A/N notes: Unedited and longer than I intended. Happy belated Halloween.

And I am so very sorry.

"Trust me, my love
You live within me
So I'll never
Say good-bye to you"

~Heaven, Hamasaki Ayumi

Beautiful.

It's the first word that comes to mind when Viktor first notices him. Lingering quietly by the "Dipping for Goldfish" booth, he stands out amidst the backdrop of motion and noise. Viktor watches him as he watches others, taking in the people scooping goldfish in the buckets, the laughter when a scoop breaks in the water, the affectionate teasing over every failed attempt.

There's something about him, thinks Viktor, struck by the sadness in warm eyes, the soft downturned curve of pink lips.

That first time, Viktor doesn't approach him; he has a strange feeling the stranger would've gone away – vanished and flitted away like dust.

Christophe is amused when Viktor tells him.

"You, Viktor Nikiforov: star of the Theater Troupe, legendary performer, the man who has every human being on the planet throwing themselves at him at every hour, minute, and second of the day… You can't approach a cute Japanese guy?"

"There's something about him," Viktor says.

But Christophe has a point.

What starts as a whim born out of boredom with rehearsals – "Sorry, I'm attending the Japanese Student Association's fireworks festival tonight," he announces brightly over the student director's enraged splutters – turns into something with purpose. More purpose than he has ever felt in months.

Again, Cute Japanese Guy lingers behind the crowd at the goldfish booth, sporting that same wistful expression, long eyelashes an inky smudge against his cheeks.

Beautiful.

Viktor brushes his hair back, straightens his collar, and heads forward like a moth drawn to the flame.

"Hi," he says. "Come here often?"

Cute Japanese Guy's eyes are wide as he spins around. "Are you… talking to me?"

"Yes," Viktor chuckles, marveling at how quickly pink rises to the man's cheeks. "Who else would I be talking to?"

"Oh," says Cute Japanese Guy. He glances around him, then back to Viktor, glasses flashing in the amber light of homemade paper lanterns. "Oh," he says again. "Well, um." Lashes sweep down, long and dark and hesitant. "I'm only here on festival days."

"Ah, you go to a different school?" says Viktor.

"Yes," says Cute Japanese Guy, a little too quickly. The shade of pink darkens, and the pads of Viktor's fingers itch to feel the sweet warmth.

"I'm Viktor, by the way," he says instead. "Viktor—"

"Nikiforov," Cute Japanese Guy finishes. "I… I know who you are." Then, shyly, "I liked your performance as King Lear."

Viktor feels warmth fill his chest and trickle down his ribs, one by one. Back then, the Theater Troupe had a director who favored classic plays ranging from Hamlet and Midsummer Night's Dream to Waiting for Godot and Death of a Salesman – performances that challenged and heightened Viktor's passion as a theatrical performer. Performances unlike the mind-numbing Disney musicals that the current director so enjoys, with Viktor repeatedly cast as the handsome, charming prince. (Boring, boring, boring.)

"In that case," Viktor winks, "I think it's only fair that I know your name as well."

Cute Japanese Guy considers for a moment, chewing hard on his bottom lip, before he finally responds. "Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki."

"Yuu~ri," Viktor says, dragging the name across his tongue just to delight in the other man's blush. He gestures toward the goldfish booth. "Did you want to try this, Yuuri?"

"I've never been good at it," Yuuri sighs.

Viktor smiles; an opportunity. "How about I get you one?"

"You will?" says Yuuri, eyes lighting up, bright as the rising sun.

Viktor's heart skips a beat. "Absolutely," he says.

It takes Viktor six tries, four broken scoops, and a week's meals, but it's all worth it to see Yuuri's smile turn soft and pleased as he gingerly accepts the bagged goldfish with two hands.

They spend the rest of the evening wandering the festival grounds, stopping by the various booths and sampling foods. They talk too; Viktor tells Yuuri about his childhood in Russia, his love for theater, his small but loyal theater crew. His dog, Makkachin, always curled in a warm ball by his feet. Yuuri listens, and listens well, so Viktor keeps talking, the director's ringing shriek of you're the goddamned lead, Nikiforov, act like one lifting off his shoulders, buoyant and light. The more Viktor relaxes, the more he laughs as Yuuri shares his own stories of a little town called Hasetsu in Japan.

When Yuuri turns back to smile at him, soft features glowing warm in the light of the fireworks, Viktor knows then that he's lost.

"Can I see you again after the festival?" Viktor murmurs, taking Yuuri's hand in his. It's cold, chilled by the autumn winds.

Yuuri blinks wide, wide eyes. "You want to see me again?"

"Always," Viktor says without pause.

Yuuri's blush spreads along his jaw and down his neck, and Viktor wonders just how low it goes; how Yuuri's chest might look, flushed as prettily as his face.

"Yes," says Yuuri. "I'd like that very much."

They meet at night, in parks and rooftops and a tiny karaoke room hidden in the back of a Japanese restaurant – places with few to no people. Viktor doesn't think much of it; not everyone is comfortable with crowds, and Yuuri seems like a fairly private person who prefers to keep to himself.

Yuri thinks he's a vampire out for blood. Mila thinks he has severe agoraphobia. Georgi thinks he is perfect and beyond romantic.

Christophe sums it up neatly:

"You know there's a problem when Georgi Popovich approves of your relationship."

Viktor pays no heed to his theater crew. They all have an inclination for drama of some kind; it's that very inclination that draws them to the stage and makes them great actors.

Besides, Yuuri is perfect. He owns a dog, just like Makkachin, and he speaks of his poodle with such fondness that Viktor warms with joy every time. He's always giggling over his best friend's latest prank—a Thai boy called Phichit—and he smiles at Viktor like it's a secret, these stories, meant for Viktor and Viktor alone. That's when Viktor will shift until they sit shoulder to shoulder; tangle their fingers together and listen as Yuuri's laughter tumbles out between them.

Yuuri's hands are always cold, but Viktor doesn't mind. It gives him a reason to curl a hand over Yuuri's and brush against tender skin.

And Yuuri lets him. Offers a smile as incandescent as the street lights at midnight – Viktor's guide in the darkness.

Viktor knows he's entirely at ease when he begins to tell Yuuri about his frustrations with the Theater Troupe.

"I think you make a lovely Disney prince," Yuuri teases gently.

"The very best." Viktor flashes a lopsided grin, squeezing Yuuri's hand. "But it's not theater, is it? It's not Shakespeare or the Greek classics or – or, say, Oscar Wilde. Musicals are not my passion, not what I want to do in life."

It's Yuuri's turn to squeeze his hand.

"We don't always get what we want," he says, soft and so ever forlorn that Viktor's chest aches.

He would give Yuuri anything he wants.

It's several weeks into dating Yuuri that Viktor runs into Phichit.

The Thai boy sits in the back of East Asian Art History, eyes glinting impishly as he chats with a petite Chinese boy.

A glint that vanishes as soon as Viktor introduces himself, Phichit's face turning pale and drawn.

"Did you say you heard about me through Yuuri?" he whispers.

"Yes," says Viktor, eyebrows knotting. "He told me about how you loosened the screws in your roommate's desk chair."

Phichit stares. "That's last week."

"Well, yes," Viktor says, now thoroughly baffled.

There's a long pause, before Phichit sweeps his belongings into his bag and jerks his head toward the door. "You, me, private talk. Cover for me, Guang Hong."

The Chinese boy bobs his head in acknowledgement, silent despite the look of curiosity on his face.

Without protest, Viktor follows Phichit out of the class, dozens of questions stirring restlessly in his mind. As Phichit leads him into an empty classroom, he eventually settles on one. "Did something happen between you and Yuuri?"

"Not between us, no. Never between us. We were best friends." Phichit's jaw twitches as he wrestles with some emotion threatening to surface. "Are best friends." He takes a deep breath, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. "More importantly, how did you meet Yuuri?"

"At the JSA fireworks festival."

Phichit's eyes soften. "He does love their festivals." He exhales. "So let me get this straight. You've been… dating Yuuri."

"Quite steadily, yes." Viktor smiles. "I love him."

For a moment, Phichit doesn't respond. And then his head drops and he starts to laugh, softly, shakily. "After all those years, only now…" He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Is Yuuri with us right now?"

"No," Viktor says, taking in the empty classroom. Drugs, yes. That must be it. Drugs must have bamboozled Phichit's brain and driven a wedge between him and Yuuri.

"All right. Okay." Phichit lifts his head and stares a hole through Viktor, the glint returning to wet eyes. "You better treat him right, Nikiforov. I'm known as the Joker of Hawkins University for a reason."

Behind the threat lies that same wistful expression that Yuuri has from time to time, that same sadness when he pauses in conversations to gaze into the far distance.

"I will," says Viktor.

Yuuri cries when Viktor tells him about Phichit.

They're sitting together on Viktor's couch, Yuuri's knee bumping distractingly against Viktor's, Makkachin dozing on Yuuri's feet. And Yuuri cries.

Viktor is at a loss. He has only dealt with crying on stage: crocodile tears that shimmer like diamonds under the stage lights, shed to tug at heart strings and draw in their audience. So he reacts the only way he knows how.

He kisses Yuuri. Fits their mouths together and swallows the soft gasp, the hiccups, the pain.

Yuuri's lips are cold, just like his hands. The tip of Viktor's tongue brushes against his, and Yuuri's hands grip into fists on his chest. Good, thinks Viktor. He's stopped crying—

"What do you think you're doing?" Yuuri hisses.

And now he sounds mad.

Viktor pulls away to find Yuuri glowering at him. "You were crying, so I thought—"

"So you thought you'd distract me with a kiss?" Yuuri says, his voice rising up an octave.

"I uh," Viktor flounders, "That is—"

The intercom buzzes, loud and insistent.

Instantly, Viktor leaps off the couch and bolts for the front door, where he wouldn't see the flush of anger on Yuuri's cheeks, the accusation in his eyes.

It's Yuri, demanding for Viktor to return his Rush albums; Otabek's in town and I want him to think I'm cool, goddammit.

"This isn't the best time," Viktor starts, but the upstart freshman shoves past him and storms inside.

Yuri's face contorts as soon as he enters the living room. Viktor can't tell if he disapproves, or is just surprised, but his eyes dart around, taking in the couch, the glasses of wine on the coffee table, Makkachin snoozing on the floor.

Yuuri, meanwhile, takes on the look of a deer in the headlights, his indignation forgotten. (Perhaps this is the best time, after all.)

Viktor clears his throat. "Yuri," he says, "Meet Yuu—"

"I've always thought you were crazy," Yuri snorts, "But why can't you drink from one glass like a normal person?"

Viktor blinks. "I'm sorry, what?"

Yuri has left by then, his voice drifting out from Viktor's bedroom. "I mean, two glasses? I know you've got a fancy dishwasher and everything, but you could pretend to look like less of an alcoholic."

Viktor turns to Yuuri, who meets his gaze. The stricken expression is gone, replaced by an eerie sort of calmness. An acceptance, almost. And if Viktor looks, really looks, Yuuri is flickering at the edges, in and out, like a fading light bulb.

"Hey, you listening?" Yuri returns, punching Viktor in the shoulder. "I've got my albums, so I'm leaving you to your sad little party of one."

"Party of one." Viktor swallows. "Right."

The front door closes, and Viktor remains standing. He's not quite sure how to react. How to feel, even.

Suddenly, Yuri's vampire theory isn't so farfetched.

It's Yuuri who breaks the silence.

"You must have questions."

Viktor reminds himself to breathe and wipes his hands on his thighs. "He couldn't see you," he says intelligently.

"Yes," Yuuri agrees. "He couldn't see me."

Viktor licks his lips and wipes his hands again. Slowly but surely, it's starting to make sense now. The nightly meetings, the quiet, unpopulated date spots, the shock on Phichit's features.

The cold hands – cold even in the warmth of the Viktor's heated apartment.

Everything falls into place then, clicks together like the edged pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

"You're…" Something pricks in the back of Viktor's throat and prevents him from finishing.

Yuuri nods, gaze dropping to his feet. "Six months ago, I was on the way to watch your performance of Hamlet with the Theater Troupe, when a bus careened around a corner. I didn't stand a chance."

The crew's last play was indeed six months ago, a farewell hurrah for their graduating director.

"There was a school-wide announcement," Viktor realizes. "Something about a funeral…"

"Yeah," says Yuuri. "Mine."

"But you're from a different school."

"I lied. I only said I was from a different school because I didn't want you looking me up and finding out that I was, you know. Not alive anymore."

Slowly, Viktor sinks down beside Yuuri, clapping his palms to his face. The love of his life is dead. Actually dead. Trust life to throw him one hell of a curveball.

"How is it that I can see you? Touch you? That Makkachin can see and touch you?"

"Animals have a sixth sense, I've learned. For you… I'm not sure. You're the first person to ever interact with me." Yuuri's eyes turn liquid and golden. "Even Phichit can't see me."

Oh.

"That's why you cried when I mentioned Phichit," Viktor says, swallowing the lump in his throat. "And why you were so surprised at the festival."

"I've become used to being alone for so long. That, and you're Viktor Nikiforov." Yuuri's cheeks turn pink, lashes spreading out in a dark fan. "I didn't think you'd ever notice me, dead or alive."

"How could I not." Viktor reaches out, pressing a hand to the curve of one cheek. "You're beautiful."

Yuuri smiles, and Viktor's heart trips.

Who cares if Yuuri's a ghost?

He still loves Yuuri. Wants him. Wants to fit his palms on Yuuri's hips and taste the hollow of his throat, soft under the collar. Wants to wrap his arms around him, never let him go.

"What does this mean for us?" Viktor murmurs, resting their foreheads together.

"I don't know," Yuuri sighs. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here. I don't even know why I'm here in the first place."

"Do you want to leave?" Viktor asks softly.

"No! I really enjoy being with you, but I – I just—" Yuuri draws in a wobbly breath. "It's hard. To see the people you love, the people you care about, and not have them see you. Like Phichit. Or my family. Especially my family. My mom and dad and Mari…" Fingers curl, trembling, into Viktor's shirt. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."

"Yuuri," Viktor says, heart curdling from the shadow of misery on Yuuri's face. "We'll figure it out." He presses a kiss on Yuuri's forehead. Then his nose. His cheeks. "We'll figure it out together."

"Oh Viktor," Yuuri breathes. His lips brush against Viktor's, cold and warm all at once. "If I could, I'd stay with you forever."

It sounds like a proposal.

Viktor falls harder.

"Unfinished business," Yuri declares.

Viktor looks up blearily as a giant tome is dropped in front of him, rocking the unstable desk he's been working on through the night. His theater crew—sans Christophe who prioritized his beauty sleep—circle around his tiny workspace in the library, carrying assortments of books in their arms.

"That's the thing that's keeping your ghost boy here." Yuri slams a hand down on the open page, lifting his chin with authority. "Unfinished business."

"Fascinating," says Viktor, yawning. The desk tips onto its shorter leg. "And what exactly does 'unfinished business' mean?"

"It means something ghost boy wanted to do before death. Or something he was planning to do but never got around to it. Or, I don't know, revenge on the bus driver who killed him."

"What a tortured soul," Georgi weeps, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve.

"Aside from being dead, I don't think I'm that tortured," Yuuri remarks next to Viktor, who lets out a huff of laughter.

Viktor had his reservations about informing the crew about Yuuri, but he's glad he did. The theater crew was surprisingly, sweetly, receptive to their relationship. Georgi was their most avid supporter, naturally, but Christophe and Mila were also kind. Even Yuri didn't have a bad word to say to them. ("Only you would fall in love with a ghost," he snorts instead.)

Mila lights up. "Is he here right now? Is that why you're laughing?"

"Yes and yes," says Viktor. He turns to smile at Yuuri, hand reaching under the table for his.

"It's freakish watching you make googly eyes at empty spaces," Yuri says with a shudder.

"I have a thought," says Mila. She pulls up a chair, before pausing. "Yuuri isn't sitting on this one, is he?"

"No," Yuuri and Viktor reply in unison.

"Great." She plops down on the seat and leans on the desk, tipping it back to the other side. "Didn't Yuuri say he was on his way to watch a play of ours? With you as the lead?"

"Hamlet," Viktor supplies.

"Right, Hamlet. And that was our last Shakespearian play, wasn't it? Everything after that was musicals, Broadway stuff."

"Bunch of bullshit," Yuri gags.

"I quite enjoy them," Georgi says stiffly.

Rolling her eyes, Mila elbows the two boys behind her. "My point is… what if that's Yuuri's unfinished business? Maybe all he wants to do is watch you play a titular Shakespearian role on stage. Maybe the reason why you can interact with him is because his unfinished business has something to do with you."

Yuuri's teeth works at his bottom lip as he considers the suggestion. "I do want to see your last play," he finally relents.

Viktor beams. "Sounds like it's worth a shot."

"But," Yuuri laces their fingers together, "But if it works, then I'll…"

Ah. Viktor's smile falls. How easily he chooses to forget that. "We don't know that," he says. "Maybe you can still stay. Maybe—"

"We don't always get what we want," Yuuri whispers.

"Yuuri," Viktor says, his chest constricting so hard he can hardly breathe.

"I'm starting to see why he only meets you in quiet places," Yuri mutters. "You look like a mad man right now, laughing and crying at nothing."

"There, there," says Mila, as Georgi bawls on her shoulder over the sheer tragedy of their romance.

Viktor begs for the first time in his life.

Begs and pleads and implores the student director to please allow me one play, just one play.

He's on the verge of dropping to his knees when the director caves. "On the condition that you promise to come to rehearsals and quit bitching about my artistic decisions," she says, tapping a rolled-up script on one knee.

"Fine," Viktor says through clenched teeth.

But, really, groveling wasn't the hard part. No, he would have dragged his face through mud if he knew it would make Yuuri happy. The hard part was coming to terms with the knowledge that his love, his life, may cease to exist in this world. He selfishly, desperately wants Yuuri to stay. Close to him, by his side. Forever and always.

He tells Yuuri as much that night, pressed between him and the mattress, Yuuri's head pillowed comfortably on his chest.

"Is this really what you want?" Yuuri sighs. He draws little patterns into Viktor's skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps with his chilled fingertips. "Never dating out in the open, never sharing about our relationship… never doing any of the stuff normal couples do."

Viktor chuckles, running a hand down Yuuri's back. "I'm fairly sure all that making out we did tonight counts as normal stuff."

Yuuri huffs, and oh, he is adorable when he's exasperated, with the fall of dark bangs over furrowed eyebrows, the curl of his nose and lashes. "You know what I mean."

They live together now, with Yuuri's only valuable being the single red goldfish that Viktor won for him at the festival. ("Where did you get the bowl?" "Phichit's roommate.") Yuuri tells Viktor that he doesn't actually need a place to stay; he simply drifts about until dawn breaks, mingling among the drunks and the homeless, a shadow in the night. He never tires, never needs rest. Never sleeps.

I don't need a place, Yuuri insists.

But Viktor sees the joy in honey-brown eyes when he offers Yuuri a home.

"What will I do without you," Viktor murmurs, nuzzling into Yuuri's hair, no longer startled by the sudden jolt of cold.

"Live," says Yuuri. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. "Live and go on being the charming prince that serenades unwitting princesses into marriage."

Viktor spends the next few minutes pressing his fingers against the spots that make Yuuri giggle and writhe and squirm.

On the bedside table, the red goldfish makes another circle round the side of the bowl.

Forever and always.

Viktor throws himself into rehearsals for the play, so fevered and impassioned that the director is stunned by the change in attitude.

Yuuri doesn't attend. He's at Phichit's instead, reuniting with his dearest friend, communicating with the use of a portable whiteboard and an Ouija board. On their first meeting, there were tears and a good amount of yelling on Phichit's part, because dammit Yuuri, you should've told me you were still around, and I still hate you for leaving me, you stupid, stupid jerk.

After that, Yuuri tells Viktor, it was just like old times again.

("I think I know who stole your missing bowl, Seung-gil," Phichit gasps theatrically, as Yuuri yanks out drawers in rapid succession, spilling utensils, coasters, and condiments all over the pristine kitchen floor.

"Great," says Phichit's roommate, eyes rolling skyward. "And I'm the one who has to clean up this poltergeist shit.")

Yuuri's brighter now. Alive. And there's joy in his apartment, so much joy. Like when Viktor returns home to find Yuuri and Makkachin curled up on the couch, tangled together. Or when Yuuri stands laughing in the kitchen where the light is just perfect, falling across his face, haloing his hair.

So Viktor works harder. To give Yuuri the best damn performance he will ever see.

It's an hour to curtain rising.

Viktor paces, running through his lines. He stops at a full-length mirror to stare and tug at his pantaloons and comb back his hair. Then he resumes his pacing. Up and down and up and down.

"Sit down, idiot," Yuri snaps from a corner of the dressing room. "You're giving me a headache."

Viktor runs a hand through his hair. "I don't think we have the third act quite down yet—"

"Sit," Christophe says, herding Viktor to a chair and pushing him down onto the seat.

"Never seen you this nervous before," Mila remarks.

"His greatest love is watching tonight," Georgi says solemnly. "It is only natural."

"Yuuri," Viktor says, eyes widening. "He'll need a seat—"

"Front row, stage center, right smack in the middle," Christophe says. "I've put a reserved sign on it and instructed ushers not to allow anyone on that seat." He pats Viktor on the shoulder. "Why don't you go see for yourself?"

Viktor peeks through the curtains, and sure enough, Yuuri is there. Right smack in the middle, his hands on his knees, glancing about as people stream past him to their seats. He almost seems to flicker under the theater lights, his smile soft and full of something that makes Viktor's chest burn.

Viktor pulls back and breathes.

"What if it works, Chris?" he blurts out. "What if he disappears tonight?"

There is sympathy in Christophe's eyes.

"Then you'll know that you've given him happiness."

The theatre is filled to the brim, and the play moves on without a hitch.

During his infamous soliloquy, Viktor catches Yuuri's gaze, the warmth and pride in his eyes, and Viktor continues on, heart swelling as he faces his lovely Ophelia, the inimitable Mila.

Intermission soon arrives with Viktor's dagger poised over Christophe at prayer. As soon as the curtain closes, Viktor peeks through again to admire the flush of pink on Yuuri's cheeks, the curve of his mouth, the dip of dark lashes.

Beautiful.

"Is Yuuri enjoying himself?" Mila asks, peering over his shoulder.

"Yes," Viktor says, smiling.

The play resumes. Act three. Act four. Act five – with Yuri performing his heart out for his own love in the audience, no matter how vehemently he denies it.

Viktor's delighted. Everything is perfect, just the way he wants it for Yuuri.

It happens when they're bowing a fourth time to the relentless standing ovation.

The curtains are falling, and Viktor looks for his heart, his home, and Yuuri's smiling, smiling with soft, bright eyes, the edges of his body dissipating into little balls of golden light.

Yuuri's mouth moves—I love you—and then he's gone.

Gone.

Scattered like particles of stardust, like smoke.

Viktor doesn't remember what happens next.

There might have been drinks: water, and vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. The crew might have been there. The crew might have held him up, kept him grounded. Might have told him it'll be okay, it'll all be okay.

Viktor doesn't remember.

But he does remember waking up to a throbbing head, to raw, aching emptiness, to the noon sun streaming across the single red goldfish, circling round and round and round.

Hair rumpled, barely dressed, Viktor fumbles for his keys and leaves. Leaves so he won't hear Makkachin's questioning whines, won't feel the missing dip in the mattress, won't see the outline of lean shoulders, the trim line of a slender waist.

He goes to Phichit, because Phichit will understand.

And Phichit does.

He kicks out his roommate and pulls Viktor into his room. Makes him tea and sits with him in silence.

Viktor wants to scream. Scream and yell and howl until everything inside him is scrapped raw and he can make no sound at all.

Instead, he doubles forward, face in his hands, and concentrates on breathing. Dark lashes, flushed cheeks, warm eyes. (I love you.) He pulls in another breath.

Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

"Hey," Phichit says.

Viktor flinches.

"I don't know if it's too soon, or… well, I don't know. You can decide for yourself." There's a rustle, and something is pushed into Viktor's line of vision. Something white and crumpled and filled with scribbles. "Yuuri asked me to give this to you. If and when he…" Phichit trails off, exhaling shakily.

Viktor's skull throbs like an agitated bruise.

"What is it," he croaks.

"Unfinished business," Phichit says.

Slowly, reluctantly, Viktor reaches out and grabs the sheet.

Yuuri's Bucket List (cause Phichit won't shut up about it)

· Zipline
· Ride an ATV
· Win a goldfish at the festival
· Swim with dolphins
· Watch all of Viktor's plays
· ALL HIS PLAYS
· Tell Viktor how much I like his plays
· See the Northern Lights
· Watch a baseball game
· Fall in love

Viktor's stomach boils and churns, his heart spinning out of his chest. Images, voices, memories: they echo inside, colliding, fracturing in the back of his eyes.

I've never been good at it. The pink bow of a soft mouth tipping downwards. I do want to see your last play. A light of excitement brimming in golden brown eyes. I liked your performance as King Lear. Long eyelashes shadowing against silken cheeks, tender and shy.

I love you.

Grief descends on him in a sudden, plunging drop, and the string snaps. His entire body bristles with spasms as the tears finally fall, gobs of sorrow and desolation, a long, keening whine ripping through his throat and cracking against the four walls.

Phichit doesn't move, doesn't say a word. Just sits by his side, trembling, breathing.

The tea grows cold, untouched and forgotten.

"—and I can't thank you enough for such a rare opportunity to interview you for our website, Mr. Nikiforov! You have no idea how inspirational your acting is to us."

Viktor slips in a brilliant smile, and the journalist nearly drops her pen. "You're too kind."

"I, I um…" The journalist shakes her head rapidly, fruitlessly trying to dispel the flush on her cheeks. "I just have one last question, from the fans and for the fans! On a recent poll, fans have voted tragic romances as some of your greatest Broadway performances. Les Misérables, Miss Saigon, Spring Awakening, to name but a few. So we fans just have to know: where do you draw such intense, heart wrenching emotions for these roles?"

Viktor's smile falters, just for a heartbeat.

"The thought of love and being in love," he says softly. "Real, mind-blowing, agonizing love. Love that stays, lingers. Clings until your chest clenches and your throat closes and you never, ever want it to end."

"Oh," the journalist says, clutching her notes to her heart. "Now I feel compelled to ask: are you in love, Mr. Nikiforov?"

Viktor thinks of the red goldfish, darting about in its large aquarium home, sleek and beautiful and surprisingly, miraculously, alive.

"Forever and always," he says.