Chapter Text
The musicians were slow to start their warm-ups, many of them still filing in with flasks hidden midst their coats and instruments and papers. So Yuuri had to imagine his own music for dancing practice. In his head, the first few notes fell tentatively, like the first raindrops dampening the earth. Then the melody swelled and took firm grip of his limbs.
Tapping feet or snapping fingers to keep time and sequence, he bent and rose, stretched and swayed, spun and undulated, until he finally felt like he was at home.
This was not the first dress rehearsal for "Hannibal" -- after all, the opera was poised to enthrall a full house later that evening.
But the costumes that he, Phichit, Yuuko, and Mila were given tried his patience. They were harder to grow used to than a new, stiff pair of shoes. The pieces weren't poorly made; the mock turquoise in metal fittings, overlaying jaguar or leopard print, was perfect for a host of retainers sweeping in the wake of a general. Exactly the sort of exotic, fascinating thing their Parisian audience would soak up with sparkling eyes.
But there simply wasn't enough costume. A large collar sewn to a bit of embroidered linen across the chest, and a matching girdle about the hips. From the girdle cascaded wispy pennants of see-through material, flowing free like skirts for the girls, and bound at the ankles like trousers for the boys. Their arms, midriffs, and legs were quite visible, and it made Yuuri feel self-conscious.
Ah, well, he tried to comfort himself. He was simply a dime-a-dozen backup dancer in this role; he didn't have any lines and only joined the chorus here and there. He wouldn't draw too much embarrassing attention from amidst the throng, at least.
He glanced to the side, awaiting his three partners in a four-person cell. He was a trifle annoyed that Phichit and Yuuko seemed more engaged in talking than stretching, as other dancers and stage hands bustled about them. Yuuko played with the locks of chestnut hair dancing about her ears, while Phichit triple-knotted the lacings of his shoes.
Mila wasn't even pretending to stretch, instead arguing with Minako about her costume. Apparently the redhead was hoping to display even more of her midriff. Minako was lamenting that they were already quite pushing the sensibilities of their audience as it was. Art could violate boundaries only so much before people started feeling their convictions prickling.
The four of them had practiced their steps often, could dance in sync in their sleep. Minako had been crucial to keeping them in line, juggling sewing seams with swift fingers and critiquing their form with a swifter tongue. But that didn't assuage Yuuri's need to cement their skill together further. He was certain you could never practice too much, there was always a chance of a mistake that you needed to hammer out with diligence.
A flutter of movement above his head caught his eye. Swiftly, he looked up, freezing in the moment. Movement from on high could mean the stage hands were actually doing their job.
Or it could mean the Opera Ghost requested your attention, and woe betide you if you ignored him.
A flash of silvery white. Yuuri blinked reflexively, then saw a folded piece of paper spiraling down toward him. He waited till it lighted on the floor a couple feet in front of him, then swooped in to grab it. The ghost of the ice had been sending more notes lately, some falling down from ropes and rafters, like in this case. Some tucked away in places Yuuri liked to frequent to be alone with his thoughts. He'd even found a note tied to the collar of the poodle Makkachin, who wandered about behind the scenes, begging scraps from the kitchen and keeping the young homesick dancers company.
This note had silver ribbon binding it. Always the silver. Yuuri had an inkling the Opera Ghost preferred he keep the ribbons, so out of habit he tucked the ribbon under his collar. Unfolding the note, he read,
Remember our lessons, especially our last one. You will most probably put them to very good use tonight. You have a voice begging to be heard, Yuuri; it simply needs to break out of the confines your mind sets upon it. Let it pour forth, let it captivate others the same way your body does when you dance.
Yours Affectionately,
Ghost of the Ice
P. S. - Your costume is exceedingly fetching, Yuuri. I cannot fathom why you seem to dislike it. It is dappled, as if it were made for the shadows of the jungle. Quite perfect for quiet, wild young thing like you.
"Jungle? Wild?" Yuuri said aloud, raising an eyebrow. He glanced up, noticing first Mila, Phichit, and Yuuko all gathered round him expectantly, and second the giant elephant prop being rolled into place near the back of the stage. Ah, yes, I suppose that's where the ghost got the jungle idea, he thought. But whatever made him think of wild?
"What did the Opera Ghost say this time, Yuuri?" Mila asked, eyes alight with curiosity and mischief, as she tried to hike her costume up without Minako's notice. The ghost only left notes for Celestino, who was Yuuri's and Phichit's adoptive guardian, or Yuuri himself. Mila was a trifle envious of the note, yet a trifle glad the attention of the ghost wasn't focused on her. Though the Opera Ghost respected Celestino far more than anyone else (including the opera's management), he was quite strident with him at times.
Yuuri couldn't find his voice at first. Their little group parted through the middle to let two other dancers pass through. Finally, he took a deep breath and answered, "He says I'm going to sing tonight." Phichit smiled and put his arm round Yuuri's shoulders. Phichit's dark olive skin almost matched the brown of the animal print.
Yuuri looked at him with gratitude, then swallowed, suddenly wishing for a glass of wine. "And I don't think he means just joining the chorus now and then, either," Yuuri added. Phichit looked even more delighted, and Yuuri felt a weight settling about his heart. Phichit's optimism was a bit draining at times.
Yuuri focused his eyes on Yuuko. Her own eyes grew thoughtful, a guarded reaction to match his. Bless you, Yuuko. She tapped her lips, a nervous gesture that she and Yuuri shared, along with covering nose and mouth whenever they were startled or upset. Yuuri wasn't sure if he'd picked the habits up from her, or she from him.
"That's intriguing," she said. "I don't see how that's going to come to pass. But then, none of us thought that . . ." She trailed off, but it was too late; now even Phichit was feeling renewed anxiety they were all trying to keep at bay.
"That cranky old Yakov would suffer anyone to supplant him as manager so soon?" Mila finished. She motioned for Yuuko to help her adjust her ponytail, and Yuuko obliged, tugging gently. "Indeed, and yet the Opera Ghost told Celestino to be ready for that three months hence."
Yuuri again took a deep breath to steady himself. Regime changes were scary in any place devoted to the arts. Would their new managers allow everyone, dancer, singer, musician, prop and set designer, costume designer, to follow wherever creativity led them? Would they know how guide the Ice Castle Opera to continued success?
And would they try to defy the Opera Ghost?
"I think we can depend upon it, Yuuri. Some way or another, you're singing tonight," said Mila, continuing on a subject that felt more grounding. She finished fussing over her collar and bust. "It is the ghost's decree."
"And you'll be splendid!" said Yuuko and Phichit in tandem. Splendid was a favorite word of Mila's, and so the other three made a game of using it around her as often as possible.
"Well," said Yuuri, already feeling he needed to get moving if his emotions were ever going to settle, "I know, quite surely, that we're dancing tonight. So please, let's practice."
Phichit's smile was back again, and he bowed in assent to Yuuri. As one, the four of them took starting positions. Yuuri snapped his fingers, and they were off. Phichit and Yuuri glided around each other on one side, while Mila and Yuuko mirrored their movements opposite them. They swayed back and forth, the movements making Yuuri think of palm trees in a horrific gale thrashing them this way and that. Then the four of them split and arched, and then switched off so that Yuuko joined Yuuri, and Mila joined Phichit.
Finally, finally, the musicians had gathered their wits and wills and began the first bars of the last act, for some unknown reason.
"Maybe," Phichit called to Yuuri over Mila's shoulder, "you can impress our new managers with your voice." He and Mila took turns spinning each other around. Yuuri nearly forgot what Phichit said as he spun with Yuuko.
Yuuko was smiling, and Yuuri was remembering how they used to spin each other as long as they could stand it when the were little. When Yuuri first came to the opera house with a letter to Celestino from his deceased mother. When Celestino had taken him in as his own ward, along with Phichit. When Minako and Yuuko had all-but adopted him as well.
His thoughts jerked away from the past when Phichit went on, "Maybe you'll impress them enough that they'll listen to you, Yuuri, if you explain about the Opera Ghost."
Mila laughed merrily, patting Phichit's head before they parted ways to dance singly again. "No one is going to listen to any of our ghost stories, my dear. They'll have to discover the truth of it for themselves."
Yuuko parted from Yuuri with a wink. As he started his favorite step sequence on his own, he noticed Yuuko lock eyes with her husband, down amidst the musicians. Takeshi shifted his cello in his grip, winked at them both, then shuffled over to tap the shoulder of the conductor and whisper something to him. The conductor wrapped up the last number abruptly, then started his little flock halfway through the correct musical accompaniment for their dance.
Yuuri had to repeat a sequence or two before the music caught up to him, but he sent a grateful smile to the conductor and Takeshi. He glanced around and noticed other cells of four dancers had taken the hint and started earning their keep. The stage was filled with grace and life.
Yuuri closed his eyes, perfectly content, perfectly at ease, and let the music take him where it willed.
The moment only lasted about thirty seconds.
"A moment of your attention, please!" Yakov's booming shout rang up to the rafters and back. The music faltered, then stilled like a dying heartbeat, and murmurs bubbled like fumes wafting up from alcohol.
Yuuri bit his lip, stopping short mid-spin. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. Off to the side of the stage, Yakov was striding past dancer, propmaster, and errand runner alike, with three strange but well-dressed men trailing behind him. The four gentlemen then took a stance in front of the conductor, like a line of officers at a battle about to begin. Yakov nodding to the conductor before turning to all of the gathered staff.
"Hello, everyone,” he said. His hair was in disarray, as usual. His clothes were quiet but immaculate greys and browns, as usual. His affectionate glare was as grilling and potent, as usual. But there were no worrying lines about his forehead any more. Clearly, impending retirement suited him. “Allow me to introduce your new--"
Yuuri missed whatever words came next from Yakov. He looked into the face of the shortest man, standing a little apart from Yakov and the two others. Yuuri saw a visage familiar, but changed to bear stronger and sharper lines.
Yuuri he felt as if water were filling his ears. He knew tears were gathering in his eyes. He studied light blue, no, blue-green eyes set with a firm, determined edge. Lips half-pouting, half-grimacing. Strands of delicate blonde hair fanning out to frame his jawline. An impatient, put-upon expression, signaling that life was a series of one irritation after another. An elegant but stubborn stance, bracing against the universe and everyone in it.
Yuri. After ten years of separation, there was Yuri standing before him.
Yuuri distinctly remembered a nine-year-old bearing that look of defiance against all and sundry. Now the boy had to be at least twenty. The boy had befriended him at his father's inn, back in the days when both of Yuuri's parents were still alive.
Back when Yuuri spent much of his time running and laughing at the beach, his best companions the salt, the sand, the wind. Back when Yuuri's father was still hale and drank in moderation. When Yuuri's mother was vivacious and played violin for the guests. When all of them cooked French and Japanese dishes as a family.
This other Yuri was so different, so standoffish, and yet they had struck a chord in each other anyway. Neither boy had been fluent in French, and so oftentimes they would chant Japanese or Russian at each other accompanied with gestures. (Yuri yelled more often than not.) For almost a month, Yuri's noble grandfather left him in their charge, and Yuuri grew to know what having a brother was like.
An irascible brother with a penchant for fighting when there was nothing to fight about, but a brother nonetheless. They played games with Yuuri's father and made treats to surprise Yuuri's mother. Yuuri had cried when the other Yuri left. But Yuri had held out until after the carriage door shut. Then he looked back at the Japanese Yuuri with a red, tear-stained face through the window, yelling at him to go back inside the inn to his family already.
All the memories of those happy days streamed through his mind as Yuuri's vision blurred. He felt a hand lightly press his shoulder. “It's alright, breathe,” he heard Mila reminding him. Yuuri realized she was mistaking his quiet distress for worry about the new managers.
Her gesture did serve its purpose, though. Yuuri was back to minding the present, gently shook his head and blinked back the water before it could spill from his eyes. He tried to focus on the gentlemen who would replace Yakov. Mila's hand retreated.
“We are interminably delighted with all we see here thus far,” one of the men was saying. Yuuri blinked again; both strangers were quite tall, practically dwarfing Yakov at their sides.
The man speaking wore the very latest Parisian fashion, a quiet grey coat over the most ostentatious clash of purple and blue for his waistcoat and Ascot-knotted cravat. His sandy brown hair tapered to yellow, like it had been dipped in bleach. It looked mussed with great care. Already Yuuri could overhear Yuuko muttering in disbelieving envy over the length of his eyelashes.
“And,” the other tall man added, sweeping one arm aside, “we are quite honored to have the pleasure of watching you bring the Ice Castle to life henceforward.” He was as dark and formal and otherworldly as a crone playing undertaker, though thankfully less ostentatious than his friend. He seemed fond of purple as well, given his dark lavender jabot. His exaggerated movements gave Yuuri the impression he had a history in theater already.
They will be just the sort of managers for Jean-Jacques Leroy, Yuuri thought. He looked around for their lead tenor and main attraction, but was shocked to find no sign of him. Jean-Jacques loved to test patience by being tardy to everything save the actual show, but this was a new record.
“In addition to Messieurs Giacometti and Popovich taking over for me from today onward, we have a new patron for the Ice Castle,” Yakov went on. “May I introduce the young Vicomte, Yuri Plisetsky. He is a personal friend of mine, so don't any of you try to pretend to be anything you aren't. He'll see right through you.” He tapped his cane three times against the wooden floorboards, then looked pointedly at Mila by Yuuri's side. He nodded to Minako, who was helping with a wardrobe mishap near the elephant prop. “He probably already knows you by reputation. Vicomte, if you would like to say a few words?”
“What is there to say, Yakov?” said Yuri, voice nothing like Yuuri remembered. His tone was almost as wooden as the boards beneath them, neither overtly rude nor especially polite. “I don't want art to die, so I keep it alive with my money. You all just keep on doing what you should do, and we'll all get along as well we might.”
Yuuri had to blink yet again. Strange though the voice was, the words perfectly suited the grown-up version of his friend. Terse, to-the-point, no finer feelings betrayed. He could remember Yuri's rants against learning to hold bland conversation in company. He didn't even realize he was smiling until Phichit whispered to him, “Why are you smiling? He doesn't seem agreeable at all. Looks as if he'll burst a blood vessel any minute.”
Yuuko was faster at connecting stray threads. “He's that friend who stayed with you for a month a long time ago, isn't he?” she said, leaning in to set her chin on the shoulder that Mila had squeezed before. “Wasn't his name Yuri, too?”
Yuuri nodded, still staring at the young Vicomte, who was adjusting his gloves carefully to avoid making eye contact with curious onlookers.
Mila and Phichit both let escape a muted, “Oh.”
“He doesn't remember me.” Yuuri couldn't stop himself from sagging, hands and feet feeling leaden.
“Oh,” said Mila.
“Perhaps it's just because you've changed so much,” said Phichit. Yuuko nodded, her chin jiggling Yuuri's shoulder a bit. Phichit added, “Also, you're in a crowd. And you're in costume.”
“Didn't you hear Yakov?” Yuuri asked, turning to pin Phichit with his gaze. Phichit's eyes widened slightly. “He said the Vicomte knows us by reputation. He's already heard of me, but has forgotten all about the other Yuuri from ten years ago. Yakov would have introduced us by now, if he knew me.”
“Oh,” said Mila again.
“Oh, Yakov!” A familiar shout almost shook the rafters as much as Yakov's announcement had moments earlier. Half of the people on the stage suppressed groans. The other half did not. Most of them turned to stare at the newcomer stomping up from the back of the stage, like a stag seeking out a mate. “Would you care to introduce me to our new managers and patron?”
“Now the self-proclaimed king deigns to make his entrance, right when 'twill have the most impact,” said Mila, undoing her red ponytail with a smirk.
Yuuri couldn't help but roll his eyes. To his astonishment, he caught the Russian Yuri making the same gesture, while everyone else was watching Jean-Jacques Leroy. Yuuri kept his gaze fixed ahead; he found it easier to suffer Jean-Jacques if he kept him out of his field of vision.
Growling slightly, Yakov boomed, “Ah, Jean-Jacques, there you are. I was beginning to think you ill. But perish the thought, you find us now and you are perfectly well. Here, gentlemen, is our esteemed, beloved, team-committed primo uomo, Jean-Jacques Leroy.”
Yuuri smiled; he didn't need to see Yakov's face to know Yakov's expression was both annoyed and jovial. Yakov must be so relieved to never speak with Jean-Jacques again after this.
“Gentleman, I am entranced!” Yuuri heard Jean-Jacques declare. “Have you had a chance to see or hear how our Hannibal is coming along?” To Yuuri's dismay, Jean-Jacques sped his way past everyone to stand before Yakov, Giacometti, Popovich, and Yuri. He blocked the Vicomte from Yuuri's view.
Jean-Jacques cut a striking figure. He wore a red and green striped mantle with gold tassels and baubles hanging all about, and a red and gold headdress almost as tall as a small child. But that simply wasn't enough. He also struck a pose to show the cut of the mantle to its best advantage. He was a king and conqueror, minus crown and territory. He had the crowing down admirably, though.
“Yes,” Giacometti answered with a pleasant smile. “I am quite impressed with the quality of the dance.”
“Indeed,” Popovich agreed, sweeping an arm again. “The choreography, the skill of the dancers themselves, is superb!”
“You have Celestino and Minako to thank for that,” said Yakov. “Celestino, my good man, come here and take some of the credit before Minako steals it all.”
Yuuri glanced backwards, and saw Minako mock-shaking her fist at Yakov, before returning to her task at mending another rent in the fabric of a dancer's girdle.
Celestino stepped forward from a knot of stagehands. In one hand, he bore an envelope sealed in black wax. It looked like a warning bearing a pirate's curse.
All the breath left Yuuri's lungs.
“Welcome, messieurs, we are honored,” said Celestino, striding to stand next to Giacometti. “We take great pride in the excellency of our ballet. And as you must have heard, Ice Castle is famous for it.”
“Indeed!” Giacometti agreed. “Might I ask who the little olive-skinned angel is? He dances like a true entertainer.” He glanced sidelong at Phichit, before tearing his eyes away to look back to Celestino.
Phichit blushed to the roots of his black hair, and retreated ever so slightly behind Yuuri. Mila thumped him playfully.
“My ward, Phichit. I have trained him since he could walk.” Celestino's stiff answer quite clearly stated that Giacometti's interest was to extend no further than that of opera manager.
“And a very amiable little boy he is, too,” said Jean-Jacques, fidgeting as if he knew not whether to keep his pose or strike a more impressive one. Or whether there was really any reason to talk about backup dancers at all.
Yuuko and Yuuri smiled at each other.
Giacometti bowed slightly. “And what of the Japanese boy? He moves like a child of the gods.”
Yuuri would have gasped at these continued forward inquiries, if he had any breath.
Celestino's voice only grew deeper. “My other ward, Yuuri Katsuki.”
“I would like to commend the animal print on their outfits,” said Yuri, probably to steer the conversation to more appropriate waters. Yuuri noticed the Vicomte was stroking an animal print vest as he spoke.
“Katsuki?” Popovich repeated, like a man who mentally filed away every name he ever heard. “Not like the late famous Japanese violinist?”
“Indeed, yes,” answered Celestino. “Madame Katsuki was his mother, and a good friend of mine.”
Yuuri reeled slightly. A stranger remembered his mother's married surname, but Yuri Plisetsky couldn't remember his name or his face? Did the Vicomte only notice animal prints?
“Speaking of friends,” Jean-Jacques began, hopping from one foot to another, as if he were about to dance to see if the others would pay attention.
“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me,” said Celestino, coolly stealing the momentum of the conversation from Jean-Jacques. “My good sirs, I have a letter for your from a sort of resident friend, here at the Ice Castle Opera.”
Most of the people on the stage took a step closer, eagerly anticipating what reactions were in store. Would their new managers and patron take the absurdity in stride?
Yuuri took a couple steps backward before his limbs threatened to give way. He felt as if he were submerged in a bath and then frozen in place, so he couldn't raise his head to break the surface of the water. He forced his lungs to keep working.
“Resident friend?” Now Yuuri could see the Vicomte again, and the young man looked amused for the first time all day.
“Indeed.” Celestino broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper.
“Is that a black skull seal?” Popovich asked.
“Indeed.”
Popovich shot Yuri an equally amused glance.
Celestino read aloud verbatim. Yuuri searched for any sign of movement in the rafters, but he found none. He knew the ghost of the ice was up there somewhere, hanging on every word like a vulture, nonetheless.
My dear sirs,
I cordially welcome you to my opera house. You will find it in good working order, thanks to Yakov's delegation and Celestino's guidance and Minako's action.
To keep the Ice Castle Opera in good working order under my blessing, I require three things.
Item 1: Leave box five empty at all times for my use.
Item 2: My monthly salary of 20,000 francs is due. You may leave it on the stage, inside this envelope marked with my seal, to signal it is for me. I shall collect it at my leisure.
Item 3: Do not harm the poodle.
Yours respectfully,
Ghost of the Ice
P. S. - I suggest you find an understudy for Jean-Jacques Leroy soon. Strange things do happen. Celestino will know who to nominate.
Yuri's mouth fell open. Popovich turned a purple to match his jabot. Giacometti alone found his tongue.
“Of all the nonsense!” he shouted, before lowering his voice. “Pardon me if this is a tradition in the opera I am unfamiliar with, but what sort of schoolboy prank is this?”
“It is quite real, I assure you,” said Yakov, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have paid his salary for years now, ever since the first time I refused brought on a week of calamities for us.”
Popovich was the next to recover. “20,000 francs? He cannot be serious. What the devil does this ghost of the ice even do?”
“Ghostly things, I suppose,” said Yuri. To Yuuri's astonishment, the Vicomte was grinning widely. There was nothing wooden about his voice or demeanor now. He looked like a tiger reunited with his jungle. “Do not fret yourselves, gentlemen; I am the bloody patron, I will pay his bloody salary. That is my function here, is it not?”
“Do not encourage him!” Jean-Jacques exclaimed, glaring at Yuri. “Too long this ridiculous ghost has plagued us with his whims. It's time to cast him aside and let someone else rule here! He'll frighten away easily enough, if you stand up to him!”
Yuri smirked at the singer. He turned to the managers, both arriving and leaving. “Are you willing to risk a week of calamities, starting with our sold out show tonight?” he asked.
Yakov smiled back at him. Popovich and Giacometti paled and shook their heads. They put Yuuri in mind of two bashful penguins.
“Very well, then! Master Celestino, if you please!” And Yuri held out his hand for the envelope with the black wax seal.
When Celestino handed the letter over to the Vicomte, Jean-Jacques erupted. “Very well, indeed! I hope you, Messieur Vicomte, and the rest of the audience is as excited by dancing girls and boys as your new managers. Because this week's first calamity is happening anyway. I WILL NOT BE SINGING!”
He turned on his heel and marched like general who was certainly not beating a hasty retreat. Yet again, Yuuri reeled. The ghost's decree . . . they were going to ask Yuuri to sing Jean-Jacques' part, weren't they?
He sighed in relief when Giacometti and Popovich took Yakov's advice, chasing Jean-Jacques down to grovel and scrape and preen and pet. Within five minutes, Jean-Jacques was back on the stage in front of everyone, ready to demonstrate what he did best. Yakov bade everyone adieu, shook hands with Celestino and Yuri, and left to catch his coach to start his journey back to Russia.
Jean-Jacques hadn't even sung five bars before the painted background tapestry came tumbling down upon his head.