Author's notes: In which more is revealed; much, much more. As always, please enjoy, and comments/reviews are always appreciated. 3
Breathing heavily, Yuuri stared at the ceiling above, back laid flat against the cold, stone floor. The day's routine felt almost mechanical to him now: wake up, wash up, eat, filter people's questions and ogles throughout classes and lunch, withdraw to private room for an intense dance session, eat, shower, complete homework, then finally, restless sleep – only in preparation to repeat the same, exhausting process over and over and over again. Given a choice, Yuuri would very much prefer to remain in his room as he had in Mahoutokoro. That way, he could pretend that people didn't exist; the world didn't have to exist.
Except this time, there was Seung-gil… and Viktor.
Seung-gil wasn't a real problem; his roommate understood when another person wanted their privacy. Yuuri didn't miss the concerned glances Seung-gil snuck in when he thought Yuuri wasn't looking, but the Korean boy's attempts at engaging him were few and carefully worded.
Viktor, on the other hand, seemed to think that behaving as though nothing had happened would forcibly revert the situation back to normality. All the smiling and cheery greetings and so much touching –
Frankly, it was starting to get on Yuuri's nerves, and he had never been more relieved about the Russian's Quidditch practices, which allowed him his much-needed reprieve.
Sighing, he rose, achingly, to a sitting position and reached for his discarded robes.
"You're not dancing."
Yuuri froze.
The door creaked shut – when was it even opened? – and heels clacked against the stones, the approaching sound beating like a faint echo against the heavy pounding in his ears. Then, it stopped, just as the familiar scents of amber, sandalwood, and thick, thick Russian cotton threatened to suffocate his senses.
"Can we talk?" Viktor asked softly. "Please?"
Stunned, Yuuri turned as the older boy sank down beside him. "But – your training – "
"Doesn't matter."
"How did you find me?"
Viktor cocked his head to one side. "Phichit told me to seek you out. I simply returned to the room where we met."
Yuuri stared, speechless in the face of Viktor's nonchalance. Not once but twice: this was definitely not a coincidence.
"So," Viktor gazed back, unwavering, "Can we talk?"
Quickly, Yuuri broke contact, eyes darting to his feet. "What about?"
"You."
Tremors ran up his spine at the low tone; trust a half-Veela to make a single word sound like the whispered promise of something salacious. "There's nothing to talk about," he managed after a breath to calm his mind.
"On the contrary, I think there is a lot to talk about."
Yuuri snorted. "You certainly don't act that way," he muttered before he could disguise the bitterness in his voice.
Viktor blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Uh, I, I mean…" Yuuri flushed, surprised at his own audacity, "That is…." Mentally, he considered his options: he could backpedal or he could stay on topic. The better choice was one that would effectively steer them away from the ticking time bomb that led them to this conversation in the first place.
Right, on topic it was.
"You're always so different in public," Yuuri started, "Like you have to make everything about you just… perfect." He laughed nervously, tongue darting out to lick at parched lips; he really should bring a water bottle to his dance sessions. "But then I guess you are perfect, so…"
"My mother would certainly disagree with that."
Yuuri raised his head to the sight of Viktor's wistful smile.
"She wanted me to be a dancer, because that was tradition within the Veela community. Dance was how we expressed ourselves; dance was how we lured in partners for descendants and survival."
Yuuri made a vague choking sound, which Viktor seemed to ignore. "She thought I was a fool for starting Quidditch," the Russian continued, peering into the distance. "As though it weren't enough that I was born male, I had chosen to forego a Veela's natural vocation. She reminded me constantly of what a disappointment I was, with the short temper befitting of our race."
"Did she…?"
"No," Viktor's lips curved at Yuuri's hesitancy, "No, she never hit me. But words can sometimes be so much more excruciating."
Should've been YOU –
Yuuri felt his throat start to burn. "Yes… they can."
Viktor shot him a piercing look.
"What happened with your mother?" Yuuri asked hastily before the other boy could change the subject.
"We are Veelas," said Viktor, raising an eyebrow knowingly but choosing to return to his narration anyway. "Naturally, we were both too proud and stubborn to give in to one another. The more my mother lashed out at me, the more determined I was to prove to her that Quidditch could be just as graceful a sport as dance."
"So I trained, hard. Day and night, I lived and breathed the sport like it was the very air that gave me life each day. With my talent and constant practice, it wasn't long before I was invited to form the national team for my country, and soon enough, I was in the League."
"None of that impressed my mother. None of it. I wasn't expecting it to be easy, of course, but time was passing and my mother wasn't getting any younger. Worse, she seemed to be getting frailer by the day. So when we won our match with the Tengus and became the new League Champions…"
Viktor paused here, the shadow of an expression so rare across his face that Yuuri, without thought, reached out and touched his hand. Almost absently, Viktor flipped over his hand to lace his fingers through Yuuri's.
"… when we won, I brought the trophy home for my mother to see, and the entire time, I imagined, anticipated, the look on her face… realization, understanding, perhaps even pride of some sort. But instead, she took one glimpse at me and the trophy and – and she died."
Yuuri's breath hitched. "So those articles in the Daily Prophet…"
Viktor drew in a shaky breath. "Skeeter never found the truth but she did hit the raw gist of my fears with her vile writing. It turned out my mother was ill, very ill, but she was too proud to mention it to any of us. Rationally, I knew it was coincidence: it happened to be her time. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that her death was like her final rejection of my choices – of… of me."
Silence fell.
Viktor was being so open and vulnerable. It was so unlike the charming celebrity in the media and Hogwarts halls that, frankly, Yuuri wasn't entirely sure how to react. So, he said the first thing that came to mind.
"Viktor," he murmured in wonder. "You're crying."
"Am I?" Viktor lifted a hand to his cheek. "I've forgotten what the sensation feels like." Turquoise eyes, bright with tears, shone in the dim lighting. "Am I still so very perfect to you, Yuuri?"
Yuuri bit his lower lip. Yes, he wanted to say. Knowing that you are human, as human as you can be as a half-Veela, just makes you so much more perfect to me.
Instead, in an uncharacteristically bold move, he leaned forward to cup the older boy's cheek, swiping at tears with the pad of his thumb. "You even cry pretty," he noted quietly.
Face gentling into a smile, Viktor leaned into Yuuri's touch. "I've never been anything but perfect. For my mother, for the world…"
"Well you don't have to be that for me," Yuuri said firmly.
Viktor chuckled. "I will remember that, moya zvezdochka."
"Um," Yuuri leaned back, flushing, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why do you call me that, Viktor? What does it mean?"
"'My little star'." Viktor's voice dipped low, tinged with a hint of pride. "Because that is what you are to me."
Pink darkened across Yuuri's cheeks. In less than an hour, they had expressed far more intimacy than in the months they had been together. Here they were, holding hands, Viktor gazing at him with the most tender expression. This was not at all what he expected when the Russian boy intruded into his private room.
"I don't see how I'm deserving of being a star," Yuuri lowered his eyes shyly.
Viktor made low humming noise of amusement. "The evening before the Championship game two years ago, Mahoutokoro hosted a festival on its grounds, did it not?"
"Yes they do that every year, but what does that have to do with your nickname for me?"
"I was there."
"That doesn't answer my… question. . ."
Trailing off, realization dawned on Yuuri and swelled gradually into abject horror.
No.
No way.
He made to bolt, but Viktor kept a tight grip on his hand.
"I was there," he repeated in a quieter tone; blue-green eyes met widening brown, "And I watched a performance by a dancing crane."
Oh god.
Grinning dementedly, Phichit tore it from beneath a heap of clothes in his suitcase. "Is this the infamous crane outfit?"
Yuuri's face burst into a bright shade of red. "Phichit," he yelped, snatching fruitlessly at the robe.
"If only the wizarding world had social media," Phichit lamented as he nimbly danced away, holding the shimmery item just out of Yuuri's reach, "This would get so many likes."
"Phichit, I don't want anyone seeing that!"
"Bollocks to that, I want to see you in it. C'mon, put it on, show me some dance moves!"
"Seriously, would you stop – !" Yuuri choked on his words when the door started to open.
"Chulanont, you blighter, why do I hear your voice in my room – "
Everything happened in a span of seconds.
Phichit overstepped on a toe twirl, falling onto a bed with his arms flying up, the costume soaring into the air. Yuuri's mouth fell open in a mute scream as he reached for the outfit, only to have it, in slow motion, land squarely on the boy storming through the door.
" – and now I've gone blind," the boy said, his dry tone slightly muffled by the silvery blue material draped over his head.
"I, I'm so sorry," Yuuri stammered, "You must be Seung-gil. I'm, uh, Yuuri, your new roommate."
"Charmed, I'm sure," Seung-gil muttered under the fabric.
It took Phichit a full ten minutes to stop laughing.
Yuuri was mortified. If it weren't for Viktor holding onto his wrist with the grip of an octopus, he would've bolted for the doors.
"You knew?" he said, voice high-pitched and cracking. "You knew this entire time?"
"Not the first time we met, no." Viktor shifted closer, eyes burning with intensity. "But I had my suspicions. A Japanese ballet dancer with a crane for a Patronus… I had to find out for myself."
"That's why you asked for me to be your exchange student," Yuuri croaked. Somehow, he couldn't get his vocals under control, especially not with Viktor giving him such a penetrating look.
"You have no idea how disappointed I was to learn that you weren't on the House team, nor did you show any interest in flying." Viktor leaned in, silver strands falling, and Yuuri's heart stuttered in his chest. "Until that evening with the Snitch. No passenger, not even one with experience in flying, could have ridden a broom quite as smoothly or gracefully as you did."
"So I gave myself away?" Yuuri gasped softly, all too aware that Viktor's nose, among other things, was inches away from his own. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I was hoping you would."
"I– I was hoping you'd never find out…"
"Why? Because of the accident?"
Instantly, the spell broke: this was the discussion he wanted desperately to avoid.
Again, Yuuri move for the exit was halted by Viktor's hold on his wrist, which tightened further when Yuuri twisted sharply in an effort to break the vise-like grip. "Viktor let go – "
"Your past doesn't bother me," Viktor cut in firmly, "Because it's not your fault."
Blinking rapidly, Yuuri turned to will away the strong burning sensation in the back of his eyes. From compassion to shock, and now: deep, searing dread. Viktor was inspiring a rollercoaster of emotions and Yuuri wanted off this crazy ride.
What did Viktor know about his past anyway? What did anyone know? The only two people involved in this "accident" were he and Yamashita, and one of them was dead and physically broken in ways that he never knew was humanly possible.
"Yuuri, look at me."
He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to block the images filtering through his mental walls.
"Yuuri."
Long fingers slid under his chin and gently, forcibly, twisted Yuuri back –
Viktor's lips were full, warm, and so very, very soft.
For what felt like eternity, Yuuri's mind went blank, filled with nothing but white noise, and the burn of Viktor's mouth against his.
That is, until the Russian pulled back to smile beatifically at him. "Better, moya zvezdochka?"
The noise shifted to confusion.
This was not how Yuuri envisioned his first kiss – his first, real kiss. Sure, he had one when he was in kindergarten, but it was Yuuko, and it was just a sweet, platonic peck on the cheek for Valentine's Day. Any other day, he might have combusted at the mere thought of his idol kissing him – for real, on the lips – but today was not that day.
Not when said idol was using the kiss like he was nothing but some – some –
A surge of indignation broke through his confusion like a battering ram, releasing a hot stream of tears.
"I am not one of your fangirls," Yuuri hissed wetly.
If he weren't so angry, he might have relished Viktor's look of complete befuddlement.
"That wasn't my intention," said Viktor, sweeping his bangs back in what appeared to be a nervous gesture. (There were just so many hidden aspects of the Russian, Yuuri realized beneath the simmering feelings of hurt.) "I just thought – "
"You just thought a kiss would wipe out the memories of Yamashita's death? Of seeing his brains dash across the rocks? His body shattering into pieces?" Viktor opened his mouth but Yuuri plunged ahead, the tears falling faster, harder. "Everyone blamed me for his death and they're right. He wouldn't be dead today if I was just a little faster, if I had thought to use my wand like a proper wizard, if I had – i-if I had – !" He swiped at his cheeks, words lost in a heavy sob.
"Yuuri, you did all you could – "
"No I didn't – "
"There's nothing more you could've done – "
"How would you know that?" Yuuri snapped. "We'll never know for sure, and even without the constant nightmares of Yamashita begging me to save him, that one thought alone is enough to haunt me for the rest of my life!"
A beat.
Then, exhaling, Viktor ran a hand through his bangs again. "I'm sorry, I… I don't know what to do or say in this sort of situations. I'm familiar with anger but any emotion beyond that…" His lips pursed together in a troubled expression. "Yuuri, tell me what you'd like me to do."
Viktor's right; he wasn't perfect.
No, the Russian Seeker, beloved by all, was a monumental idiot.
Yuuri swallowed back a hiccup and glared at a blurry vision of Viktor through his tears. "I don't need pretty words or a celebrity's kiss," he sniveled, snort dripping ungracefully out his nose, "All I want is for you to stay by my side."
For a moment, the blurry vision didn't move. Then, slowly, tentatively, it loomed closer. "Would you also like a hug?"
Mutely, Yuuri nodded.
As Viktor drew him into an embrace, Yuuri closed his eyes and cried: a release from the anguish he had buried deep inside for the past year, suppressed through dance and sheer will.
Yuuri was working on his essay on the properties and uses of the Moonstone when a shadow fell over his parchment. He raised his head to see a petite Ravenclaw boy with a heavy textbook in his arms.
"Hello," the boy tried meekly, "You're Yuuri, right? Phichit said you're jolly good with Charms."
Yuuri set down his quill, smiling. Despite being one of the top students in Gryffindor, it wasn't the first time his best friend had sent a student his way for academic assistance. "Did you need help with Charms homework?"
"Yes, thank you!" the boy exclaimed, before he glanced around the library, embarrassed by his raised voice. Then, he dropped the textbook on the table and took a seat next to Yuuri, legs swinging inches above the ground.
"So um," Yuuri closed the cap on his bottle of ink, "You're a friend of Phichit's?"
"Blimey, forgot to introduce myself, haven't I," the boy blushed. "I'm Guang Hong, a first year."
Yuuri chuckled. "Nice to meet you, Guang Hong. So what's the assignment?"
"Something to do with the Lumos spell…"
"Guang Hong, Guang Hong, Guang Hong!"
Several students made irritated shushing noises while a brunette in Hufflepuff robes rushed up to the small boy and shook him vigorously by the shoulders. "Did you read the Prophet? Did you see that article on Nikiforov?"
"No," Guang Hong whispered, eyes wide. "What did it say, Leo?"
"It was about – " Leo paused to flash an apologetic look. "Oh geez, I'm sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you two."
Yuuri schooled his expression into what he hoped to be a polite smile. "You're fine, go ahead."
"Hey, you sound American," Leo grinned.
"We study American English in Japan," Yuuri explained.
"Then the Japanese are doing it right," Leo joked, ignoring Guang Hong's indignant smack on his arm. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet a fellow 'Yank', as they say here," he added with a wink. "I'm Leo."
"Pleasure to meet you, Leo. I'm Yuuri."
"Hang on, what happened with Viktor," Guang Hong demanded, picking at Leo's sleeve.
"Something about his mother-"
Yuuri cleared his throat. "You know what," he said, facial muscles growing tight from the frozen smile across his face. "Why don't you catch up with Leo, Guang Hong, and I can help you with Charms later?"
"Oh," Leo and Guang Hong exchanged glances.
"You sure?" asked Leo, eyebrows furrowing.
"Quite sure." Yuuri swept his belongings into his satchel and nearly tripped in his haste to leave before he could hear another word about Viktor Nikiforov or anything related to Quidditch.
"M'sorry about your mother."
"I've come to terms with it."
"M'sorry I got your robes wet."
"It will dry out."
"M'sorry I yelled at you."
Viktor laughed softly. "Yuuri, how many times are you going to apologize?"
Yuuri buried his face into the thick fabric now soaked with his tears. "Until I feel a little more grounded?"
"Hmm," and he felt the vibrations of the bemused hum this time, reverberating comfortably against his skull, "Are you not sure?"
"You said that the first time we met," Yuuri hid the smile threatening to emerge.
"Did I? All I remember is being thoroughly enthralled by your beautiful dancing."
Yuuri lifted his head from Viktor's shoulder. "Why are you so nice to me?" he whispered.
"Because, moya lyubov, you gave me hope when I thought there was none." Lightly, the Seeker brushed hair out of Yuuri's eyes. "And now it is my turn."
Again, after a steep drop, the rollercoaster was coasting up once more, warm tendrils of happiness unraveling the tension in his shoulders, spreading slowly through his chest. Briefly, Yuuri wondered what this new nickname meant, but rather than ask, he rested a hand on Viktor's sharp jawline and surged upwards.
He wasn't sure what he was doing or why he did it. His inexperience was painfully obvious; his lips landed a little off-center, against the corner of Viktor's mouth, rough edges on smooth, unmarred skin. (Yuuri really wished he had brought a water bottle with him.) If Viktor cared, he showed no sign. Instead, a hand glided to the nape of his neck, pressing him closer, and Viktor's mouth, wet and insistent, slid over his, deepening the kiss.
Viktor breathed his name into the kiss, and a whimper escaped from Yuuri's throat before he could catch it, fingers dropping down to bunch the fabric round Viktor's shoulders. The Russian tasted of honey and peppermint, his favourite tea flavours. Why didn't he notice that the first time?
When they parted, Viktor was smirking, eyes at half-mast, lips dark and swollen. "So now is okay for a kiss?" he teased.
"I didn't do it to stop you from crying," Yuuri huffed, eyes flickering away to avoid staring at the other boy's mouth.
"Fair point," Viktor laughed quietly, before he brushed his lips against Yuuri's temple. "You never fail to surprise me, Yuuri Katsuki."
Struck by another bout of bashfulness, Yuuri shifted to the side for a position that didn't involve looking the handsome half-Veela in the eye.
They stayed like that for a while, Yuuri's head tucked in the crook of Viktor's shoulder and Viktor's hand on his waist. His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, but Yuuri felt incredibly refreshed. Come to think of it, he actually hadn't shed a single tear since the trial game – maybe this release was what he needed all along.
The nightmares might remain, but at least the pressure of living had lightened.
It was Viktor who broke the silence. "Yuuri."
"Hm?"
"No more secrets? I want to know you – all of you."
Yuuri's heart fluttered at the conviction in Viktor's voice. Viktor accepted him; Viktor Nikiforov was willing to accept all of him. Not even he was ready to accept all of him. "I want to know you, too," he murmured. "The real you."
"That's perfect," Viktor pressed a kiss on Yuuri's forehead, "Because I need you to find the real me."
Yuuri sighed contentedly. Whatever Viktor meant, it sounded lovely and he wasn't about to ruin the moment with more inane questions.
"How are you feeling?"
"Oh um," Yuuri paused, lifting his head from Viktor's shoulder. "Better, I think."
Viktor smiled. "Ready to face the world again?"
"If…" Yuuri hesitated, then, "If you'll stay close to me."
"Gladly."
When Yuuri felt the other boy rise to his feet, panic twisted at his insides and he grabbed at the thick fabric. "W-Wait, how did people take to the article, exactly? I haven't really paid attention to what everyone's been saying to me these days…"
Viktor crouched down to tug Yuuri's hand off his uniform and drop a kiss on it. "You are loved, Yuuri. By the people who matter."
"I guess Phichit and Seung-gil understand," Yuuri said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "But Leo and Guang Hong and… and Yuri…?"
"Leo and Guang Hong adore you. Yura hates that you are ahead of him in Quidditch, but will be rather pleased to know that you care about his opinions."
"Oh," said Yuuri, eyes wide. "But, um, but what about – "
Viktor stood, pulling Yuuri up with him and effectively cutting off the smaller boy. "Come," Viktor said with a gentle smile, "Your friends are waiting for you."
"I would really prefer to rest before our match with the Tengus."
"Relax," Mila hooked her arm through his, "I've heard this is the show to watch in Japan. Plus, it showcases up and coming players, so we'd get first look at potential rivals!"
"I am relaxed," Viktor said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He pushed up his sunglasses and adjusted his cap into a more stylish tilt; disguised or not, it was still important to look good in front of the public. They may be standing among throngs of Japanese carrying assorted Tengu merchandise, but there could well be a Sirins fan hidden within the crowd.
"It'll also take your mind off things," Mila cut through his reverie quietly.
Viktor swallowed the emotions that threatened to swell up his throat. "I'm fine, Mila."
"Vitya…"
Whatever Mila said next was drowned out by the roar of the crowd when someone, likely the host of this show, fired off an announcement in rapid Japanese.
"What did he say," Viktor raised his voice over the din.
"Probably introducing the first act," Mila shouted back. After some digging into her bag, she tugged out a pamphlet and flipped it open. "Says here it's the, um, 'Tsuru no Mai', which means 'Dance of the Crane'."
The announcer added a couple more words, before bellowing something that caused excitement to thrum so vigorously throughout the stadium, the ripples hit Viktor like the heavy beats of a bass drum. He knew the feeling all too well: it arose every time he was in the air, shrieks of fans echoing around him.
Only an extraordinary performance would inspire such anticipation.
Then, following a fanfare of trumpets, a bolt of blue shot into the sky in a flurry of white feathers that showered over the spectators, stirring their fervour to greater heights. It was a boy, Viktor realized, probably no older than he was, dressed in tight robes that hugged his lithe figure, sleeves long and flowing with the breeze. Covered in a mix of blue, white and silver, the boy might have blended seamlessly into the clouds if not for his jet-black hair, artfully slicked back in a sleek look. He was hovering on a Nagareboshi – an older broomstick than the popular Yajirushi, but better known for its maneuverability.
"He's a student like you," Mila informed, nose buried in the pamphlet, "Trains with the Mahoutokoro Quidditch team as a Chaser and – "
Again, the crowd's screams surged over Mila's voice like a wave. The boy had taken a sudden plunge, diving downwards in a twisting spiral, before curving back up in a smooth arc and, without pause, entered multiple aerial spins that softly carved patterns into the clouds. Viktor was mesmerized; he could not stop watching – did not want to stop watching – his eyes tracking the boy's every movement even as he felt the edge of dizziness coming on. No one moved like that in the air, all agility and sharp angles; no one could unless –
" – says he's a ballet dancer in his muggle hometown – "
Viktor's inhaled sharply.
The boy was swinging down towards the people now, a hand stretched out as far as he could go, back curled at an impossible angle. As one, hands reached out to touch his as he flew past in a full sweep of the entire stadium.
Without thinking, Viktor raised his hand.
For a brief second – a long, brief second – blue eyes met brown.
Krasivaya, thought Viktor.
And then, the boy was spiraling back upwards, sleeves trailing behind him like a wisp of silvery smoke. He stopped in the center of the stadium, where he gave a deep bow, so deep that he sank past the handle of his broom.
There was a whistling sound, a loud bang of fireworks exploding, and, as suddenly as he appeared, the boy was gone.
"Hey!" Mila yelped.
Viktor grabbed at Mila's arm, yanking her close. "Who is he?"
"What," said Mila distractedly.
"The boy, the performer," Viktor demanded sharply, "What's his name?"
"I'd tell you except I just lost our pamphlet! Some idiot bumped into me – wait, Viktor – !"
Ignoring his teammate's cries, he pushed his way through the crowd, heart hammering in his ears. He had to know this boy's name, this boy who flew like a falcon and danced with all the grace and elegance of his Veela ancestors. Maybe if his mother met this boy, maybe then – only then – she could understand –
But the stand was empty.
Blankly, Viktor stared at the slots where the pamphlets used to sit, adrenaline draining out of him like air from a pierced balloon. Gone, gone, all gone – just like his dancing crane in the clouds.
"E-Excuse me," said a tremulous voice.
Viktor turned: it was a young girl, surrounded by wide-eyed friends.
"Are you Viktor Nikiforov?" the girl ventured timidly.
Eyes closing, Viktor inhaled a deep breath.
It was still important to look good in front of the public.
"Why yes," he removed his sunglasses, white teeth flashing in a dazzling smile. "Would you like an autograph?"
As the group of girls squealed shrilly, Viktor ignored the familiar sting of sorrow prickling in his chest.
So close and yet so far...
My beautiful balerina.
Translation notes:
Moya zvezdochka - my little star
Moya lyubov - My love
Krasivaya – Beautiful (feminine adjective; yes, this is deliberate)
Almost there, guys! Thank you so much for staying with me this far! m(_ _)m
