"Nevermind I'll find someone like you."

"I'll find you another time;"

"I'll love you another life."

* * *

It is raining in New York. Yui sits with her legs crossed, leaning back towards the crimson-colorer cushions of the seats in the home of the Chiara Symphony Orchestra, tapping away on her phone.

"You bitch!" A blonde flings open the door and shrieks at her, quickly bouncing up the stairs of the now-abandoned theatre to the aisle the ravenette sat on.

Yui looked up with an amused smile on her face. "Hi, Keiliy, osashiburi*."

Keiliy Jansen stabs a finger into her face. "Do hey me and spew some Japanese crap in my face, Akaashi Yui! Why the fuck did you leave Hasetsu so early?!"

Yui looks up, lips curving and cock her head: dark hair framing her face delicately, slowly inching away into the cushioned seat to avoid the sharp gaze of her normally bubbly, fluent-in-six-languages, blonde bombshell of a roommate.

"Whatever do you mean, Keiliy-darling?"

Although her tone was innocent, her expression hinted nothing of the innocence she claimed to have. She knew exactly what her dear fujioushi orchestra member was talking about.

"You bitch!" Keiliy repeats, "you know what I mean! The Viktor Nikiforov! As in your hot, bootylicious, sexy, Greek god ex! I don't fucking care whatever fucking history you have! But you could have at least gotten a nude photo of him for me to photoshop on!"

As usual, the cellist was adamant in getting what she wants, and is in no way being subtle, or respectable in doing so. Yui feels sorry for herself, and wonders why, why she decided to introduce her to anime— It was common knowledge that Keiliy was a huge pervert, and by God— If she could get anymore hentai* than she is — Yui didn't know it would turn out like this. It didn't help, either, to include the fact that one of Keiliy's favorite pastimes (a hobby she was almost annoyingly good and ingenious at) was photoshopping the half-naked bodies the male species she found attractive onto other half-naked bodies the male species.

You see how that's a problem.

But Yui supposed it was only in her nature. The runaway scion to the prestigious Jansen clan based in Sweden and Netherland. After the disownment of her sister and the suicide of her brother, Keiliy had decided she no longer wanted to be a part of a family who would do such cruel and ruthless actions to its own and go on, unpunished for their crimes. But she had been young when she left the only home she had ever known, and also the riches that had come alongside it.

She had taken to Yui because she needed someone who understood. Not to understand, but someone who knew of the pain and longing of something, of someone you loved and hated at the same time.

"Ne," Yui clicks the sleep button on her phone and refocuses her attention on Keiliy, her formerly guiltless grin turns into a half-smirk, "you do know that I left a couple of hours before he arrived... Right?"

"You fucking bitch!"

* * *

Five cities, three countries, two continents.

But beyond the spotlight of the stage and the gleaming ivory keys and the inky notes painted on a crisp white sheet, everything was monochrome.

Tell me, is this what I used to see on the ice, too, for all those years?

The steel in her eyes had long abandoned the mist that refused to disparate.

It's been a half a year since Viktor Nikiforov began coaching Katsuki Yuuri, but his face is still on the cover of every skating magazine in the world.

It's been years since Akaashi Yui saw Viktor Nikiforov, and she cannot even remember a single thing about him that she loved.

The world hadn't let him go yet—

She had.

* * *

It's spring again when she returns to Hasetsu.

By then, the sakura blossoms had, once more, began pooling the quiet countryside streets in lovely shades of pink. The grey of the wintry sky had shifted to the pastel blue of spring — much like Yui's eyes, the grey mist covered by a light sheen of melancholy blue.

Yui almost expects for it to start raining — for that pastel blue to face into the cold grey. But it doesn't and Yui is almost relieved.

Where was the her who once loved the rain and believed that she would one day find where she truly belonged?

Oh, she belonged, alright. She belonged: on the covers of the latest Vogue she decided to model for on a whim; on the latest album of her orchestra, all of the classic flares and poses on keyboards; on the cover of sports magazines — of draping sleeves from of a sparkly costume, to the almost shameless display of her legs.

But what about what she loved?

To no one did God make privy of that fact, not even Yui herself.

* * *

She climbs up the stone staircase up to the samurai castle. She doesn't go into the vibrant red building — no, she's been in there far too many times as a child to ever want to go back there again. While the delicate, gold designs on the wooden walls and the swords and rice mats inside might have been her first inspirations for the two themes for her World Championships, but beyond the ink paintings and the gilded mats, there was nothing else.

But the path surrounding it was a guilty pleasure she kept to herself. Few knew about the path surrounding the castle other than a few workers and some locals. It was nothing remarkable, by any means. No hidden treasures, no unravelling and life threatening mysteries. But because of the seeds planted by its gardeners centuries before.

It bloomed best in summer, but the spring washed in like the tide, advancing confidently with a shy embrace and pale sunshine on one day and retreating the next. Others days, the wintry wind blew fiercely - demanding a return to the chill of the months before. But right now: with the soft duvets of the rain still sparkling on the timidly spouting grass has Yui moving forward brushing her fingers against the rough wall, and takes the scent.

Viktor Nikiforov is like the spring. His kisses were dainty like the vibrant flowers of the grassy fields and the sapphire skies. And wild and full of fire as the passion flowers and as bold as the violet delphiniums, as delicate as they were. His touch is as gentle and as teasing the brief and crisp-smelling winds, and as warm and slow and trailing as the long bouts of sunlight and the fresh, morning laughters that were filled with crowns made of daisies and the tiny, adorable, light blue forget-me-nots that he would bind into her hair and shower her with.

Yet that spring was not always calm: never only the gentle showers that cleansed the air and watered the lovely flowers. He was too, the storms of the season: flashing lightning that struck down trees, both tall and old. Booming thunder that frightened children into mother's arms and others under the bed or seeks the comfort and safety of their blankets.

Viktor was the sun in the foggy mists that fold the daylight into a grey sphere. The flames of a cracklings hearth on a snowy day with the wind howling in her ears. But he was also the coldness of a sea at night, and the sting of a thorn in her hands.

But no longer, could she reimagine his crip and sweet kisses or even anythings at all, not even as she stared and watched and rewatched all of his performances, from since when he was only eleven. No longer, can she re-conjure how he looked when he was with her and how pleasant the weight of him was when he fell asleep on Yui's jeans-clad thighs, and half his face buried in her stomach. No longer, could she feel anything seeing things; about him, or not about him, anything related to him.

The wind blows, and loose strands fly. Yui unbinds her hair tie and turns back to look at the town under the hill — the small houses and narrow streets; the soft breeze raking through the green of fern trees, shifting poplar branches into swaying dances.

Soft footsteps tell her of the person approaching from behind. Their footsteps light and airy.

She could almost imagine the will-'o-wisps in his eyes. Flickering and sparking. He was still beautiful, even in her mind.

Maybe too much so.

"Hello, Yui."

She turns, and comes face to face with the person who was once both her dreams and nightmares.

And she sees him.

And it's heaven but a million more kinds of hell: angelic and ethereal — coveted by the wistful sunset and the darkening sky. Eyes of the ocean shielded by a fringe of silvery strands.

But away from the spotlight and the sparkling ice, he feels less ephemeral, less untouchable.

Surrounded by Sakura petals; two people belonging in two different worlds meet again in a different one.

Not as Gods, but mortals.

***

Osaahiburi, literally the Japanese equivalent of 'long time no see'.

hentai, adjective and noun: means 'pervert' or 'perverted/perverse'.

fujioshi, similar to hentai (see above), but a fujioshi's taste is more defined by Yaoi and BL (boy love), which is specific to gay or Male/Male only.

edit: dedicated to bluebrrymilk !!

i dedicate this to you once and i do it once more!
what d'you think? do you prefer the old chapter to this more, or, like me — do you prefer the new version?

leave a comment down below

this chap was almost entirely rewritten, and maybe you liked the old reunion better: but personally, i think i exaggerated the old one a bit too much. because considering who viktor and yui are and were, i highly doubted that their reunion and parting would've been as ugly as i made it out to be.

-lyse

p.s; i feel like a pen name change is coming up lol