start music when i tell u to okay

* * *

They call her Adonis now.

Of the handsome boy who was once loved by the Queen of Death and the Goddess of Love but then tragically fell to a wild boar.

Who was the Queen of Death?

The Goddess of Love?

And who was the wild boar?

* * *

"You talk too much," he whispered, once. "I can think of better ways to use that mouth."

Fuck love. It ends when it ends. Yui thinks. But for a moment she thinks of those dressing room kisses, those caresses on the ice and the suggestive looks on screen, watched by millions and millions of people from around the world.

But gone is where he is. The Viktor she loved; the idea of him that she saw. She looks into the amber liquid in her glass.

( And she wants nothing more than to go with him. )

And there is a field of red roses in her dreams. They all prick her with their sharpened thorns, all except for that single white rose in the centre. It only stands idly, swaying in the wind, but the white one is the one that hurts most when she crushes it beneath her heels in her desperation to wake up.

* * *

Her silence seems to shock them back into their game of abandoned castles and monochrome lenses.

Yui is back to the fake smiles and wicked grins — the ones she's always been good at, just as Viktor is back to the suggestive smirks and amused chuckles that the media never seemed to get enough of. And those fiery touches, the brush of his hand by her hips, the way he leaned down a little too close to talk to her are still there.

Ulterior motives, Yuri thinks. Hidden desires. She wrote a song for him and left her career because of him.

But today, as he slides closer and hands her a pair of gloves, she knows he wants something more.

"Our dearest Yuuri is having some trouble... Feeling." He purrs, "Wouldn't you be so kind as to set an example for him, Yui? Considering that he's based a part of his routine on some of your old ones."

He slides close to her; cold hands on her hips, fingers drawing up untraceable patterns on her arms before eventually ending above her head, pinning her against the rink wall. Lips drawing close to the side of her visage, the warmth of his breath against the shell of her ear. The voice of sirens, sweet and haunting, meant to be used between sheets and bare skins, warm and small spaces where there it was wonderland for only two, treacherous and full of forbidden promises, sweet and haunting, drawing men and women alike to watery graves, into sunken cities of untold treasures and leaving behind ghost towns and dusty roads that were no different. Each move is calculated and timed to deliver the maximum effect for the perfect audience.

Why?

Why?

Why did she crave a man as unattainable as Viktor Nikiforov?

Because Yui is selfish. She is every bit as selfish as Viktor Nikiforov. She wants every bit and piece of every single heart in this world, just solely for the reason she can.

Because like Viktor, she can't settle for second best; it was either all or nothing. She won't take only a sliver, a single slice. Yui is selfish; she doesn't need, she wants, craves, demands to reclaim every part of Viktor Nikiforov's mind and soul and body.

Beautiful heist.

Thief; he was stealing her breath.

They were close, so close. It feels so intimate, like she could reach up and tug a handful of the glimmering hair and bring his lips to hers. And maybe, maybe, it would feel like as it had as their first, nine— nearly ten years ago, maybe he would still taste as he did practically a decade before; smooth lips, the taste of the fruity, sweet lip palm and of the winter, the cold, the thrill of being on the ice. Or maybe it would be still warm, toasty, and slightly bitter from the coffee he liked as it did when they still shared the ice.

She hears the the slight sh of fabric brushing against fabric and realizes he had slipped a knee between her legs, and for a moment she looks up and sees his eyes, and she sees flashes of the strained self-control she has in hers, and the fire licking his pupils, and sees his eyelids are half closed and the sliver of blue hooded.

So this is. So it is still is.

A game of cat and mouse it will always be.

His hand slides down to her wrist, while his right moves to her chin, tipping it even closer to his face. So Yui lays a hand on his chest, and it feels like for a moment, she will reject him; push him away as she always had, and judging by his sharp intake of breath and the almost disappointed edge in azure eyes, he thought she would, too. But she lets hands roam — every nook and cranny he was most sensitive in, and her hand lingers on his neck, goosebumps rise, she is in a rare moment of triumph, but too lost in the euphoria and too caught she slides her hand into silver strands and pulls him to her, placing her own lips by his ears, until he is too tense to even shiver, she whispers into his ears.

* * *

【Note: Start music here; it's the theme of Yuzuru Hanyu's 2017 World's routine (?)】

The mirror's edge shines, and her eyes are still cold.

Akaashi Yui steps on the ice and wishes she felt nothing at all. Wishes that she doesn't miss the swish of the blade as she glides across the ice.

He takes her hand, draws her in, inch by inch. His eyes reflect of cloudless skies and the promises of summer. And the storm in her heart brews. She doesn't want to touch him. She doesn't want to touch those lovely, marble crafted limbs and careful hands, to touch him and remember the ways she had once been intoxicated by it. Two hundred and six bones of a dream lost in the black sea sirens rule, of a beautiful, charismatic boy with a mischevious smile and an enigmatic girl with sly, silver eyes.

The notes ring across the ice, he slides a hand up her arm and holds her close, head bent, fingers tangled; as if protecting her from the storm that this brings. And for a moment, this is all so wrong before she moves—

And he lets go of her hand.

They look away from each other. But in the corner of her eyes, she can still see him, a single lifeline in a storm: Invictus, immortal and immovable. And it almost hurts; so familiar and so beautiful. And she cannot even cry for what she's lost, but she jumps anyway, reaching for him, as he does, too, but with his expression blank and eyes unreadable.

But his touch is warm and comforting as he engulfs her like a nirvana. And if Yui closes her eyes, she could've sworn she'd see another Viktor, smiling that familiar, endearing smile she had fallen in love with. She continues, because right now, there was only the two of them. Yui didn't leave Viktor or skating, Viktor didn't resent her for her cowardice and indecision. For a moment, she was that sixteen year old Japanese-Canadian, the raven haired girl with silver eyes. For a moment he was the charming, carefree Viktor Nikiforov Yui had first met during his second year in the senior bracket. Trembling, she slides a gloved hand under his jaw and traces his face, his eyes closes, and he melts into her touch.

She has him.

God.

She has him.

There was only them; Romeo and Juliet. The beautiful illusion the two of them had put up to protect themselves from the pain of being hurt again. The graceful deception the two of them created that made the world cry. They were each their own Pygmalion that had fallen in love with the beautiful statue they had carved out of ice.

And she does close her eyes. Because in her memories, the ice, the ice and Viktor, were still as beautiful as it ever was.

The music is wild and untamed, but Yui has never felt more of that indescribable feeling of home and fulfillment. Those crisp notes and perfectly balanced harmony. And so they move, as one, with all the finesse and technique as two of the formerly most celebrated legends of their world.

The feeling that reminds her of the beautiful springs she had spent with her parents' in their vacation home, the sunlight shining through green leaves of the oak trees and the fresh smell of the rain after a stormy night. The dollops of raindrops on the ivies that her father had always tried stopped her mother from trimming. The sound of her mother singing and her father's terrible, monstrosity of a singing voice and the sheets he found in his grandmother's attic when he was a boy.

Lover come close. Touch me with the passion of a thousand suns and the love that depths of a thousand seas. Let your hands cover my skin and feel the beat of my heart in sync with yours, and envelope me within the nirvana that is your loving arms.

He pulls her close. Closer still. She drowns in him; a single hand on his cheek. His lips are smooth, and for a moment; for a single moment, only. She think she hears him.

"Lyubov moya." she thinks she hears those words.

My love.

But there is more; more to the tale that drew them to each other then tore them apart. More to this song; more to the aftertaste, tangled with the others; some intimate — remembered within the bedroom and soft comforters and silk blankets. The piece of the past to be remembered with the delighted laughs and dark hair amidst the bright wildflowers of American summer. The memories to be remembered with the delicately prepared and flavoured variety and high-calorie breakfasts Yakov would always yell at them and Yuri for having too much of. The reminiscing of all those failures and defeats, those of victory and triumphs, those of happiness and disappointment, and most of all, those of love and loss.

More to this— Because despite it all, despite the stars that come and pass, the catalyst remained the same; the game of Romeo and Juliet was of fate and undefeatable Gods, and Pygmalion and his statue were still only stone and mortal and—

Only a hairbreadth away, but unreachable all the same.

Another lover hits the universe. The circle is broken. But with death comes rebirth. And like all lovers and sad people,

I am a poet.

The sillage of shattered dreams and the scent of paradise and of lovers, the trail left by the broken hearts in waters of the black sea disappear, and this time—

Yui is the one who leaves with it.

* * *

Sillage ;

the scent of perfume that lingers in the air, the aftertaste of a love lost, the trail left in water—

the memories of someone who was there once.

* * *

oooooh, sophie updates in a light year lolololllll

and just so you know; sophie is actually my real name ;)

•Another lover hits the universe. The circle is broken. But with death comes rebirth. And like all lovers and sad people, I am a poet

is another quote from 'Kill Your Darlings', the movie.

not a penname. now, i don't want to make a long ass AU like i do for some of myother characters, because this is a mid-night thought and my parents are probably hella pissed and school starts in a week and if only i could translate my extensive english vocab into chinese

FUCKKK YOUUUUUUU CHINESEEEE

ooh and did anyone read this bbk called crazy rich asians??

dedicated to Breadstick_Otaku

SENPAIII I UPDATED

{BLANCHÉ}