Glutton

To: Neon

From: Yuuri

[txt] Hey its Yuuri 

[txt] We met a while back when I first got here

[txt] I dont know if your offer is still open

[txt] But if you need a subject to paint, I could pose for you

[txt] I can meet you at the studio sometime when your free

[txt] But if you found someone else its fine

To: Yuuri

From: Neon

[txt] Hey there! [txt] The offer is 100% open! I'm free basically 24/7 so let me know what would work for you! Do you want to meet at the dance studio? Or somewhere else first? I'm good with whatever :D [txt] oh, though we should settle a rate, I figure I can pay you hourly for your time since I'm not sure how long the sittings will take. Does 10 an hr work? I'm willing to discuss it of course ;)

runawayfusion:

She’s a little disappointed he’s not hungry, though part of her is sure that Neon would be fine if she wanted to help herself to the soup. Still, her standards of politeness prevent her from eating in front of a guest (and he is her guest), so she keeps smiling. 

“Oh, no problem! I like strong coffee myself.” 

After making sure to set her sketchbooks on the table, she grabs two mugs and gets to work. With a deep inhale, she breathes the scent of freshly-ground espresso beans, relishing the bittersweet complexity. She loves the sound o espresso brewing, the hiss of milk steaming. She fixes their lattes, adding a dash of lavender syrup to hers, and adorns the foam with a heart-shaped flourish. 

“Here you are!” She sets the mugs on the table with a hearty thunk before settling in across from Neon. He’s begun sketching, and she feels her heart flutter at the knowledge that she gets to watch an artist like him at work. Okay, he’d probably feel uncomfortable if she shared those sentiments, but she can keep her excitement to herself well enough. 

She takes a sip of her latte, silently pleased with her work. Bragging isn’t something she often does, but she’s proud of her barista skills. Her eyes flutter closed, and she savors the way the creaminess of the milk and the floral sweetness of the lavender temper the rich bitterness of strong-brewed espresso. 

“Thank you for meeting me,” she says between sips. “I hope the latte makes the trip worth it!” 

After settling in and enjoying her drink, she holds up the pile of sketchbooks she left on her chair earlier and flashes him a sheepish smile. “Okay, quick disclaimer, by the way. This might get weird.”

You watch her work, and your subject changes, quickly sketching as she moves: the concentrated look as she pulls the espresso, the smile as she adds syrup to one mug, the gentle flourish of her arm as she adds the milk. It’s a dance of sorts, you think, and you’re a little mesmerized, pencil flicking across the page to try and capture each motion, each expression.

“Thank you so much,” you smile, putting the sketchbook aside, and pick up the mug. You’re impressed with the latte art, and feel a little bad ruining it, but it smells so good, and you’re starving. Maybe you should have just given in and asked for something to eat, but it’s too late now. You’d feel bad making her get up again after she’s gotten comfortable.

You take a sip and your eyes go a little wide. Sure, you can’t taste much, but this Latte is the best you’ve ever had. It tastes like…a deep burgundy. That’s the best description you can come up with, but it fits. And the milk makes it light and airy, despite the seemingly robust flavor.

“It most certainly does!” You exclaim, going for another sip, “I’m never going to be able to drink coffee anywhere else. You’ve ruined me.” You laugh, but it’s true.

You push your sketchbooks across the table, including the one you were just drawing in, a little embarrassed that she’ll find out you were drawing her.

“As you know, I like a little bit of weird,” you encourage and motion for her to hand the pile over.

She watches him, hands clasped, as he takes the first sip, and her shoulders relax as a smile spreads across her face at his reaction. “Well, I’m glad it didn’t disappoint,” she says with a shy giggle. 

After taking another slow sip of her own latte, she exhales and pushes the pile towards him. “These aren’t in any particular order, so there might be some older stuff in the middle of the pile or something. Just in case the quality suddenly drops.” She grimaces. Her art isn’t that great now, but at least she’s improved from her earlier work. 

"A game?" You exclaim, a little bit of awe escaping, " That's so cool, what kind of game, if you don't mind me asking, I love these designs by the way," you take your turn opening your sketchbook as you blather on, excited by the prospect of her project and suddenly a little embarrassed of your own work. You haven't been working on any cool concepts like that. You had never really thought of doing more with your art. Though you suppose you're trying to create a different kind of narrative than she is, though it sparks a few ideas in your head.

The first page of the worn sketchbook at the top of the pile is blank save a smudged charcoal doodle of a flower. It must be older if you're using charcoal, you haven't used the stuff in ages. Next is series of interlocked circles, nothing like the figure work you do now. 

nerdonice:

Neon is surprisingly attentive, taking the time to point out various sights and stores as they walk. He seems genuine, but Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s being so nice to the boy he met crying on a bench (pity, probably). Well, maybe he’ll have to take Neon up on the offer to draw him just as a way to thank him. Then again, he’s still skeptical that he’d make a good subject, but if Neon insists… Maybe the artist is desperate for willing participants?

He knows he’ll forget most of everything not too long after this tour, but he still appreciates it. Finally, they stop at the studio, and Yuuri studies the brickwork and simple sign. So, this place really is called Fuckoville. Yuuri feels tired.

“Oh… thank you! I think I’ll take a look later when I’ve had a chance to rest, if that’s okay. But thank you very much.”

You want to smack yourself for not thinking that he’d be tired. Of course he’s tired. You force a grin and turn away from the studio, stepping into a slightly more jaunt-like pace.

“Home it is,” you say before getting flustered, “I mean, your home, I’ll show you the way, um, sorry for being so slow about getting here. I wasn’t thinking. Of course you’re tired. Oh but the dance studio is open all week and the guy at the front desk is super nice and can help get you set up for classes. You can say I sent you.” You ramble on, though you doubt he’s even listening (you certainly would have zoned out by now.) You go a little red in the face, both from having said that all in one breath, and from being so flustered. Ugh, why was talking to people so hard.

Neon rambles, almost to himself, and it puts Yuuri at ease. Maybe his assessment that Neon just isn’t good with people was correct after all. He’s lucky that he managed to find someone helpful, if awkward, rather than a more malevolent stranger. 

“No, no, no, it’s okay. Thank you for showing me the studio. I am in your debt.” 

"There is still research being done," you start, eyes cast skyward, "to try and discover how the rifts happened and what can be done about those that came through. You're lucky though, to have come through when you did. Not so long ago things were not this peaceful. But don't give up hope..." You shrug, wishing you could give more reassurance, but not knowing how. 

nerdonice:

Yuuri mumbles his number in a daze, still not entirely sure what’s happening. Why is this stranger being so friendly, to the point that he’s willing to pay Yuuri to draw him? It doesn’t seem to be a joke, though the skater still can’t quite comprehend that fact. 

His exit from the bench lacks Neon’s energy as he releases his knees and climbs to his feet. Neon begins walking, and Yuuri trails behind. Much as he hates to admit it, he never would have been able to find where he’s staying on his own.

“By the way… thank you.”

“Ah, it’s no problem, but you’re welcome!” You respond, flashing a grin over your shoulder.

You keep a slow pace so you can stop and point out the sights and the shopping centers as you pass, noting a few restaurants you’ve been told were very good (though you wouldn’t know anything on the subject). It’s nice weather for a walk, you think, as you continue to stroll through the streets, and you find yourself itching to sketch, but you have a task already at hand.

Fortunatly the small dance studio is near in the downtown castle area, near your own home, and not far from the quiet castle, so it’s on the way to Yuuri’s new home.

The studio is a small, brick building with a sign outside that clearly labels it as “Fuckoville Dance” with the silhouette of a pair waltzing.

“And this is the studio,” you say as if it weren’t already obvious, “we can go in and take a quick look if you’d like.”

Neon is surprisingly attentive, taking the time to point out various sights and stores as they walk. He seems genuine, but Yuuri doesn’t know why he’s being so nice to the boy he met crying on a bench (pity, probably). Well, maybe he’ll have to take Neon up on the offer to draw him just as a way to thank him. Then again, he’s still skeptical that he’d make a good subject, but if Neon insists… Maybe the artist is desperate for willing participants?

He knows he’ll forget most of everything not too long after this tour, but he still appreciates it. Finally, they stop at the studio, and Yuuri studies the brickwork and simple sign. So, this place really is called Fuckoville. Yuuri feels tired.

gluttonylovesfanta:

nerdonice:

He blushes at the compliment, not sure exactly how to react. Why would anyone look at him, particularly while his eyes are still swollen with tears, and think “beautiful” is an applicable word? His flustered response seems strangely genuine, but Yuuri is nevertheless incredulous.

He sighs. “I mean, if you’re really serious about it, I can give you my number, I guess.” Another sigh. He doesn’t have a clue where he’s going, and Neon seems harmless enough, so it couldn’t hurt to ask where his place is. “And, uh, do you happen to know where the Quiet Castle is? Apparently I’m going to be living there.”

You can’t whip your phone out fast enough when he offers his number. Sure you’d been turned down, but this was a win nevertheless. You’re eyes go a little wide when he admits he doesn’t even know where he lives. No wonder he’s so distressed (you know there are other factors, but not even having a home is a huge stress).

“Yeah, I do!” You exclaim happily, “I’d be happy to show you the way. Oh, and,” he pauses to send a quick text to the new number in his phone, “Now you have my contact. Don’t hesitate to call or text if you have questions or need anything.”

You hope it isn’t too forward of you. Jumping up from the bench you spin around, still smiling.

  “Well, shall we?”

Yuuri mumbles his number in a daze, still not entirely sure what’s happening. Why is this stranger being so friendly, to the point that he’s willing to pay Yuuri to draw him? It doesn’t seem to be a joke, though the skater still can’t quite comprehend that fact. 

His exit from the bench lacks Neon’s energy as he releases his knees and climbs to his feet. Neon begins walking, and Yuuri trails behind. Much as he hates to admit it, he never would have been able to find where he’s staying on his own.

You keep a slow pace so you can stop and point out the sights and the shopping centers as you pass, noting a few restaurants you've been told were very good (though you wouldn't know anything on the subject). It's nice weather for a walk, you think, as you continue to stroll through the streets, and you find yourself itching to sketch, but you have a task already at hand.

Fortunatly the small dance studio is near in the downtown castle area, near your own home, and not far from the quiet castle, so it's on the way to Yuuri's new home.

The studio is a small, brick building with a sign outside that clearly labels it as "Fuckoville Dance" with the silhouette of a pair waltzing.

nerdonice:

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, the previous panic at being in a new place filled with talking bears and the like having all but disappeared. He blinks. For not the first time today, he wonders to himself, What the hell is going on?

“Um, thanks… That’s good to know.” And then the man is talking about painting, and possibly painting him? This has to be some sort of joke.

“I’m sure that you have better people to paint than me,” he mumbles. And the man – Neon –  is still talking, and Yuuri is incredibly confused. “Uh, nice to meet you… I’m Yuuri.”

“I’m glad that my embarrassment was good for your art.” The last part comes out a little sharper than he intended, but he’s tired and he still can’t tell if this man is mocking him or just incredibly awkward. Part of him figures that he wouldn’t waste his time sitting here just to poke fun at Yuuri, but he also feels completely pathetic, and why would anyone actually want to paint him, especially when their first meeting occurred like this? He clenches his jaw and hugs his knees in tighter, bracing himself for Neon’s response.

Everything spirals a little out of control and you go red in the face. It’s not the first time you’ve been misunderstood as, unfortunately, being a reclusive artist has made your social skills less than desirable. 

“Ah, that’s, I didn’t, I just meant that…” what even had you meant, you wonder, you’re so flustered now that you’ve forgotten what you said. You watch him pull further into himself, and want to mimic his movement. But then he’d probably think you were mocking him, so you awkwardly pull on your fingers instead.

“Sorry,” you look down at your worn canvas shoes, unsure of where to go from here. You’ve never been turned down quite so forcefully for trying to help someone, but that’s not why you’re sullen. You’re just a little sad at the missed opportunity. He really would have been a lovely subject.

“I just thought you’d be really beautiful when dancing,” you smile. Honesty is something you can do, whether he believes you or not. 

“But I’ll take you by the studio, that way you can find it from your house. I promise I won’t bother you after,” you conclude with a little bit of regret. You really had meant to help, but you don’t want him to feel uncomfortable, and maybe you were being too nosy. Still, you might as well try to be as helpful as you can for the bit that you accompany him.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to show you on the way?” You ask.  

He blushes at the compliment, not sure exactly how to react. Why would anyone look at him, particularly while his eyes are still swollen with tears, and think “beautiful” is an applicable word? His flustered response seems strangely genuine, but Yuuri is nevertheless incredulous.

"Yeah, I do!" You exclaim happily, "I'd be happy to show you the way. Oh, and," he pauses to send a quick text to the new number in his phone, "Now you have my contact. Don't hesitate to call or text if you have questions or need anything."

You hope it isn't too forward of you. Jumping up from the bench you spin around, still smiling.

@gluttonylovesfanta

Yuuri Katsuki is not okay on a normal day. Well, that’s not entirely true: he functions well enough, in part due to an oversized quantity of pride and stubbornness, but he’s always felt uncomfortable with himself, with other people. He’s lucky to have had supportive friends and family, and now, Viktor…

But any progress he has made towards okay-ness exploded in something of a DnD-flavored dumpster fire. Dealing with The Viktor Nikiforov (™, probably) arriving at his family’s hot springs and introducing himself in an incredibly memorable and naked fashion certainly seemed strange at the time, but while admitting so may constitute a blow to his eccentric coach’s ego, getting sucked into the void and being greeted by a talking bear beats that in terms of surprises. Because yeah, that happened. He’s super in denial, but he’s pretty sure it happened! Is happening!

Needless to say, “freaking out” would be an understatement in describing Yuuri’s mental state as of current. He’s never done well with unexpected situations, and, well, this takes the fucking cake. Oh god oh god oh god… Is he going to see his family again? Are they worried about him? What about Viktor?

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to focus on breathing and tears overflow from his eyes. He spots a bench, fortunately, thought he does not actually sit on it; instead, he opts to clench the backrest until his knuckles turn white, leaning against the sanded wood for support. This is just a nightmare, right? But it isn’t and this is punishment for being a failure as a skater and not working hard enough and that’s totally illogical and why is his brain like this?

Okay. Time to try the breathing thing again. In. Out. Just keep breathing.

As some of the initial panic wears away, though, he realizes that he’s clinging to a bench like a loser. And not only that, but it seems that he’s not alone. As in, there’s someone else who’s maybe not a failure like he is who probably noticed that breakdown. Great! Perfect!

Wandering aimlessly is one of your special skills, at least until something catches your eye. Usually it’s a glint of light, an interesting plant, or a person. In this case, a person looking like they’re in the middle of a meltdown. You try to decide whether to approach the young man who has a death grip on the nearby bench, or if you should just leave him be. But then he looks up and sees you and lets out the most distressed noise you think you’ve ever heard. It’s kind of cute how he ducks behind the bench, you think trying not to smile. You’ve been in that sort of spot before, and know how awful it can be to have no one to talk to.

“Hey there,” you try to keep it nonchalant, “You doing okay?” By now you’ve made it to the bench and, with one knee bent into the slated seat, are leaning over to look down at the cowering young man.

In a way, Yuri Plisetsky’s aggressive greeting was almost preferable to this apparent pity. 

Still, the rational part of him (drowned in uncontrollable emotion though it may be) reminds him that he has no idea where he’s going, and so it would probably be a bad idea to lash out at a stranger. Besides, the man may be well-intentioned, right?

        He probably thinks I’m a loser. I can’t believe all I can think to do is cry…

“You’re a bad liar,” you laugh, hoping he doesn’t think you’re teasing him. You shrug and turn, sliding to sit on the bench, and pat the seat beside you.

“I won’t ask what’s wrong, but I’m good at keeping secrets and am willing to listen. I don’t have a whole lot of friends to tell anyway,” you smile, “are you new around here? I’m from the area so I can sometimes tell.”

“…Yeah. I’m new,” he mumbles. “That’s basically what’s wrong.”

But he gives up and slumps onto the bent next to you. You frown as he answers: he reminds you a little of yourself after the war had ended, but you shake off the thought. this isn’t about you. Still, you know how rough his situation is, know what it’s like to be taken from everything you love. You wonder what he needs to hear. Everything will be alright isn’t going to cut it. 

“What do you usually do,” you start, after deliberating a moment, “when you feel lost or out of place?” You lean to rest your chin in your hands, elbows propped on your thighs. 

“Me, I usually find something familiar. You know, a food, or a stuffed animal, or go do something that I do habitually like brush my teeth. It reminds me that, though I can’t control my circumstances, I still have control over myself.”

“Nothing here is familiar,” he murmurs into his knees. He knows it’s not the point of what this stranger is saying, and he also knows that he should try to show a little gratitude for someone taking his time to watch after Yuuri’s useless self. God, this guy is going to regret stopping to talk to Yuuri.

“Hmmm,” you consider, leaning back into the seat before he continues, and you can’t help as you eyes go a little wide. He skates? And does ballet? You look him over again, and notice that he does seem pretty fit, even through the layers he wears. Ballet, ballet, you wrack your brain, but all that surfaces is ideas for paintings. Oh, how you’d love to paint him, that torn expression on his face, dancing.

Maybe you could work out a deal.

“You dance?” You ask, trying to approach gently, “I might actually have a solution, if you want. It won’t fix things being unfamiliar, but I do know of a small dance studio that I go to to paint…"he trails off.

“Actually, and I promise I’m not being weird, I’m a painter and I’m in need of someone to sit for me. Well, not sit exactly,” you pull out your sketchbook, flipping through to a set of figures, each caught in the midsts of some action: running, twirling.

“I could probably get it okayed to do sessions in the studio, if you’d like, and I would pay you for your time. Not a lot mind you, but more than nothing. But no worries if you don’t want to, I’ll still take you to the studio of course. But it was just an idea,” you laugh it off, realizing that you’ve been rambling for some time now, “Oh gosh, I haven’t even introduced myself, I’m sorry if I’ve seemed brazen, I’m Neon, and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you smile wide.

“Um, thanks… That’s good to know.” And then the man is talking about painting, and possibly painting him? This has to be some sort of joke.

“I’m sure that you have better people to paint than me,” he mumbles. And the man – Neon –  is still talking, and Yuuri is incredibly confused. “Uh, nice to meet you… I’m Yuuri.”

"Ah, that's, I didn't, I just meant that..." what even had you meant, you wonder, you're so flustered now that you've forgotten what you said. You watch him pull further into himself, and want to mimic his movement. But then he'd probably think you were mocking him, so you awkwardly pull on your fingers instead.

"Sorry," you look down at your worn canvas shoes, unsure of where to go from here. You've never been turned down quite so forcefully for trying to help someone, but that's not why you're sullen. You're just a little sad at the missed opportunity. He really would have been a lovely subject.

"I just thought you'd be really beautiful when dancing," you smile. Honesty is something you can do, whether he believes you or not. 

"But I'll take you by the studio, that way you can find it from your house. I promise I won't bother you after," you conclude with a little bit of regret. You really had meant to help, but you don't want him to feel uncomfortable, and maybe you were being too nosy. Still, you might as well try to be as helpful as you can for the bit that you accompany him.

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova can barely concentrate on her work, instead opting to check her phone every five minutes. Well, maybe more frequently than that. But could anyone really blame her?

It’s Sunday. And it’s almost the end of her shift. And she’s about to meet up with an artist she really admires to have coffee and trade sketchbooks and chat and she honestly feels like she’s downed four shots of espresso. 

Fortunately, business is slow today (not that it’s ever particularly booming considering the location), so she’s not able to terribly screw anything up. She tries to take deep breaths, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of coffee and pastries mingled with the steaming soups they’re offering for lunch today. The tomato bisque has an intoxicating hint of rosemary, and she’s hoping that Neon will want something to eat so that she can grab a bowl without feeling super rude. 

She switches the mellow indie playlist to something a little more upbeat and does a small dance behind the counter. After looking at the screen of her phone yet again, she can’t conceal a series of excited jumps, potential customers be damned. Should she text him? There’s nobody here, so it’s not like she’d be shirking important duties.

To: Neon

From: Nova ☆

[txt] Hey!

[txt] My shift is almost over ☆*:. o(≧▽≦)o .:*☆

[txt] So excited!

You get up, fumbling for the lights, and start going through your wardrobe. After much deliberation you decide on a tight pair of black pants (they only have one hole in the knee), a basic black tank, and your favorite orange hoodie (with cat ears on the hood).

Considering eating you scan though your fridge but, though you’re always hungry, nothing appeals, so you just pour the usual glass of bubbly orange soda, and pull out your old sketchbooks. 

You’ve been trying to decide which to bring since you arrived home from the gallery show, but you keep getting distracted by their contents. You throw the pile down on the sarcophagus-turned-table unceremoniously and begin to page through them. 

Two glasses of Fanta later and the buzzing of your phone pulls you from the pages. You nearly panic when you see the senders name, checking the time to see if you’re running late. You would hate to be running late, too excited about this meetup to want to ruin it before you even get there. Her message is adorable, and you smile as you reply. To: Nova

From: Neon

[txt] I can’t wait! 

[txt] I’m on my way!! See you soon! :D

You type out the message with one hand as you gather your things: Sketchbooks, keys, wallet, oh and shoes. You need your shoes. 

You half sprint, half trip –one shoe having come untied– to the small cafe. A little bell tinkles playfully as you enter and you scan the room. It’s easy to pick out Nova’s bouncing, pastel hair, and you grin, hoping you don’t look too disheveled from the run over. 

She hopes he likes the cozy space. It’s not super fancy, but while Nova is not its owner, she feels a protective possessiveness of the shop. Wooden tables and mismatched chairs dot the premises while the corners near the windows are stuffed with mahogany leather armchairs. There’s a bookshelf near the back lined with an assortment of titles, some purchased by the owners, some left by customers. A few eclectic rugs adorn the polished wooden floor while a variety of antique knick knacks cover the walls. It’s comfortable and kind of strange, which she loves.

Looking around you take in the cozy shop, loving the atmosphere, and you’re surprised you hadn’t found it sooner. Not to mention how wonderful it smells: bitter coffee and the subtle sweetness of baked goods. It makes your stomach churn with want. You just wish it would taste as good as it smells, but nothing ever does.

You note how natural Nova looks in this setting, and that your were right: dark lips suit her. She offers food and you have to take a moment to consider. You’re not sure now is the time to be discussing you unappeasable appetite and utter lack of taste buds, but you didn’t eat this morning and your stomach is more empty than usual. Normally you’d try to lull it with junk food ( shoving handfuls of chips into your mouth until the bag is empty) but you don’t want her to see that side of you. The side that starts eating and can’t stop.

“Just the latte is fine,” you grin, “but could you make it a double shot? I didn’t get coffee this morning. Sorry to be needy when you just got off your shift.”

It’s true, you didn’t get your coffee that morning, but the real reason you want a double is because coffee tastes like something to you, dark and bitter, and the stronger it is, the stronger the taste. It’s a nice change from the usual flavor of sawdust.

Standing there, you feel a little awkward, so you motion to a nearby table and go to sit. “I brought some sketchbooks, as promised,” you sing, pulling out the pile of random books you grabbed, “though I can’t promise they’re worth looking through, I think one of these is three years old.”

“Oh, no problem! I like strong coffee myself.” 

After making sure to set her sketchbooks on the table, she grabs two mugs and gets to work. With a deep inhale, she breathes the scent of freshly-ground espresso beans, relishing the bittersweet complexity. She loves the sound o espresso brewing, the hiss of milk steaming. She fixes their lattes, adding a dash of lavender syrup to hers, and adorns the foam with a heart-shaped flourish. 

“Here you are!” She sets the mugs on the table with a hearty thunk before settling in across from Neon. He’s begun sketching, and she feels her heart flutter at the knowledge that she gets to watch an artist like him at work. Okay, he’d probably feel uncomfortable if she shared those sentiments, but she can keep her excitement to herself well enough. 

She takes a sip of her latte, silently pleased with her work. Bragging isn’t something she often does, but she’s proud of her barista skills. Her eyes flutter closed, and she savors the way the creaminess of the milk and the floral sweetness of the lavender temper the rich bitterness of strong-brewed espresso. 

“Thank you for meeting me,” she says between sips. “I hope the latte makes the trip worth it!” 

"Thank you so much," you smile, putting the sketchbook aside, and pick up the mug. You're impressed with the latte art, and feel a little bad ruining it, but it smells so good, and you're starving. Maybe you should have just given in and asked for something to eat, but it's too late now. You'd feel bad making her get up again after she's gotten comfortable.

You take a sip and your eyes go a little wide. Sure, you can't taste much, but this Latte is the best you've ever had. It tastes like...a deep burgundy. That's the best description you can come up with, but it fits. And the milk makes it light and airy, despite the seemingly robust flavor.

"It most certainly does!" You exclaim, going for another sip, "I'm never going to be able to drink coffee anywhere else. You've ruined me." You laugh, but it's true.

You push your sketchbooks across the table, including the one you were just drawing in, a little embarrassed that she'll find out you were drawing her.

@gluttonylovesfanta

Yuuri Katsuki is not okay on a normal day. Well, that’s not entirely true: he functions well enough, in part due to an oversized quantity of pride and stubbornness, but he’s always felt uncomfortable with himself, with other people. He’s lucky to have had supportive friends and family, and now, Viktor…

But any progress he has made towards okay-ness exploded in something of a DnD-flavored dumpster fire. Dealing with The Viktor Nikiforov (™, probably) arriving at his family’s hot springs and introducing himself in an incredibly memorable and naked fashion certainly seemed strange at the time, but while admitting so may constitute a blow to his eccentric coach’s ego, getting sucked into the void and being greeted by a talking bear beats that in terms of surprises. Because yeah, that happened. He’s super in denial, but he’s pretty sure it happened! Is happening!

Needless to say, “freaking out” would be an understatement in describing Yuuri’s mental state as of current. He’s never done well with unexpected situations, and, well, this takes the fucking cake. Oh god oh god oh god… Is he going to see his family again? Are they worried about him? What about Viktor?

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to focus on breathing and tears overflow from his eyes. He spots a bench, fortunately, thought he does not actually sit on it; instead, he opts to clench the backrest until his knuckles turn white, leaning against the sanded wood for support. This is just a nightmare, right? But it isn’t and this is punishment for being a failure as a skater and not working hard enough and that’s totally illogical and why is his brain like this?

Okay. Time to try the breathing thing again. In. Out. Just keep breathing.

As some of the initial panic wears away, though, he realizes that he’s clinging to a bench like a loser. And not only that, but it seems that he’s not alone. As in, there’s someone else who’s maybe not a failure like he is who probably noticed that breakdown. Great! Perfect!

Wandering aimlessly is one of your special skills, at least until something catches your eye. Usually it’s a glint of light, an interesting plant, or a person. In this case, a person looking like they’re in the middle of a meltdown. You try to decide whether to approach the young man who has a death grip on the nearby bench, or if you should just leave him be. But then he looks up and sees you and lets out the most distressed noise you think you’ve ever heard. It’s kind of cute how he ducks behind the bench, you think trying not to smile. You’ve been in that sort of spot before, and know how awful it can be to have no one to talk to.

“Hey there,” you try to keep it nonchalant, “You doing okay?” By now you’ve made it to the bench and, with one knee bent into the slated seat, are leaning over to look down at the cowering young man.

In a way, Yuri Plisetsky’s aggressive greeting was almost preferable to this apparent pity. 

Still, the rational part of him (drowned in uncontrollable emotion though it may be) reminds him that he has no idea where he’s going, and so it would probably be a bad idea to lash out at a stranger. Besides, the man may be well-intentioned, right?

        He probably thinks I’m a loser. I can’t believe all I can think to do is cry…

“You’re a bad liar,” you laugh, hoping he doesn’t think you’re teasing him. You shrug and turn, sliding to sit on the bench, and pat the seat beside you.

“I won’t ask what’s wrong, but I’m good at keeping secrets and am willing to listen. I don’t have a whole lot of friends to tell anyway,” you smile, “are you new around here? I’m from the area so I can sometimes tell.”

“…Yeah. I’m new,” he mumbles. “That’s basically what’s wrong.”

But he gives up and slumps onto the bent next to you. You frown as he answers: he reminds you a little of yourself after the war had ended, but you shake off the thought. this isn’t about you. Still, you know how rough his situation is, know what it’s like to be taken from everything you love. You wonder what he needs to hear. Everything will be alright isn’t going to cut it. 

“What do you usually do,” you start, after deliberating a moment, “when you feel lost or out of place?” You lean to rest your chin in your hands, elbows propped on your thighs. 

“Me, I usually find something familiar. You know, a food, or a stuffed animal, or go do something that I do habitually like brush my teeth. It reminds me that, though I can’t control my circumstances, I still have control over myself.”

“Nothing here is familiar,” he murmurs into his knees. He knows it’s not the point of what this stranger is saying, and he also knows that he should try to show a little gratitude for someone taking his time to watch after Yuuri’s useless self. God, this guy is going to regret stopping to talk to Yuuri.

"Hmmm," you consider, leaning back into the seat before he continues, and you can't help as you eyes go a little wide. He skates? And does ballet? You look him over again, and notice that he does seem pretty fit, even through the layers he wears. Ballet, ballet, you wrack your brain, but all that surfaces is ideas for paintings. Oh, how you'd love to paint him, that torn expression on his face, dancing.

Maybe you could work out a deal.

"You dance?" You ask, trying to approach gently, "I might actually have a solution, if you want. It won't fix things being unfamiliar, but I do know of a small dance studio that I go to to paint..."he trails off.

"Actually, and I promise I'm not being weird, I'm a painter and I'm in need of someone to sit for me. Well, not sit exactly," you pull out your sketchbook, flipping through to a set of figures, each caught in the midsts of some action: running, twirling.

"I could probably get it okayed to do sessions in the studio, if you'd like, and I would pay you for your time. Not a lot mind you, but more than nothing. But no worries if you don't want to, I'll still take you to the studio of course. But it was just an idea," you laugh it off, realizing that you've been rambling for some time now, "Oh gosh, I haven't even introduced myself, I'm sorry if I've seemed brazen, I'm Neon, and it's a pleasure to meet you," you smile wide.

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova can barely concentrate on her work, instead opting to check her phone every five minutes. Well, maybe more frequently than that. But could anyone really blame her?

It’s Sunday. And it’s almost the end of her shift. And she’s about to meet up with an artist she really admires to have coffee and trade sketchbooks and chat and she honestly feels like she’s downed four shots of espresso. 

Fortunately, business is slow today (not that it’s ever particularly booming considering the location), so she’s not able to terribly screw anything up. She tries to take deep breaths, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of coffee and pastries mingled with the steaming soups they’re offering for lunch today. The tomato bisque has an intoxicating hint of rosemary, and she’s hoping that Neon will want something to eat so that she can grab a bowl without feeling super rude. 

She switches the mellow indie playlist to something a little more upbeat and does a small dance behind the counter. After looking at the screen of her phone yet again, she can’t conceal a series of excited jumps, potential customers be damned. Should she text him? There’s nobody here, so it’s not like she’d be shirking important duties.

To: Neon

From: Nova ☆

[txt] Hey!

[txt] My shift is almost over ☆*:. o(≧▽≦)o .:*☆

[txt] So excited!

You get up, fumbling for the lights, and start going through your wardrobe. After much deliberation you decide on a tight pair of black pants (they only have one hole in the knee), a basic black tank, and your favorite orange hoodie (with cat ears on the hood).

Considering eating you scan though your fridge but, though you’re always hungry, nothing appeals, so you just pour the usual glass of bubbly orange soda, and pull out your old sketchbooks. 

You’ve been trying to decide which to bring since you arrived home from the gallery show, but you keep getting distracted by their contents. You throw the pile down on the sarcophagus-turned-table unceremoniously and begin to page through them. 

Two glasses of Fanta later and the buzzing of your phone pulls you from the pages. You nearly panic when you see the senders name, checking the time to see if you’re running late. You would hate to be running late, too excited about this meetup to want to ruin it before you even get there. Her message is adorable, and you smile as you reply. To: Nova

From: Neon

[txt] I can’t wait! 

[txt] I’m on my way!! See you soon! :D

You type out the message with one hand as you gather your things: Sketchbooks, keys, wallet, oh and shoes. You need your shoes. 

You half sprint, half trip –one shoe having come untied– to the small cafe. A little bell tinkles playfully as you enter and you scan the room. It’s easy to pick out Nova’s bouncing, pastel hair, and you grin, hoping you don’t look too disheveled from the run over. 

She hopes he likes the cozy space. It’s not super fancy, but while Nova is not its owner, she feels a protective possessiveness of the shop. Wooden tables and mismatched chairs dot the premises while the corners near the windows are stuffed with mahogany leather armchairs. There’s a bookshelf near the back lined with an assortment of titles, some purchased by the owners, some left by customers. A few eclectic rugs adorn the polished wooden floor while a variety of antique knick knacks cover the walls. It’s comfortable and kind of strange, which she loves.

Looking around you take in the cozy shop, loving the atmosphere, and you're surprised you hadn't found it sooner. Not to mention how wonderful it smells: bitter coffee and the subtle sweetness of baked goods. It makes your stomach churn with want. You just wish it would taste as good as it smells, but nothing ever does.

You note how natural Nova looks in this setting, and that your were right: dark lips suit her. She offers food and you have to take a moment to consider. You're not sure now is the time to be discussing you unappeasable appetite and utter lack of taste buds, but you didn't eat this morning and your stomach is more empty than usual. Normally you'd try to lull it with junk food ( shoving handfuls of chips into your mouth until the bag is empty) but you don't want her to see that side of you. The side that starts eating and can't stop.

"Just the latte is fine," you grin, "but could you make it a double shot? I didn't get coffee this morning. Sorry to be needy when you just got off your shift."

It's true, you didn't get your coffee that morning, but the real reason you want a double is because coffee tastes like something to you, dark and bitter, and the stronger it is, the stronger the taste. It's a nice change from the usual flavor of sawdust.

Standing there, you feel a little awkward, so you motion to a nearby table and go to sit. "I brought some sketchbooks, as promised," you sing, pulling out the pile of random books you grabbed, "though I can't promise they're worth looking through, I think one of these is three years old."

@gluttonylovesfanta

Yuuri Katsuki is not okay on a normal day. Well, that’s not entirely true: he functions well enough, in part due to an oversized quantity of pride and stubbornness, but he’s always felt uncomfortable with himself, with other people. He’s lucky to have had supportive friends and family, and now, Viktor…

But any progress he has made towards okay-ness exploded in something of a DnD-flavored dumpster fire. Dealing with The Viktor Nikiforov (™, probably) arriving at his family’s hot springs and introducing himself in an incredibly memorable and naked fashion certainly seemed strange at the time, but while admitting so may constitute a blow to his eccentric coach’s ego, getting sucked into the void and being greeted by a talking bear beats that in terms of surprises. Because yeah, that happened. He’s super in denial, but he’s pretty sure it happened! Is happening!

Needless to say, “freaking out” would be an understatement in describing Yuuri’s mental state as of current. He’s never done well with unexpected situations, and, well, this takes the fucking cake. Oh god oh god oh god… Is he going to see his family again? Are they worried about him? What about Viktor?

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to focus on breathing and tears overflow from his eyes. He spots a bench, fortunately, thought he does not actually sit on it; instead, he opts to clench the backrest until his knuckles turn white, leaning against the sanded wood for support. This is just a nightmare, right? But it isn’t and this is punishment for being a failure as a skater and not working hard enough and that’s totally illogical and why is his brain like this?

Okay. Time to try the breathing thing again. In. Out. Just keep breathing.

As some of the initial panic wears away, though, he realizes that he’s clinging to a bench like a loser. And not only that, but it seems that he’s not alone. As in, there’s someone else who’s maybe not a failure like he is who probably noticed that breakdown. Great! Perfect!

Wandering aimlessly is one of your special skills, at least until something catches your eye. Usually it’s a glint of light, an interesting plant, or a person. In this case, a person looking like they’re in the middle of a meltdown. You try to decide whether to approach the young man who has a death grip on the nearby bench, or if you should just leave him be. But then he looks up and sees you and lets out the most distressed noise you think you’ve ever heard. It’s kind of cute how he ducks behind the bench, you think trying not to smile. You’ve been in that sort of spot before, and know how awful it can be to have no one to talk to.

“Hey there,” you try to keep it nonchalant, “You doing okay?” By now you’ve made it to the bench and, with one knee bent into the slated seat, are leaning over to look down at the cowering young man.

In a way, Yuri Plisetsky’s aggressive greeting was almost preferable to this apparent pity. 

Still, the rational part of him (drowned in uncontrollable emotion though it may be) reminds him that he has no idea where he’s going, and so it would probably be a bad idea to lash out at a stranger. Besides, the man may be well-intentioned, right?

        He probably thinks I’m a loser. I can’t believe all I can think to do is cry…

“You’re a bad liar,” you laugh, hoping he doesn’t think you’re teasing him. You shrug and turn, sliding to sit on the bench, and pat the seat beside you.

“I won’t ask what’s wrong, but I’m good at keeping secrets and am willing to listen. I don’t have a whole lot of friends to tell anyway,” you smile, “are you new around here? I’m from the area so I can sometimes tell.”

“…Yeah. I’m new,” he mumbles. “That’s basically what’s wrong.”

But he gives up and slumps onto the bent next to you. You frown as he answers: he reminds you a little of yourself after the war had ended, but you shake off the thought. this isn’t about you. Still, you know how rough his situation is, know what it’s like to be taken from everything you love. You wonder what he needs to hear. Everything will be alright isn’t going to cut it. 

“What do you usually do,” you start, after deliberating a moment, “when you feel lost or out of place?” You lean to rest your chin in your hands, elbows propped on your thighs. 

“Me, I usually find something familiar. You know, a food, or a stuffed animal, or go do something that I do habitually like brush my teeth. It reminds me that, though I can’t control my circumstances, I still have control over myself.”

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova can barely concentrate on her work, instead opting to check her phone every five minutes. Well, maybe more frequently than that. But could anyone really blame her?

It’s Sunday. And it’s almost the end of her shift. And she’s about to meet up with an artist she really admires to have coffee and trade sketchbooks and chat and she honestly feels like she’s downed four shots of espresso. 

Fortunately, business is slow today (not that it’s ever particularly booming considering the location), so she’s not able to terribly screw anything up. She tries to take deep breaths, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of coffee and pastries mingled with the steaming soups they’re offering for lunch today. The tomato bisque has an intoxicating hint of rosemary, and she’s hoping that Neon will want something to eat so that she can grab a bowl without feeling super rude. 

She switches the mellow indie playlist to something a little more upbeat and does a small dance behind the counter. After looking at the screen of her phone yet again, she can’t conceal a series of excited jumps, potential customers be damned. Should she text him? There’s nobody here, so it’s not like she’d be shirking important duties.

To: Neon

From: Nova ☆

[txt] Hey!

[txt] My shift is almost over ☆*:. o(≧▽≦)o .:*☆

[txt] So excited!

You get up, fumbling for the lights, and start going through your wardrobe. After much deliberation you decide on a tight pair of black pants (they only have one hole in the knee), a basic black tank, and your favorite orange hoodie (with cat ears on the hood).

Considering eating you scan though your fridge but, though you’re always hungry, nothing appeals, so you just pour the usual glass of bubbly orange soda, and pull out your old sketchbooks. 

You’ve been trying to decide which to bring since you arrived home from the gallery show, but you keep getting distracted by their contents. You throw the pile down on the sarcophagus-turned-table unceremoniously and begin to page through them. 

Two glasses of Fanta later and the buzzing of your phone pulls you from the pages. You nearly panic when you see the senders name, checking the time to see if you’re running late. You would hate to be running late, too excited about this meetup to want to ruin it before you even get there. Her message is adorable, and you smile as you reply. To: Nova

From: Neon

[txt] I can’t wait! 

[txt] I’m on my way!! See you soon! :D

You type out the message with one hand as you gather your things: Sketchbooks, keys, wallet, oh and shoes. You need your shoes. 

You half sprint, half trip --one shoe having come untied-- to the small cafe. A little bell tinkles playfully as you enter and you scan the room. It’s easy to pick out Nova’s bouncing, pastel hair, and you grin, hoping you don’t look too disheveled from the run over. 

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova has been looking forward to this gallery show since it was announced. And now, as she clutches her sketchbook and is surrounded by color, she feels the thrill which made her fall in love with art. She loves that the artist goes by the name Neon; she loves his vibrant paintings of people in motion. A few of his earlier works are just as compelling, but she especially finds herself captivated by the way he captures the energy of the human form and all it can do.

Fuckoville has been challenging, yes, but more and more, she finds she doesn’t want to go home. Here, she can embrace art and create and escape the guilt she so often associates with anything she loves. Her skin feels electric; every color feels more defined, more. She would give anything to meet the man whose work has made her feel this way.

And… oh god. That’s him! Over there, with the orange hair! She read the introduction to the artist at the beginning of the exhibit, obviously, so she’s pretty dang sure that’s him.

He notes her sketchbook, which she clutches closer to her chest with a small squeak. Her drawings aren’t that wonderful, really; and besides, most of them are… grotesque, to say the least. She loves contradictions, loves subverting sweetness and softening the unsettling. But aside from a clear fascination with people, she fears her art is not much like Neon’s. There’s the talent gap, of course, and the fact that she can’t capture motion no matter how hard she tries. Her array of characters remain static and on the page.

But when Neon offers a look at his own sketches, an insatiable greed overtakes Nova’s apprehension. What is his process? She grins wolfishly at him, trying and failing to quell the hungry awe in her voice as she whispers, “Please.”

She shies, however, and it makes you try to mentally skim through your sketchbook. Is it even worth showing? You suppose that she seems to like your work, but those are your paintings, not your drawings: self portraits, messy gesture pieces, drawings of random people on the street. They’re all unfinished. No, you think, you’ve committed, and you want to see what sort of work she makes, curiosity has always been your weakness.

With that, she screws her eyes shut, inhales, and prays that her sketchbook doesn’t open to anything too embarrassing. She opens one eye, then the other, and then scrunches them closed again. It’s not the worst thing she’s ever drawn, but she doesn’t know how he’ll react to her sketch of a skeletal, hollow-eyed girl with blood overflowing from her mouth, droplets forming a daisy as they splash on the ground. After another moment, she sheepishly dares to look at him.

“Don’t say that, this is fantastic, I love the composition and the play on gore and beauty, I’m horrible at conceptual art so I really admire those who… ” you’re about to ramble on but then you glance at your own sketchbook and your face goes so red its brighter than your hair.

You’d forgotten about that sketch. It’s a small, rough self-portrait, but despite the messy line work and a note reading ‘buy turpentine’ scrawled across your eyes, the Fanta bottle you’re licking is clear as..well as clear as a tongue pressed against glass could be. Just your luck.

“T-that was a weird day,” you stammer while pointing at the sketch, and quickly shut the book. So quickly, in fact, that you shut it around your finger. But not quickly enough to have avoided her seeing it altogether Well, you think, there goes any chance of seeing more of her work. She must be disappointed. You pull your finger out of the book and shove the stupid-traitor-of-a-sketchbook back in your pocket.

“I - I’m sorry!” she gasps in between undignified guffaws. The sound rings through the quiet gallery, and she’s sure she’s drawing attention. At least she’s somewhat dressed for the occasion in a relatively simple blouse and skirt. She takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about that! I’m not laughing at you, I swear! It’s just this situation – I was so nervous to meet you, and you seem nervous around me, even though you’re the famous artist, and I was so excited to actually get to talk to you and yet you’re not stuck up at all! Um, I’m rambling now, and you probably think I’m kind of a weirdo. Sorry? But, uh, I’m glad you like what you’ve seen of my work. Rest assured, most of my notebook is a lot weirder than that.”

“No, I’m sorry that you had to see that, and I’m so glad you came and talked to me, I’ve been dealing with collectors and dealers all night and they’re just as stuffy as you probably thought I was.”

You grin at her. It’s comforting to know that she thinks her own art is strange, and it takes the pressure off. You should start more conversations this way, you think, though you reconsider given the near heart-attack you just had.

“Maybe you could come by at the end of one of my shifts? We don’t have a lot of people working, so I try to be there as much as possible…” She chews her lower lip thoughtfully before realizing she’s probably devouring her lipstick. A blush colors her cheeks as she reapplies the rosy pink shade, thankful that she hadn’t been wearing black because gosh, that would’ve gotten messy. 

“Hmm… Are you free on Sunday at 2? I only have to work the morning shift that day. I’ll bring my sketchbook, if you’re not too afraid to look through it.” She giggles shyly. “Oh, and should I give you my phone number? Um, I don’t have to, and you don’t have to feel obligated to text me or anything! But it might make it easier to meet up, just in case you get lost or something comes up?”

The pink shade she reapplies to her lips is a good color for her, but you wonder if a darker hue wouldn’t suit her better. It would be a sharp, but welcome contrast.

“I’m free,” you nearly shout, excitement getting the better of you. You haven’t hung out with anyone outside of…well, your paintings, in a long while. And she seems like someone you actually want to spend time with and get to know. She’s barely half-way through her ramble when you’ve already pulled out your phone and have opened it to add contact. “Please bring your sketchbook! If you’re not too scared of mine, I can bring it and we’ll trade,” you wink playfully. Taking the phone back you continue though your fingers dance across the small screen (typing out a quick message so she’ll have your number), “I’m awful with directions so this will be helpful,” you wave the phone, “ but feel free to text me whenever.”

Not only that, but he’s really a lovely person. Some artists are great, but there are also some who are pretentious assholes. As an artist, she feels perfectly qualified to make that statement. Neon, however, is adorably awkward and endearing. She feels a growing kinship with him, though his work is obviously superior; she does not wish to bother him, but she also could not help but notice the eagerness with which he pulled out his phone. The thought spreads warmth through her chest.

“Yeah, of course! And, um, thank you for chatting with me. I know this is a really big event for you, so it means a lot that you’d take time to hang out with an amateur such as myself.” She winks. “I should probably get going since I’ve got a bit of a trip back to my house, but I’m really looking forward to Sunday!” She bounces on the balls of her feet at this, still trying her best not to skip through the gallery. 

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova has been looking forward to this gallery show since it was announced. And now, as she clutches her sketchbook and is surrounded by color, she feels the thrill which made her fall in love with art. She loves that the artist goes by the name Neon; she loves his vibrant paintings of people in motion. A few of his earlier works are just as compelling, but she especially finds herself captivated by the way he captures the energy of the human form and all it can do.

Fuckoville has been challenging, yes, but more and more, she finds she doesn’t want to go home. Here, she can embrace art and create and escape the guilt she so often associates with anything she loves. Her skin feels electric; every color feels more defined, more. She would give anything to meet the man whose work has made her feel this way.

And… oh god. That’s him! Over there, with the orange hair! She read the introduction to the artist at the beginning of the exhibit, obviously, so she’s pretty dang sure that’s him.

He notes her sketchbook, which she clutches closer to her chest with a small squeak. Her drawings aren’t that wonderful, really; and besides, most of them are… grotesque, to say the least. She loves contradictions, loves subverting sweetness and softening the unsettling. But aside from a clear fascination with people, she fears her art is not much like Neon’s. There’s the talent gap, of course, and the fact that she can’t capture motion no matter how hard she tries. Her array of characters remain static and on the page.

But when Neon offers a look at his own sketches, an insatiable greed overtakes Nova’s apprehension. What is his process? She grins wolfishly at him, trying and failing to quell the hungry awe in her voice as she whispers, “Please.”

She shies, however, and it makes you try to mentally skim through your sketchbook. Is it even worth showing? You suppose that she seems to like your work, but those are your paintings, not your drawings: self portraits, messy gesture pieces, drawings of random people on the street. They’re all unfinished. No, you think, you’ve committed, and you want to see what sort of work she makes, curiosity has always been your weakness.

With that, she screws her eyes shut, inhales, and prays that her sketchbook doesn’t open to anything too embarrassing. She opens one eye, then the other, and then scrunches them closed again. It’s not the worst thing she’s ever drawn, but she doesn’t know how he’ll react to her sketch of a skeletal, hollow-eyed girl with blood overflowing from her mouth, droplets forming a daisy as they splash on the ground. After another moment, she sheepishly dares to look at him.

“Don’t say that, this is fantastic, I love the composition and the play on gore and beauty, I’m horrible at conceptual art so I really admire those who… ” you’re about to ramble on but then you glance at your own sketchbook and your face goes so red its brighter than your hair.

You’d forgotten about that sketch. It’s a small, rough self-portrait, but despite the messy line work and a note reading ‘buy turpentine’ scrawled across your eyes, the Fanta bottle you’re licking is clear as..well as clear as a tongue pressed against glass could be. Just your luck.

“T-that was a weird day,” you stammer while pointing at the sketch, and quickly shut the book. So quickly, in fact, that you shut it around your finger. But not quickly enough to have avoided her seeing it altogether Well, you think, there goes any chance of seeing more of her work. She must be disappointed. You pull your finger out of the book and shove the stupid-traitor-of-a-sketchbook back in your pocket.

“I - I’m sorry!” she gasps in between undignified guffaws. The sound rings through the quiet gallery, and she’s sure she’s drawing attention. At least she’s somewhat dressed for the occasion in a relatively simple blouse and skirt. She takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about that! I’m not laughing at you, I swear! It’s just this situation – I was so nervous to meet you, and you seem nervous around me, even though you’re the famous artist, and I was so excited to actually get to talk to you and yet you’re not stuck up at all! Um, I’m rambling now, and you probably think I’m kind of a weirdo. Sorry? But, uh, I’m glad you like what you’ve seen of my work. Rest assured, most of my notebook is a lot weirder than that.”

“No, I’m sorry that you had to see that, and I’m so glad you came and talked to me, I’ve been dealing with collectors and dealers all night and they’re just as stuffy as you probably thought I was.”

You grin at her. It’s comforting to know that she thinks her own art is strange, and it takes the pressure off. You should start more conversations this way, you think, though you reconsider given the near heart-attack you just had.

“Maybe you could come by at the end of one of my shifts? We don’t have a lot of people working, so I try to be there as much as possible…” She chews her lower lip thoughtfully before realizing she’s probably devouring her lipstick. A blush colors her cheeks as she reapplies the rosy pink shade, thankful that she hadn’t been wearing black because gosh, that would’ve gotten messy. 

“Hmm… Are you free on Sunday at 2? I only have to work the morning shift that day. I’ll bring my sketchbook, if you’re not too afraid to look through it.” She giggles shyly. “Oh, and should I give you my phone number? Um, I don’t have to, and you don’t have to feel obligated to text me or anything! But it might make it easier to meet up, just in case you get lost or something comes up?”

The pink shade she reapplies to her lips is a good color for her, but you wonder if a darker hue wouldn't suit her better. It would be a sharp, but welcome contrast.

"I'm free," you nearly shout, excitement getting the better of you. You haven't hung out with anyone outside of...well, your paintings, in a long while. And she seems like someone you actually want to spend time with and get to know. She's barely half-way through her ramble when you've already pulled out your phone and have opened it to add contact. "Please bring your sketchbook! If you're not too scared of mine, I can bring it and we'll trade," you wink playfully. Taking the phone back you continue though your fingers dance across the small screen (typing out a quick message so she'll have your number), "I'm awful with directions so this will be helpful," you wave the phone, " but feel free to text me whenever."

@gluttonylovesfanta

Yuuri Katsuki is not okay on a normal day. Well, that’s not entirely true: he functions well enough, in part due to an oversized quantity of pride and stubbornness, but he’s always felt uncomfortable with himself, with other people. He’s lucky to have had supportive friends and family, and now, Viktor…

But any progress he has made towards okay-ness exploded in something of a DnD-flavored dumpster fire. Dealing with The Viktor Nikiforov (™, probably) arriving at his family’s hot springs and introducing himself in an incredibly memorable and naked fashion certainly seemed strange at the time, but while admitting so may constitute a blow to his eccentric coach’s ego, getting sucked into the void and being greeted by a talking bear beats that in terms of surprises. Because yeah, that happened. He’s super in denial, but he’s pretty sure it happened! Is happening!

Needless to say, “freaking out” would be an understatement in describing Yuuri’s mental state as of current. He’s never done well with unexpected situations, and, well, this takes the fucking cake. Oh god oh god oh god… Is he going to see his family again? Are they worried about him? What about Viktor?

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and tries to focus on breathing and tears overflow from his eyes. He spots a bench, fortunately, thought he does not actually sit on it; instead, he opts to clench the backrest until his knuckles turn white, leaning against the sanded wood for support. This is just a nightmare, right? But it isn’t and this is punishment for being a failure as a skater and not working hard enough and that’s totally illogical and why is his brain like this?

Okay. Time to try the breathing thing again. In. Out. Just keep breathing.

As some of the initial panic wears away, though, he realizes that he’s clinging to a bench like a loser. And not only that, but it seems that he’s not alone. As in, there’s someone else who’s maybe not a failure like he is who probably noticed that breakdown. Great! Perfect!

Wandering aimlessly is one of your special skills, at least until something catches your eye. Usually it’s a glint of light, an interesting plant, or a person. In this case, a person looking like they’re in the middle of a meltdown. You try to decide whether to approach the young man who has a death grip on the nearby bench, or if you should just leave him be. But then he looks up and sees you and lets out the most distressed noise you think you’ve ever heard. It’s kind of cute how he ducks behind the bench, you think trying not to smile. You’ve been in that sort of spot before, and know how awful it can be to have no one to talk to.

“Hey there,” you try to keep it nonchalant, “You doing okay?” By now you’ve made it to the bench and, with one knee bent into the slated seat, are leaning over to look down at the cowering young man.

In a way, Yuri Plisetsky’s aggressive greeting was almost preferable to this apparent pity. 

Still, the rational part of him (drowned in uncontrollable emotion though it may be) reminds him that he has no idea where he’s going, and so it would probably be a bad idea to lash out at a stranger. Besides, the man may be well-intentioned, right?

        He probably thinks I’m a loser. I can’t believe all I can think to do is cry…

"You're a bad liar," you laugh, hoping he doesn't think you’re teasing him. You shrug and turn, sliding to sit on the bench, and pat the seat beside you.

"I won't ask what's wrong, but I'm good at keeping secrets and am willing to listen. I don't have a whole lot of friends to tell anyway," you smile, "are you new around here? I'm from the area so I can sometimes tell."

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova has been looking forward to this gallery show since it was announced. And now, as she clutches her sketchbook and is surrounded by color, she feels the thrill which made her fall in love with art. She loves that the artist goes by the name Neon; she loves his vibrant paintings of people in motion. A few of his earlier works are just as compelling, but she especially finds herself captivated by the way he captures the energy of the human form and all it can do.

Fuckoville has been challenging, yes, but more and more, she finds she doesn’t want to go home. Here, she can embrace art and create and escape the guilt she so often associates with anything she loves. Her skin feels electric; every color feels more defined, more. She would give anything to meet the man whose work has made her feel this way.

And… oh god. That’s him! Over there, with the orange hair! She read the introduction to the artist at the beginning of the exhibit, obviously, so she’s pretty dang sure that’s him.

He notes her sketchbook, which she clutches closer to her chest with a small squeak. Her drawings aren’t that wonderful, really; and besides, most of them are… grotesque, to say the least. She loves contradictions, loves subverting sweetness and softening the unsettling. But aside from a clear fascination with people, she fears her art is not much like Neon’s. There’s the talent gap, of course, and the fact that she can’t capture motion no matter how hard she tries. Her array of characters remain static and on the page.

But when Neon offers a look at his own sketches, an insatiable greed overtakes Nova’s apprehension. What is his process? She grins wolfishly at him, trying and failing to quell the hungry awe in her voice as she whispers, “Please.”

She shies, however, and it makes you try to mentally skim through your sketchbook. Is it even worth showing? You suppose that she seems to like your work, but those are your paintings, not your drawings: self portraits, messy gesture pieces, drawings of random people on the street. They’re all unfinished. No, you think, you’ve committed, and you want to see what sort of work she makes, curiosity has always been your weakness.

With that, she screws her eyes shut, inhales, and prays that her sketchbook doesn’t open to anything too embarrassing. She opens one eye, then the other, and then scrunches them closed again. It’s not the worst thing she’s ever drawn, but she doesn’t know how he’ll react to her sketch of a skeletal, hollow-eyed girl with blood overflowing from her mouth, droplets forming a daisy as they splash on the ground. After another moment, she sheepishly dares to look at him.

“Don’t say that, this is fantastic, I love the composition and the play on gore and beauty, I’m horrible at conceptual art so I really admire those who… ” you’re about to ramble on but then you glance at your own sketchbook and your face goes so red its brighter than your hair.

You’d forgotten about that sketch. It’s a small, rough self-portrait, but despite the messy line work and a note reading ‘buy turpentine’ scrawled across your eyes, the Fanta bottle you’re licking is clear as..well as clear as a tongue pressed against glass could be. Just your luck.

“T-that was a weird day,” you stammer while pointing at the sketch, and quickly shut the book. So quickly, in fact, that you shut it around your finger. But not quickly enough to have avoided her seeing it altogether Well, you think, there goes any chance of seeing more of her work. She must be disappointed. You pull your finger out of the book and shove the stupid-traitor-of-a-sketchbook back in your pocket.

“I - I’m sorry!” she gasps in between undignified guffaws. The sound rings through the quiet gallery, and she’s sure she’s drawing attention. At least she’s somewhat dressed for the occasion in a relatively simple blouse and skirt. She takes a deep breath and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Gosh, I’m so sorry about that! I’m not laughing at you, I swear! It’s just this situation – I was so nervous to meet you, and you seem nervous around me, even though you’re the famous artist, and I was so excited to actually get to talk to you and yet you’re not stuck up at all! Um, I’m rambling now, and you probably think I’m kind of a weirdo. Sorry? But, uh, I’m glad you like what you’ve seen of my work. Rest assured, most of my notebook is a lot weirder than that.”

“No, I’m sorry that you had to see that, and I’m so glad you came and talked to me, I’ve been dealing with collectors and dealers all night and they’re just as stuffy as you probably thought I was.”

You grin at her. It’s comforting to know that she thinks her own art is strange, and it takes the pressure off. You should start more conversations this way, you think, though you reconsider given the near heart-attack you just had.

@gluttonylovesfanta

Nova has been looking forward to this gallery show since it was announced. And now, as she clutches her sketchbook and is surrounded by color, she feels the thrill which made her fall in love with art. She loves that the artist goes by the name Neon; she loves his vibrant paintings of people in motion. A few of his earlier works are just as compelling, but she especially finds herself captivated by the way he captures the energy of the human form and all it can do.

Fuckoville has been challenging, yes, but more and more, she finds she doesn’t want to go home. Here, she can embrace art and create and escape the guilt she so often associates with anything she loves. Her skin feels electric; every color feels more defined, more. She would give anything to meet the man whose work has made her feel this way.

And… oh god. That’s him! Over there, with the orange hair! She read the introduction to the artist at the beginning of the exhibit, obviously, so she’s pretty dang sure that’s him.

He notes her sketchbook, which she clutches closer to her chest with a small squeak. Her drawings aren’t that wonderful, really; and besides, most of them are… grotesque, to say the least. She loves contradictions, loves subverting sweetness and softening the unsettling. But aside from a clear fascination with people, she fears her art is not much like Neon’s. There’s the talent gap, of course, and the fact that she can’t capture motion no matter how hard she tries. Her array of characters remain static and on the page.

But when Neon offers a look at his own sketches, an insatiable greed overtakes Nova’s apprehension. What is his process? She grins wolfishly at him, trying and failing to quell the hungry awe in her voice as she whispers, “Please.”

She shies, however, and it makes you try to mentally skim through your sketchbook. Is it even worth showing? You suppose that she seems to like your work, but those are your paintings, not your drawings: self portraits, messy gesture pieces, drawings of random people on the street. They’re all unfinished. No, you think, you’ve committed, and you want to see what sort of work she makes, curiosity has always been your weakness.

With that, she screws her eyes shut, inhales, and prays that her sketchbook doesn’t open to anything too embarrassing. She opens one eye, then the other, and then scrunches them closed again. It’s not the worst thing she’s ever drawn, but she doesn’t know how he’ll react to her sketch of a skeletal, hollow-eyed girl with blood overflowing from her mouth, droplets forming a daisy as they splash on the ground. After another moment, she sheepishly dares to look at him.

“Don’t say that, this is fantastic, I love the composition and the play on gore and beauty, I’m horrible at conceptual art so I really admire those who… ” you’re about to ramble on but then you glance at your own sketchbook and your face goes so red its brighter than your hair.

You’d forgotten about that sketch. It’s a small, rough self-portrait, but despite the messy line work and a note reading ‘buy turpentine’ scrawled across your eyes, the Fanta bottle you’re licking is clear as..well as clear as a tongue pressed against glass could be. Just your luck.

“T-that was a weird day,” you stammer while pointing at the sketch, and quickly shut the book. So quickly, in fact, that you shut it around your finger. But not quickly enough to have avoided her seeing it altogether Well, you think, there goes any chance of seeing more of her work. She must be disappointed. You pull your finger out of the book and shove the stupid-traitor-of-a-sketchbook back in your pocket.