scene he tried to imagine grew progressively worse, until the characters were mere shadows of their former selves and left Viktor grasping at straws. He tried to write something, but every sentence fell flatter than a piece of paper on a wooden floor, every word he put down felt like pulling teeth. Nothing flowed.
It didn't help that he had broken his tablet the same way he'd abused the poor pen. Writing digitally had been difficult, but having to painstakingly put each letter of each word to paper and manually scratch out whole sections drove him absolutely mad. And it cramped his hand like nothing else. He fervently wished that the repair shop would hurry up and fix his tablet, even though he's the hopeless one who threw a fit and hurled the damn thing at the floor. He supposed he should be grateful that it could be fixed at all.
His musing was interrupted by a soft scratch of claws at the door, followed by a pitiful whine. Well, if there was one shining ray of eternal happiness he could count on to brighten up his life, it would be his precious dog. He smiled and got up to let Makkachin in.
The fluffy brown poodle danced around him in excitement, jumping and barking and generally making a happy ruckus as Viktor gave him some much needed attention. For a moment, the silver-haired man allowed himself to forget this writing woes. When he knelt down to cuddle his dog, Makkachin eagerly licked his face.
'I'm here, too,' he seemed to say, big, shining puppy eyes gazing up adoringly at his owner. He stood on his hind legs, putting his front paws on Viktor's extended knee, and started to pant softly. 'I don't know why you're so anxious, but I can help!' He woofed and licked the tip of Viktor's pointed nose.
Viktor utterly melted.
The poodle dashed out of the study hot on the author's heels as Viktor made a beeline for the front door and the leash that hung on the wall beside it. Maybe a breath of fresh air would do him some good instead of staying cooped up inside all day. Makkachin was probably dying for a good walk. Viktor felt guilty for not thinking of his poor dog sooner. He made sure his notebook and several pens were tucked away into his bag before he opened the door.
Makkachin bounded into the hallway with an exuberant bark and immediately rushed over to the gleaming steel elevator doors. Viktor laughed as he followed at a slower pace. They descended to the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby, where he was promptly ogled by a group of rich schoolgirls huddled in the corner. He bid the concierge a polite good afternoon before they walked outside.
The cool sea breeze hit him hard, blowing his hair back from his pale face. Viktor took a deep breath. The heavenly aroma of fresh street food combined with the salt he could practically taste on the wind was a stark reminder that the vast human world existed outside of his fictional novel. It stopped for no one, not even a writer in the midst of the worst case of writer's block since he launched his career.
He squinted absently at the distant port as Makkachin bounded along. He could almost see the scene now: diminutive Charlotte, with her burnished copper curls contrasting against the lacy floral print of her thin summer dress, standing at the edge of the harbor and holding tightly to Lupin's sea-worn cloak. Lupin, with his tired, rugged face, scruffy brown beard, and shabby, gray seafarer's clothing, embracing her sorrowfully and wishing he didn't have to let go.
Stay close to me and never leave.
Then Viktor blinked and the scene was gone, along with any words he could have used to put his vision down in written form. He bit back a disappointed growl and tore his gaze away. Right now he needed a distraction, not to think about his apparent slump. He was Viktor Nikiforov, the number one best-selling author for the past five years in a row. He didn't do slumps.
He was stopped on the streets a number of times by enthusiastic fans praising his previous works. Although Viktor didn't begrudge them for an autograph or two, he really wished his smile didn't have to feel so fake. At least nobody seemed to notice.
After spending an hour meandering through the bustling town, following after Makkachin's energetic footsteps, Viktor found himself standing at the top of one of the looming cliffs that bordered the southwestern part of Hasetsu. The ocean stretched away from him, crystal-clear where the water was shallow, fading into dark, opaque blue towards the horizon. The sunlight still glinted brightly off the soft waves as they lapped at the sandy shoreline.
Viktor went as close to the edge as he dared, seating himself on a relatively-flat rock. The wind ruffled his hair gently. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, feeling the day's tension slowly drain away.
Makkachin woofed quietly, then laid down at Viktor's feet.
The author lost track of how many minutes he sat there on that rock, just enjoying the breeze, the calming view, and the peace that nature brought him. The noisiness of the town was muted up on the cliff, almost indistinguishable from the howl of gusts from the sea winding through the rocky outcroppings jutting away from the mainland. It was like a balm to his soul.
At one point, he even thought he could hear music. He could picture the abrupt crash of the cymbal as the waves pounded against the side of the cliff, a lovely piano crescendo as the water swelled, a slow and mournful violin tune echoing over the water as it drew back from the shore, a hauntingly beautiful voice singing in the distance, beckoning, calling—
Unfortunately the peace didn't last. A loud buzzing from his pocket had Viktor pulling out his phone and grimacing at the screen. Yakov was calling again. He wasn't feeling up to get yelled at more by the aging editor, but ignoring it would probably give way to an even more explosive call later on. With a heart that felt like it was plummeting back to earth after his brief respite, Viktor answered the call.
Yakov's deafening, harsh voice immediately boomed out of the speaker, "VITYA! Where the hell are you, you stupid boy?! I know you're not at home, working on your draft like you're supposed to be doing right now! Your irresponsibility and whimsical nature will be the death of me one day, I swear!"
Viktor gingerly held the phone a good distance away from his ear as Yakov raged some more. He turned an apologetic glance on his dog, who hardly looked bothered by the noise. He supposed that Makkachin had already had enough time to get used to Yakov's dulcet tones, given how often the man called.
When there was finally more than two seconds of silence, Viktor answered in as pleasant a voice as he could currently manage, "Good afternoon to you too, Yakov."
There was a sigh from the other end. "You didn't listen to a word I said, did you?"
"Nope!" Viktor declared, smiling guilelessly even though Yakov couldn't see him.
"Vitya, your deadline is in three weeks. I will need your manuscript soon so I can look it over and make some final adjustments," Yakov said. He sounded tired. It wasn't the first time he'd fretted over the possibility that Viktor wouldn't make his deadlines. Viktor viciously thought of how his writing was going, thought of the crumpled, ink-stained pages piling up in his trashcan, and wondered if this time might be the last.
"I know, Yakov, I know," he murmured quietly, looking back out over the sweeping ocean. "I just… need some inspiration, that's all."
It was quiet on the other end, which was rather uncharacteristic of the gruff old editor. Viktor felt nervousness creep up on him when Yakov didn't reply or yell at him right away.
"Yakov? Are you still there?" he asked, absently digging the toe of his shoe into the single pocket of sand he could see on the clifftop.
"...Finish your manuscript, Vitya, then we'll talk." With those last words, Yakov abruptly hung up.
Viktor slowly brought the phone away from his ear, feeling bewildered by Yakov's lack of shouting, and like he had missed something important in that short conversation. He didn't dare call Yakov back to ask.
He looked back out at the sea, but his moment of tranquility didn't return. He could no longer hear the music, and that saddened him.
Makkachin barked questioningly from his feet, as if feeling his owner's restlessness. Viktor reached out to give the little dog a reassuring pat on the head. "Let's go home, Makkachin. I think we've been out long enough," he said, standing up and stretching. His butt was a bit sore from sitting on that rock, but nothing a good walk couldn't fix.
On their way home, Viktor's phone buzzed again. Thinking that Yakov had something else to tell him, the author answered without glancing at the caller ID on the screen, "Hello?"
"Where in the seven fucks have you been the past hour, you shitty geezer?!"
Oh. It was Yuri, not Yakov. Viktor never really understood how Yuri came to have such a filthy potty mouth when none of his fellow writers actively swore in each other's presence, but the fact that Yuri was calling meant that Viktor had forgotten something important (again).
"Just taking a stroll around town, you know Makkachin enjoys the sights," Viktor said cheerily, ignoring the curses being spluttered at him from the other line.
"You say that every fucking time!" Yuri snapped. "You were supposed to meet me at the Junior Writers' Center at one, you shithead. You promised you'd go over my short piece with me! You know, the one that I need to submit for the contest that's fucking tomorrow."
Had Viktor promised something like that? He couldn't remember.
The junior writer let out a garbled scream of frustration. "Whatever, just get your fucking useless ass over here and tell me what I need to fix," Yuri seethed. Then he hung up.
That could have gone better. Everyone and everything was just out to get him today, weren't they? Viktor resisted the urge to childishly throw his phone into the nearest trash can. His tablet hadn't been fixed yet, he didn't need his phone broken too.
Makkachin trotted happily in front of him, oblivious to his owner's plight.
In no time at all, they reached the Junior Writers' Center (JWC). Unfortunately pets were not allowed inside, so Viktor had to leave Makkachin with a middle-aged couple who ran a temporary pet-sitting business just a block away from the JWC.
The moment he set foot in the building, a small and angry blur of blond hair and tiger-printed clothing barreled out from a nearby room. The blonde skidded to a halt before the startled author and thrust a sheaf of papers into his face.
"Read it," Yuri demanded.
Viktor looked around for an empty table that he could sit at and mark up Yuri's contest entry draft. A muted squeal came from the receptionist's direction; she clearly recognized Viktor. He expected no less, after all, he'd once been a junior writer at this very same center before he'd been picked up by Yakov and become a best-selling author.
He flashed her an amiable grin as she quickly stood up and stammered about how it was a pleasure to see him in person. Yuri gave him an utterly disgusted look, which Viktor happily ignored. The receptionist walked over to another door, flipped the sign on the door from 'open' to 'in use—do not disturb', and unlocked it with a graceful flourish of her keys.
"You can use this room, Mister Nikiforov. Feel free to stay until closing if you want. Let me know if you need anything!" she said blithely, her cheeks tinged pink.
"Why, thank you, Miss Bellenois," Viktor responded smoothly as he walked into the room. "Your help is much appreciated." He winked at her flirtatiously.
Yuri gave him a firm kick to the rear as the receptionist blushed even harder. "Stop being so repulsive in public, old man! I don't need you charming the panties off every woman you see!" he barked, shoving Viktor inside the room and blatantly slamming the door in the woman's face.
Viktor gingerly rubbed at his shin where it had hit one of the legs on the nearest wooden chair. "That was rude, Yuri," he huffed, moving to place his bag on the table. "Don't abuse your seniors."
"I wouldn't if you would actually fucking remember something you promised for once in your goddamn life!"
"That hurts me, Yuri," Viktor pouted, dramatically faking a swoon. "Right here." He patted a hand over his heart.
One of the blonde's eyebrows twitched murderously at Viktor's theatrics, but the teenager chose to stalk over to the opposite chair and throw himself into it instead of throttling the award-winning author.
"Just read the damn piece, will you," Yuri hissed through gritted teeth.
Feeling that he had ribbed the junior writer enough, Viktor settled down in his chair and pulled out his red pen. Time to see what Yuri had in store for him.
This month's contest theme involved Agape: selfless, unconditional love. The title of Yuri's short piece was simply The Witching Flower. It was a love story about a girl who was bewitched by a poisonous flower and her childhood friend, who does everything he can to save her. Viktor was definitely impressed by the depth of Yuri's vocabulary—a fact that was conveniently forgotten when faced with the wrath of the blond's explosive mouth—his knowledge and understanding of proper grammar and sentence structure was astonishing at his age, and he perfectly detailed some poignant scenes, but… Viktor could not sense any Agape from the text. The piece wasn't devoid of emotion; in fact, he keenly felt the protagonist's desperation and drive to succeed, his frustration at every failed attempt. But it wasn't Agape.
Yuri was tapping away impatiently on his phone, giving Viktor occasional glances. The silver-haired author turned the last page over and began to write down his observations and comments. If he tried to tell Yuri everything he thought of, he'd definitely forget something.
"Well?" the teenager prompted when Viktor paused to think of how to word his overall impression of the piece.
"Give me a moment," Viktor absently replied, jotting down his last thoughts. He sat back to regard the pile of papers before him, bright red ink marking up the slightly-crumpled pages. For shits and giggles, he pulled out his pink pen and scribbled Viktor (heart) at the end of his comments section. He then cleared his throat. The blond instantly sat up in his chair and tucked his phone away, all his attention on the older writer.
"Your work is very good," Viktor informed him, nearly smiling when Yuri rolled his eyes. "The pacing is excellent, the characters don't feel two-dimensional, and your choice of words for maximum visualization are fantastic. However, the theme of tomorrow's contest is on Agape, unconditional love. I don't feel that coming through your work at all."
Yuri frowned. "But I did it correctly! I wrote a disgustingly sappy love story that fits all the parameters," he argued.
Viktor folded his hands on the table in an effort to make himself look demure. "Tell me, Yuri, what does the term Agape mean to you?" he queried.
"Hah?! It's unconditional love, old man! You just told me that not even thirty fucking seconds ago, is your memory that degraded now?" the junior writer spat, incredulous.
"No, no, that's not what I meant," Viktor said placatingly, waving his hand dismissively. "I wasn't asking if you knew what it meant. I'm asking what it means to you, personally."
For once, Yuri's default scowl was replaced by a look of uncertainty. "I don't get it," he grumbled, but his voice had less bite in it than usual.
"Think of it this way," Viktor suggested, picking up Yuri's papers and neatly stacking them together. He handed the draft back to the disgruntled teenager. "Is there anyone in your life, anyone at all, whom you love unconditionally, absolutely, no matter their faults and flaws? It can be a friend, it can be a family member. Anyone. Do you have someone like that?" This was probably the most hilariously-ironic explanation of a concept he had ever given in his life, considering he himself didn't have a personalized Agape. Did loving his dog count?
Yuri's face scrunched up in the most adorably confused fashion at the question—not that Viktor ever intended to tell him that. Pushing Yuri Plisetsky's buttons was like stepping on a landmine, and for all of Viktor's good-natured teasing, he did have some idea of the junior writer's boundaries.
A few heartbeats of silence passed. Viktor waited patiently. If Yuri couldn't figure out what Agape meant to him by the end of their session, Viktor would have to resort to more drastic measures. Like dragging Yuri out to meditate under that waterfall he once found in the rocky, coastal area slightly west of Hasetsu. That would take time and effort and Yuri would probably rage at him all night if that happened.
Viktor didn't miss the moment that a tender look overcame the young writer's face.
"Obviously you have someone in mind. Good! Think about the emotions you feel when you think about that person, and convey them through your words. As good as The Bewitching Flower is in its present state, it won't be winning any medals in a contest about Agape. Rewrite it and send it to me for approval," Viktor instructed, rising from his seat.
Yuri also got up from his chair, looking more contemplative than surly. Feeling like taking a last mischievous potshot at the unsuspecting junior writer, Viktor casually mentioned, "Got any secret lovers in mind?"
In an instant, Yuri was back to his usual abrasive self. "Fuck off, old man!" he shouted, slinging his bag over his back and storming out of the room with his papers tightly clutched in one hand. Viktor chuckled when he noticed that Yuri's ears had been just the slightest bit pink at the tips.
Ah, teenagers these days.
Reading Yuri's work had given him a couple new ideas for his own novel. Now to see if he could actually put his thoughts to paper…
To: Viktor Nikiforov [v . nikiforov {at} gmail . com] 3/29/17 (20 minutes ago)
From: Yuri Plisetsky [yuriplisetsky {at} gmail . com]
I rewrote the damn thing. Are you happy now?
-Yuri P.
Attachment(s): 1
[the_witching_flower . docx] 4.3MB
To: Yuri Plisetsky [yuriplisetsky {at} gmail . com] 3/29/17 (seconds ago)
From: Viktor Nikiforov [v . nikiforov {at} gmail . com]
Yuri,
That was fantastic! Much better than the original, I could sense more Agape flowing out from your words. You can win the contest with this, I can feel it!
From,
Viktor
Yuri ended up winning the contest, barely edging out the runner-up contestant—an older junior writer named Otabek Altin—by a single point. The bronze medal was taken by Yuri's writing acquaintance at the JWC, Mila Babicheva.
He didn't call Viktor to offer thanks. Instead, Viktor was treated to a trio of delicious pirozhki made by the teenager's grateful grandfather. As he accepted them, profusely thanking the elderly man for the food, Viktor caught a quick glimpse of Yuri's small, proud smile.
Viktor was sure he knew who Yuri's Agape was for now.
Three days later, Charlotte and Lupin still weren't cooperating with him. Viktor had thrown one of his pens out the window on accident, the first and only time he had bothered to open his window to air out his study. His notebook was down to a quarter of its original size now. If he was being honest with himself, he was ready to chuck the entire thing out of the window, too. He was still nowhere close to done with his manuscript, Yakov constantly called him up to yell at him about his deadlines, his trash pile was practically a mountain that covered a third of his floor, and Makkachin could only cheer him up so many times.
Viktor didn't think he'd ever felt so lost in his entire life. The best-selling, award-winning author had to throw in the towel and admit it: he was in a slump.
He was in a slump.
He just felt utterly uninspired by life in general. The same old cliches, the same old format, where was the surprise? The mystery? The shock value?
Viktor stared moodily out the window, tapping the end of his pen against his cheek. He didn't feel like writing this novel anymore. The characters didn't speak to him like the characters did in all his previous works. He didn't know what kind of plot device he could implement into the story without falling back on a deus ex machina. He didn't like relying on those if he could help it.
His eyes fell on the gloomy sea. Today was an overcast day, so the water looked stormy and foreboding rather than glittery and inviting. The waves appeared ominously choppy further out. Dark gray clouds hung over the Hasetsu harbor, promising heavy rainfall later during the day.
He wondered if it would change anything if he had Charlotte and Lupin part ways in angry rain and wind rather than the romantic sunset scene he had been attempting this whole time. It would certainly give the part a more dramatic flavor. Being drenched in the rain wouldn't do any wonders for the poor girl's health though. He wasn't out to write a tragedy (although, it would definitely surprise his readers, and that was something he always aimed to do).
Viktor sat up straighter in his office chair, suddenly feeling a burst of inspiration. What if he had Charlotte and Lupin elope together? They could stowaway on a ship somehow, maybe if he had Charlotte bribe the ship's captain to keep mum (or was that too cliche?) Or he could have Charlotte pretend to be sickly and explain that Lupin was taking her to a foreign land known for its advanced medical technology, but that was risky because Charlotte's family was incredibly influential world-wide. Oh, oh, what if…
Before he knew it, another hour had passed and Viktor had filled up the remainder of his tattered notebook with all the ideas he had just brainstormed. He looked back out at the sea. A single ray of light had parted the clouds, leaving a perfectly circular golden dot on the next swelling wave. It was like a shining beacon of hope at the end of a long, depressing struggle. Viktor thought it was appropriately poetic.
The sea had calmed him and given him new energy in return. Maybe it was the key to unlocking his new novel's potential.
Viktor drummed his fingers against the open notebook, humming. Well, he definitely needed a new notebook now. The electronics repair shop had called him earlier this morning to inform him that his tablet should be completely fixed and ready for pick-up tomorrow morning, so that was another thing he didn't have to worry about anymore. He only needed to figure out what to do about Makkachin. He supposed he could leave his dog with the pet sitters again, but they couldn't keep him indefinitely while he went on a spontaneous journey. It's not like he was lacking in money though…
The silver-haired author groaned and let his head fall on the notebook with a soft thump. Overthinking things wasn't his forte. Admittedly he was more impulsive than anything. He was probably the reason behind a great deal of Yakov's gray hairs.
Well, there was no time like the present. Viktor dragged himself out of his chair, closing his battered notebook and slipping it inside one of his desk drawers. When he opened the door, Makkachin rushed over to greet him, covering his hands and face with ecstatic puppy kisses. Viktor laughed even though he almost tripped over the eager poodle on his way to the front door. He grabbed his favorite brown trench coat from the hall closet and pulled it on before he stepped out.
The air was cool and moist outside. The hustle and bustle of Hasetsu's streets were tempered by the promise of a coming storm, few citizens daring to linger out in the open without solid shelter.
Luckily the office supply store was a short walk from his penthouse. He was able to stroll in, buy two new notebooks and several new pens (in rainbow colors, of course), and make it back home within half an hour. Makkachin seemed to enjoy the excursion despite how little time it took. Viktor needed to remind himself to reward his dog with extra treats for such patient behavior later. In the meantime, he spent a good chunk of his afternoon brainstorming away in one of his new notebooks, the faithful dog snoozing away at the foot of his desk.
When evening rolled around, rain and wind began to buffet his windows with increasing force. Viktor elected to microwave some leftovers sitting in the fridge and sit on his couch to watch whatever romantic comedy or Hasetsu soap opera special was playing at the moment. Makkachin curled up next to him on the couch and Viktor absently stroked the poodle's fluffy fur.
Viktor thought he could imagine the stormy fury in Lupin's hazel eyes as he fought tooth and nail for Charlotte's love, the latter being chained down by the responsibilities of a noble lady. Would it surely shock the audience, he speculated, if he had the audacity to write a scene of Charlotte shearing off her beautiful auburn hair and denouncing her heritage in front of the entirety of the noble court?
At some point, he must have tuned the show out and fallen asleep, because the next thing Viktor knew, the strains of an exquisite, heartbreaking, lonely melody were fading from his fragmented dreams, and all he could vaguely remember were two glowing amber eyes gazing at him from behind a rippling veil of murky water.
Tomorrow, he vowed to himself as he stumbled back to his bedroom to grab his sleepwear. Tomorrow he would gather his things and board the first ship he saw. Come hell or high water, he would have his inspiration, and if the sea was where it lied, then that was where he needed to go.
Hello there, I'm in YOI hell and I needed to write this piece because. Please review if you liked it.
Crossposted on AO3 under MangaFreak15. Formatting on this site is a lot more rigid than AO3, so some parts look slightly different.
MangaFreak15