#my first time writing victuuri aaaa!!

[spicymishtii]

HE(ART) • Victuuri

Prelude

Victor Nikivorov x Katsuki Yuuri

Parallel universe AU

Belief.

Ignorance is a bliss and a bitch, a generally popular universal truth, but hey, if that bitch has aided you to slap a quarter of your life with a big bold try me placard by your inner self-uplifter and has made you immune to this oh-so-evil humankind, you would believe the power of ignorance is not just a bliss but a fucking blessing. Unfortunately which, it seems only a chosen few possess.

Hence by laws of the hypothetically giving-a-fuck universe, Katsuki Yuuri just so happens to be one of the few elites. Though his ability is not that of intentional ignorance but plain old oblivion.

At the most recent occasion—that is right now—his ignorance can also be replaced with the fact that he’s running so he doesn’t really have much fuck to give to peers turning around from all directions to look at him.

And while that on a calmer day might reassure his questionable fashion choices, today he knows, he knows he smells dangerous enough to cause an epidemic merely by existing.

 You see it was not his fault that his naïve (motherfucking) juniors tried moving an entire rack of chemicals that had just so happened to consist of all variants of Thioacetone.

Of course, the idea couldn't be any worse and by the end of screams, flailings, glass breakings, and trickling of the solutions to any and every corner of the room the lab had come to smell like diarrhea at a super level. He hates college.

After picking his nails while half-heartedly listening to the threats and scolding the ultimate seniors (those crazy Einstein-haired Ph.D. ones) had given to those juniors (who resembled a group of terrified hamsters by then), he reckoned it okay for him to slip out quietly.

He’s sneaky, sue him.

 Cue his professor’s email.

 He has special ding-ring-ring! notification in his baby to clearly inform him of the demise he acquires from his soul-suckers every now and then. Not that he doesn’t like his professors (he loves and respects them thank you very much), it’s just he’s so tired. Almost fourth year into college and he has given up on his personal and social life.

He has even forgotten the last time he masturbated. Rimming his textbooks (plus internet), mating his chemicals and blowing his assignments are on the verge of making him question his sexuality. But then he remembers, how he has always known what he was signing up for all those years back.

 And if he wants to reach the finale, he gotta ace this final. And if he wants to ace the final, submitting his paper on Organic synthesis via Enolates before midnight is a nice starting point.

So he continues to torture his suppressed Usain Bolt gene while eloquently cursing his very respectable prof to be traditional as fuck and not utilize the normal idea of e-mailing.

For the total amount of time and energy his legs have flown him by, he thinks he deserves to be all the way across Iceland, instead, he makes peace with reality whilst reaching the dorms. He’s humble, you’re welcome.

One day, one day, he’s going to go on strike and petition to the admins for a goddamn lift. He has no care about learning to be punctual or money which he knows they won’t have any problem with; he and he’s sure every single living creature in college needs one elevator in their dorms just as badly as Romeo might have all those years back.

But he'll think about it later when his whole third year is not on the line. He needs to get to the most crucial year and graduate the fuck out of this hellhole.

 The stairs squeezed out whatever hope was left within his knees until he’s left banging on the door akin to a lunatic with both of his hands. It’s a bad day—the chronicle since this sunny morning is proof enough—so he wasn’t surprised when halfway through his journey he had realized his dorm keys have been forgotten in his lab coat. Why he had even bothered to flick it out of his bag he doesn’t know but life is all about learning through mistakes so.

He can hear the shrill tone of his platonic soulmate/roommate shouting Who the fuck is this?! from inside but he’s too breathless to answer. The door snaps open only seconds later revealing a fuming owner of three hamsters that are perched on different heights of his body.

The person’s expression morphs into that of confusion then concern then suspicion then understanding and lastly deadpan. Yuuri flings his body on the said hamster-father who accepts him with a squeak and almost imbalance.

Subsequently closing the door and carrying the skeleton, Phichit Chulanot has once again proved himself to be The Best Friend™, something he’s going to rub on Yuuri’s face later.

 As soon as Phichit sits both of them down on their excuse of a couch, Yuuri shoots up hitting Phichit’s jaw in the process.

“You—,”

“Later Chu!” he cuts the upcoming verbal splash fast and sprints inside his room, snatches the file and he’s out the door screaming bye. He loves Phichit for not barbequing him or offering him up to an asylum and staying by his side loyally.

He has been honestly touched since the time Phichit got so used to unearthly smells on his body that he doesn’t even ask or get mildly uncomfortable now, and readily accepts hugs and cuddles from the human equivalent of a drain. He could never thank the universe enough.

He could faintly hear his platonic soulmate’s voice above his head so he looks up while continuing to dash down the stairs and finds Phichit leaning dangerously down the railing of their floor and shouting something he can’t really make sense of.

 “What?!” shouts Yuuri, faltering a little in his pace.

“I said come back home at human hours we gotta be somewhere tonight!” yells back Phichit.

Not again.

“Ugh I’ll try!” he huffs out, almost slipping on the latest step.

“Bitch I’m going to murder you if you don’t get your nasty ass inside before nine it’s important!” screeches Phichit.

“I’ll hecking try I promise!”

“Yuuri it’s really important I have people you need to meet!”

“And I have a year I need to pass I’ll try my absolute best Chi, have faith!” yells back Yuuri and jumps over the last three steps hurrying out the building screaming outta ma way! to everyone around.

 Then, he runs.

 Their campus is a beautiful place with all the ponds and cherry blossoms that bloom at this point of the year. There are a few benches scattered around along with some intricately designed bushes and trees beaming at him from wherever eyes could reach.

Though the inside of their college buildings are technologically advanced, the outer environment gives off an early Japanese town vibe. He isn’t shy to admit his practice of favoritism regarding one particular pond and cherry blossom tree on his way to the library (where his professor probably is doing his own research).

His lungs are quite significantly burning from whatever the fuck adrenaline did to his conscience but he is one obdurate masochist so his voluntary muscles abide by his brain. His throat is all dried up and his breath keeps getting caught, he doesn’t understand why he is torturing himself this way but then a voice in his head answers he doesn’t have enough money to repeat a year so.

At one point his vision blurs but he supposes it’s because of his lack of sleep. Well, he is pretty exhausted.

Nearing the pleasant scenery, naturally, he glances towards his favorite chilling spot but what he sees effectively makes him stop.

 The cherry blossoms, which were supposed to be all fresh and full and thick and brimming with life… is barren. Not a single petal could be seen even beneath the tree, only the desolate brown of winding branches doing little to nothing in shading the newly painted bench underneath it.

It’s detached, the way the bare tree and the empty bench overlook the clear water of the small pond in front; it’s so cold, so lonely, it has never been lonely around it.

A breeze blows by, weakly stroking the skin of his neck and fingers that are exposed. He shivers; it's cold.

It’s spring. He wonders if temperatures can drop so much in the afternoon because he definitely remembers the morning to be all warm and sunny and most importantly, he remembers seeing the tree, the full-thick-jovial tree only yesterday on his way to class.

He, on every molecular level, doesn’t know how what he is seeing right now is even possible. Surely he shouldn’t be the only one right?

His eyes rake over the students running or just walking by around him but none of them look mildly uncomfortable with this situation. He wonders if there has been an experiment or an artificial situation that caused his pretty little blossoms to leave without a farewell.

He wouldn't be surprised if it is so, after all, what he learns on a daily basis about the expertise of this century, he’s sure if there’s something other than criticism that doesn’t faze him anymore, it’s human intelligence. His only discomfort is how and why he hasn’t heard about it of all people.

  There is a buzz on his upper thigh through the thin fabric of his ash-colored pajamas. He slips out his phone and stares at the notification of a text from his classmate informing him of his presence being required asap in the library.

Yuuri mutters a shit and pockets the phone, breathing in to keep the formation of lactic acid at a bare minimum for the rest of his way. He peeks back one last time at his beloved, ready to depart, but once again what he sees effectively freezes him.

 Because they’re full. The fucking cherry blossoms are full.

Yuuri opens and closes his mouth like a fish in the middle of the street to try and explain whatever happened just now to himself.

He fails.

He’s about to start pointing accusingly at the tree to every passerby and shout in their face if they too saw what he did but surprisingly stops himself before making another rash decision in his life.

He keeps standing quietly before he decides that yes he needs to go sleep before he goes mad for real and maybe get his eyesight checked as well.

He turns around, shakes his head to pull himself out from whatever trance he is in and notes to allow himself to rest. As he has only this assignment to submit, he doesn't think anything can stop him from going dead this weekend, so he pushes himself one last time and promises himself a while of tranquility later.

 But this time, he jogs.

 Jogs are quite neat, rhythmic and luckily good for health—he will say if you ask him. Considering the number of times he has jogged to reach his lecture halls or played around with Phichit, he can probably say it’s what that has kept him from wilting away like the autumn leaves after inhaling those oil and grease that comes with the college life.  

If we ignore the biologically healthy benefits of the kind, he appreciates jogs much more because of his bestie, as all things considered, these are the only moments when they both could goof and run around like they're meant to do without having the weight of both their majors hovering over them like a depressing gray cloud. Phichit misses him, he knows. But Yuuri will go down arguing he misses him more and he rarely lies.

  Yuuri stares at the ceiling mutely, a pencil flicking in his hand every now and then.

Phichit glances at him just as quietly while continuing his essay on medieval era music from where he’s sprawled on Yuuri’s bed.

He takes a quick peek at the ceiling then at Yuuri then at the ceiling and then Yuuri. He sums up nothing.

“What are you thinking about? Don’t you have a test tomorrow?”

Yuuri’s gaze doesn’t waver. The pencil between his fingers stops spinning.

“Us.”

 Phichit snorts. “You fell in love with me?”

“No, I have standards,” Yuuri replies seriously (“Hey—”) “I just—don’t you sometimes think we were meant to meet, meant to be best friends—be together till now and years to come—and even if we weren’t, we were meant to die together as complete strangers—if that would’ve gone off—as an apology or like, a tribute from the universe for the friendship that we have today that wouldn’t have existed then.

Like there’s this fate, which decides everything for everyone and time which, like you are to me, is the same to fate and both map and plan out everything for everyone from their beginning till end and all the coincidences in between. People say all those quotes about how we write our own fate but in reality, we don’t write shit.

Time makes us do what we do and fate then gives us whatever our actions have earned—good or bad. We both earned to meet each other—time pushed us to the right point and fate just did its magic in return.

They always leave a door open for what-ifs to be guesstimated; they give us doors to go through—most of the time they pull through whichever door we eventually stand across and sometimes they push ’cause they need to. We were pushed Phichit—we were pushed in that lake together to drown—we were pushed to be saved and then, we were pulled to be friends, slowly, at our own pace.

But what if we would have drowned? What if you wouldn’t have jumped in naively to save me when you didn’t know a cent about swimming? What if it had gotten too late? What if the ambulance had got caught up? What if the doctors failed to push out the water from our lungs? What if we had died, together?

They tend to leave these what-ifs a lot so we reflect. We reflect and either we grow better or worse, unlike itself.  The universe is so stable, isn't it? With all the dark matter and the little white ones in it—quite like human personality yet it’s us who keep changing; we’re irregular, varying.

Besides that, I wonder if any more pushes are left, any more pushes to land me somewhere crucial yet, because at this point I think I’ve utilized all my pulls. Don’t you, Chi? Don’t you think about the universe?”

 Yuuri stares back at Phichit who has gone silent.

Yuuri raises a brow; Phichit closes his mouth.

 “Exactly what’s going on in that head of yours? Yuuri are you… are you okay? Why are you talking like this? Just half an hour ago we were having a debate on Teletubbies—you—what, why?” Phichit asks in disbelief.

 Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“Just because.”

 Phichit looks like he is about to go big bro mode and ask whatever the hell he meant just now but he cannot find a head or tail of how to begin so he shuts up and heaves a breath aggressively.

 “We must, shouldn’t we? we’re not even at quarter to our lives. There must still be something, something big, something extravagant—something that push worthy. They should’ve planned it by now. Fate must be waiting; time is slow. Will you be ready for another ‘Kimi no Na wa’-level change in your life?” Yuuri wiggles his eyebrows.

Phichit sighs and decides to go along even though he’s still one hundred percent blank.

“I’ll learn if not,”

 "Hmm… we always do I guess.”

   Yuuri pushes the door slowly that opens with a haunted creak, the sound pretty much deafening in what it seems a deserted library if not for the clear clicks of keyboard keys from somewhere deep inside. He closes the door as silently as he can with the inevitable old wood creaks.

His slippers tap loudly on the polished marble of fused colors whilst he tries to follow the echo of keys. The library feels odd, this being the first time for him witnessing it so solitary, bleak. He wonders if the students are hidden in corners for their own space. His eyes scan through the shelves to search for anyone, or preferably his teacher. He passes by an aisle quickly noticing motion from his peripheral vision before he backtracks.

There sits his teacher, typing away on his laptop with as much concentration as he narrates his golden days during a substitute class. The volume and number of books sprawled across the table is no joke. Yuuri knows he doesn't want Ph.D. and definitely not Research but the scenes of pure mental torture still cultivates a shudder within him.

 He clears his throat. He is ignored.

He sighs and makes way to his teacher’s chair.

“Sir?” he knocks on the table. His professor flinches hard at the interruption.

“Oh… oh you. Don’t scare an old man that way, you imbecile,” he huffs.

Yuuri ignores the comment (he’s used to it) and retrieves the file from his bag.

“Here, sir. By the way, did you ask for me?” he places the file beside a book lying open.

“Oh yes, yes. I need your help young man. I hope it’s not a bother,” he gives Yuuri a quick look and goes back to typing.

“Sure, no problem,” there goes my tranquility, “What for, if I may ask?”

“Thank you very much Yuuri, it’s really appreciated. You just have to type the rest of this document from this paper I have already written and save it. You can leave after that, just shoot me a quick text,”

“Are you leaving Professor Cialdini?”

"Oh yes. I have a meeting with the other professors in the Science department that I couldn't miss for my life. It’s about you lot after all,” the professor teases, “And I need to get this shithead done and published before I die. I refuse to leave earth without doing it so I’ll be very thankful if you just type out the last page. You’re the most reliable regarding this affair, although a little inelegant but it’s just typing and I couldn’t choose anyone else.”

 Was that a compliment or insult?

“So I’ll be leaving the rest to you,” his professor pats his shoulder to which he offers his trademark smile and nods.

Professor Cialdini takes his file and disappears around the shelf, the echo of his boots fading. Yuuri heaves a long, long sigh and hopes the writing on this one page is at least eligible. He shrugs off his bag and pushes the chair back to sit down following the faint sound of the door closing.

He checks the page closely from where he’s been told to copy and cracks his knuckles. His professor’s handwriting is shit as expected. Floating his fingers above the keys, his elbow knocks out the spectacles case his professor must have forgotten about. He presses his lips in judgment.

  He bends down, folding his body, to retrieve the case and lean back up after getting a hold. Except in the process, his head hits brutally at the table’s edge and he groans, immediately messaging the throbbing area. He tries opening his eyes but everything surprisingly goes into a blur for such a simple hit, it’s as if the blur from a while ago has increased tenfold.

His head hurts not only from the impact but the sides and all over, his head pounds. He senses a feeling similar to being clogged by water. He feels as if he is drowning all over again the way he had those years ago. He can’t speak and his throat indulges to emit only whimpers which are way too cryptic and way too hushed.

He is practically thrashing around in his seat causing the chair to go off-balance several times yet his legs can't find any stored glucose to provide for the use of them.

 There’s a shrill sharp beak of sound in his ears which is raucous and increases the hurting of his skull intensively. He wants to shout but he can’t. He bangs his head down on the keyboard, holding it and tugging his hair roughly. He feels so, so exhausted. Grey dots in a vast plain of blackness keep appearing without fail and it is probably what he sees, feels before his body gives up in place of his fortitude.

End prelude.