PRESTO

four. "aware."

"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.