"Ya liublioo tibya,"
I love you.

"Mm, watashi mo."
Me, too.

"Dono kurai?"
How much?
How long?

"Navsegda."
Forever.

As long as you'll let me.

* * *

She thought about those words many times the year after she retired. Wrapped in a wool blanket on the porch of her cabin in the Canadian wilderness in winter, where the fern trees turn white and the world disappears. Erased from existence. And surrounded by that blizzard of white nothingness, Yui felt like she was deaf and blind all at once.

But here, Yui Akaashi could hear music again.

As clearly as she did when she first saw Viktor Nikiforov skate; the persistent notes of the piano, the combination of the techniques that revealed the stars, the sky and misty, snow-covered mountains behind it with the burning sun but a speck of gold in the distance, hidden by the curtain of grey. The soprano followed by the lower tenor, the accents, the sound. The slender hand of a shadow that pressed the keys, its visage hidden, only the long elegant hand that seemed to glide across the keys — flying. The ever so gentle but still relentless; sudden pauses and accents surprising the audience, the notes so loud but the feel of the music so soft and syrupy and addicting.

As clearly as she did when she saw Yuuri skate, the soft, uncertain chords of a blooming flower, reaching its prime. Violin and piano blending into one; soft landings, dainty jumps across a sparkling ice under a fading sky and the rich autumn smell, enamoring and addicting with the notes gradually widening then backing down, the repeating of the process with the gentleness of a pair of butterfly's wings, and then, finally, reaching its crescendo.

The notes now were sudden, quiet — but a wisp and some tangles on the keys, frantic and hurried. Because if even a single string snaps. They will never have this chance again.

Because she knows why she can hear again.

Because it had never stopped.

Yui just refused to listen.

* * *

Staring into the arctic wonderland where they had first met. Yui turns and faced him.

"How is Yuratchka?"

She's been wanting to know that for a long time.

Yuri was something untouchable in her past: the only one. After her retirement, there was nothing that linked him to her other pupil. Because while she had decided that the arts were no longer the source that sustained the life she wished to have, Viktor and Yuri had decided otherwise.

Viktor smiles: wistful and melancholy. And Yui realizes the sorrow behind it.

Yuri Plisetsky was a flame that burned brightly, but he refused to acknowledge the fact that there something other than the victory and glory the medals and skating brought. He was the epitome of grace and elegance. But there was little joy to be found within his skating. And his flame, angry and toxic only shone brighter because of she and him.

Promises in their world were worth far too little to be kept.

Yui keeps walking, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ears, looking at the illuminated court of mirror images and illusions. Her hand reaches out, brushing the rough edge of the plastic wall that separates the real from the dream.

It looked lovely, wonderful, even. Belonged to everybody yet nobody. A single moment transcending beauty; fading, slowly. Ephemeral.

Like them.

Turning, she looks at Viktor. She didn't know what she expected. But there was no pain for either of them at being here, again.

* * *

"Hey."

"Hey?"

"Hey?!"

"HEY?!"

* * *

What a strange sight indeed.

Seven years before, they were only known as the budding champions of their gender and nations.

Four years before, the rulers of a golden era for figure skating.

Two years before, where the tabloids and press floods with notifications and rumours of the fact that the breakup of the two most highly sought out athletes in history was confirmed.

Now, they stand side by side, leaning against the rink walls, as intimate as ever. Looking ardent and zealous with papers spread out in front of them and chattering away happily.

"—The quads should be added in the middle of the first half, there's a good chance that his nerves might help him do it..."

"—We probably want to lay off the Salchows for a bit and leave them for the second half; Yuuri has a traumatising memory about them..."

Picturesque and ethereal; standing side by side; Viktor Nikiforov, in all his angelic glory and Akaashi Yui, radiating her seraphic magnificence.

They were blinding in all sense of colour, feel and direction.

The door slams open, and a flustered Yuuri falls in, making the sound akin to a dying whale as once again the door unlatched with a bang and Minako falls in. In any case, Yui would've taken a picture of it and threaten that she'd post it on Instagram and every other social media website she has an account on and tag them. And then maybe make a joke about how they were the aftermath of the acciden— cough sexual intercourse between a demented cow and another demented cow— not any offence to the species or their parents of course.

Only their offsprings.

But then after the jokes and fun were done, Minako would probably drag in Hitomi-sensei and then start her revenge by berating her alongside her coach about whatever little err she made (and forgot, to the dismay of the specific, individual party) due to her laziness or airheadedness during practice and the days of it that she missed. It'd be another few hours that they'd make her skate — Lutz's, quad's, Salchow's, the world would spiral out of balance again and again, and the days would become a kaleidoscope of Hasetsu's wildflowers in spring— where she packs her brown suitcases decorated with the war medals of airport tags and post stamps around the world, as well as the battle scars on the brown stitchings — collected from her years of rough, clumsy handling of her worn suitcase; the forget-me-nots her parents and the Katsuki family sends her, the glow of daffodils growing in her front yard and the blossoming cherry trees coloring sides of the grey, concrete roadsides. And then in winter, when she returns, all weary and sporting more trinkets than ever— where the world shifts into the opposite of spring in its pasty, floury texture and slippery glory and sometimes some random dude who couldn't take a hint and had the pleasure of being kicked by the sharpened heels of her boots, then she would strut off like a queen with her scarf and her wind coat fluttering behind her as she walks bravely into the winter wonderland, becoming another sketched figure in the unfinished painting—

But her life didn't revolve around skating anymore.

And there were things from her past— like the painting that had slowly lost colour, bit by bit, and those skates that were with her during countless hours of blood and sweat and tears, of victory and despair, of triumpth and defeat— were now laced up and lost somewhere in the pile of lost interest in her apartment storage, and Coach Hitomi who would now be with Kang Jisoo somewhere in the Toronto rink getting for European Championships.

So Yui just laughs and smiles and call Minako 'a useless being' and Yuuri 'her equally useless student' which Minako would retort with Yui being her 'even more useless former student' to which Yui would just reply with that she was simply 'trash'. And the day would pass, and the lights of the rink would dim alongside the memories of past glory it contained until Yui finds herself on the mucky beach with the whiplash of the cold Autumn wind in her face.

Yui raises her arms to the back of her head and leans on them, staring at the stars in the night sky. Wish upon a star... There were so many stars in the Hasetsu sky. But it was summer, and the Hasetsu nights were not dark. And only the stars that seemed to be closer to her were visible, and she bet, if she tried to count them now, she might actually get the digits. The shadows of the outlines of the lone mountains at the edge of the sky were still visible with hints and traces of the cheery blush and smears of paint from the long gone sun. The water of the sea blending in, a part of the already endless sky.

But beyond the boundary of the physical realm, there were only dark, lonely nights and red moons of misery and bitterness and the demons of the past, haunting and crying.

Watching, Yui would see the translucent, ephemeral beauty of their world, guided by emotions and lust for glory. Evanescent, and fleeting. However short lived they maybe, she would remember them all.

* * *

Mono no aware ;

the bittersweetness of the short-lived and fleeting moments in life, full of torrents of emotions and colours like the last moments of summer. brief and fading, those light, brilliant things full of translucent beauty will come—

and in some cases—

never come back.

* * *

edit; dedicated to chocobros your dedication was originally last chapt(???) idk so instead i moved it to this chap lol

ah, this chapter... it was better than the previous version? i feel like this yui isn't purely just stapled to her past and has admitted that she was no longer reliant on her heritage nor her talent and past. and that she's taken time to think things through instead of life just being a burst of colours and sudden moments of black and white.

the sentence 'but her life didn't revovle around skating anymore' was really powerful for yui. because unlike the previous yui, she is accepting her choice and her past as well as her future and trapped not by herself to the past, but the people she once shared a past with. and the duty she feels bounds her to them.

i think my chapters have become better after i take a few days to think everything through and the style of writing i'd like it to be, and make sure the muse music i'm listening to at the time is right, as well as my emotions fit. even after i have the plot clear and what i want clear, instead of just cruising through it all on in one day.

~lucia

p.s more pen names lol