#shallweread

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Hi all! At long last it’s time to post my preview for the @yoilitmag ! Please support the project if you can, everyone has put forth a ton of effort towards making some really wonderful pieces for issue 2 (theme: time).

Summary: After thirty years of living in California, working as a travel agent to drum up business for his family’s onsen, Yuuri finds himself out of the job, completely alone, and surviving his day to day life, rather than ever really living it. It’s not the right time to find love, but like the rotation of the earth around the sun—relentless in its projected course—Yuuri finds he might not have a say in the matter.

Yuuri squints at the hours of operation sign peeling off the one-way mirror door of his nearby neighborhood bar. The late August sun peers over his shoulder—a judgmental interloper—scrawling the fine lines around his eyes and mouth in deep wells of inky shadow and sticking his shirt to his back with sweat.

He wipes his forehead with his arm, checks the time on his phone. 11:34. The bar has barely opened. The thought of being labeled a pathetic Tuesday morning drunk burns the back of Yuuri’s neck like a branding iron, but his shame seesaws with a surge of heart-squeezing anxiety. He pushes his way inside before reason has time to settle, the specter of Yuuko’s inevitable disappointment trailing hot on his heels.  

She corralled him into her apartment only a few days earlier.

“We need to talk.”

“Uh oh.” Yuuri lowers himself onto the triplet’s old stepping stool, one of the few remaining furniture pieces not wrapped up in bubble wrap and piled Tetris-tight into Yuuko and Takeshi’s station wagon. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Yuuko lobs a balled up real estate ad at his head. “Be serious.”

“You better listen to her,” Takeshi warns from the kitchen. He’s facing away from them at the stove—hip cocked to one side, stirring the curry for tonight’s dinner. “She’s been in planning mode for months trying to figure out how to mother you from Japan.”

Yuuri rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs. He’s dizzy from the smell of spices, the heat of the apartment crowding in on all sides. He picks up a business card from the pile of past graduation programs and long-expired warranties Yuuko’s sorting, runs his finger across the gold embossed lettering. ‘Onsen Travel Services,’ a relic of his former life.

“You should be worrying about how to keep up with the girls.”

“The girls call me every day,” Yuuko says. She tucks a newspaper-wrapped framed nursing certificate into the box at her foot and settles back into her chair, tucks a loose strand of silver-threaded hair behind her ear. “You’ve lived next door since we were kids and you won’t even respond to a text.”

“It’s hard for me to read the screen.”

“You read off a screen all day.”

“That’s not reading, that’s...” Yuuri pushes a hand up under his glasses, presses his fingers into his eyelid. “So...socializing?”

“Arguing with strangers over the delivery date of their shower beer caddies isn’t socializing.”

“But arguing with you about this is?”

“This isn’t an argument,” Yuuko clarifies with a finality that exemplifies her thirty-odd years raising three headstrong future lawyers. “It’s a discussion. When’s the last time you left your apartment?”

“Yesterday.”

“For something other than groceries.”

Yuuri feels a trickle of sweat drip down his spine. He stares at a phone number scrawled on the back of the business card, a Rorschach blot of ultramarine where the ink has bled out from sweat or maybe tears.

“I’m not trying to criticize.” Yuuko leans forward to touch his knee. “I know it’s been a hard year. I just...I don’t want you to end up one of those old men who die in their apartment without anyone knowing.”

Yuuri flinches.

“Which is why...” Yuuko waits patiently, lets her intentions hang until Yuuri lifts his eyes to meet hers. “I set up a date for you.”

happy birthday dommi!! this is also sort of a promo for the fic i’m writing for @yoilitmag​, in collab with @somethingyoirelated​!

“You really should be more careful,” a sing-song voice resounds next to Viktor. He turns to see a familiar grin beaming in a familiar tan face; moments later Phichit Chulanont swings his camera bag down onto the bar and hops onto the barstool with an eager glint in his eyes. “Some unscrupulous photojournalist might stop by and find their next headline: local dating app founder possibly an alcoholic?”

“This local dating app founder has a reason to drink,” retorts Viktor, glumly swirling his chardonnay. “Have you seen what Yuuri’s wearing today?”

Phichit purses his lips. “Since I don’t live with him, no?”

Viktor takes a swig of his drink. “It’s the worst.”

Phichit tilts his head to one side. “Worst as in ‘devastatingly bad’ or ‘devastatingly good’?”

“How does someone manage to pull off glittery cashmere and flannel?” retorts Viktor, rubbing furiously at his temples. “He looked like a university prof. But like, a good one. One who desperately tries to avoid having relationships with his students, but finally succumbs to the temptations of one talented young man after his final exams…” Phichit’s sudden coughing fit jolts him back to reality. “I mean. It’s nerdy. But cute.”

“Classic Yuuri,” agrees Phichit. “I remember what he wore the first time he got interviewed for the St Lidwina Chronicle: jeans, this hilarious Engrish t-shirt, and the biggest, frumpiest grey cardigan I’d ever seen.”

“The ‘watching, of dogs’ one, right?” Viktor asks. “And it’s styled like your regular beware of dog sign?”

Phichit nods. “Has he gotten more of those shirts? His sister sometimes sends over some from Japan as gag birthday presents.”

“My favourite is the ‘kawaii is fuck’ one he got after a holiday trip back home,” Viktor admits. “It resonates with me, you know? Especially the rhinestones.”

“Have you seen the ‘Are You Nasty?’ shorts?” wonders Phichit. Viktor pauses, contemplates it.

“Not yet?”

Phichit snorts. “Good luck if you do, then,” he replies, patting Viktor’s arm. “He showed up to a Barre class wearing that once. I think half of the students passed out.”

It takes Viktor a couple minutes to realise the strangled noise is coming out of his own throat. “I’m going to die,” he whines, chugging down the rest of his wine. “He’s going to drive me into an early grave.”

“I’ve survived him,” Phichit points out. “You can do it, too!”

“That’s because you’re interested in someone else,” Viktor says, with a pointed nod towards the bartender and wine bar owner, Christophe. Said man is currently explaining the menu to some other customers. Phichit shakes his head.

“I can assure you, Yuuri was as much of a problem for me as he is for you.” He winks, claps Viktor on the shoulder. “Good luck! I believe in you.”

Viktor flips him the bird.

It’s barely a week later when Viktor finds himself knocking on the door to Phichit’s darkroom. “I brought croissants,” he says, and moments later the door swings open to reveal Phichit, smelling vaguely of chemicals as he eyes the paper bag in Viktor’s hands. “It’s a Uniqlo legging pants day.”

“Sounds terrible,” replies Phichit. Viktor holds the bag out, and he reaches in for one of the croissants and takes a large bite of it. “Does he have his cuffs rolled?”

“Yes,” says Viktor immediately. “His ankles are a bit bruised from the dancing, but they’re so beautiful.”

“That’s your weird foot thing, not mine,” says Phichit, shaking his head. “Though I do agree – Yuuri’s feet are extraordinary. You know, because he can rest his entire body weight on the tips of his toes.”

“He doesn’t go en pointe as often as others,” Viktor remarks as he bites into his croissant. “He just has to make sure not to drop his partners, which means he’s –”

“Swole as hell?” finishes Phichit. “Have you gotten him to lift the sofa yet?”

“I haven’t done anything that’d warrant that, no,” Viktor says, sighing. “It’s easy to reach under our sofa for vacuuming, anyway.”

“You can thank me later if you do manage to get him to do it,” replies Phichit, before vanishing into his darkroom again. Viktor sighs, before striding away down the hall.

A couple weeks later Phichit gets a text from him. 

It’s one word: thanks, and a picture of Yuuri’s biceps flexing as he holds up the sofa with a questioning stare, as if asking Viktor why he couldn’t just reach under like he usually does. 

Viktor also keeps a copy of that picture. For, you know, a rainy day.

Phichit comes over for dinner one evening, trailing shortly behind Christophe who’s brought a couple choice bottles of wine. “I picked up some macarons from the bakery you like,” he chirps to Yuuri as he sets down his box on the kitchen counter. Christophe is already uncorking one of his bottles. “I got a little of everything, if that’s alright.”

“How am I going to eat dinner knowing these are waiting for me?” Yuuri demands as he peers into the box, longing written plain across his face. Viktor hides a snort into his wineglass. 

The oven timer rings, and Viktor starts to shoo them out to the living room. But Phichit lingers, hovers a little behind Viktor. “Do you need any help?” he asks.

“Did you see Yuuri’s outfit?” Viktor replies as he takes the roast pork out of the oven. Phichit looks over into the living room and makes a sudden choking noise.

“Oh my god,” he says. Viktor laughs as he starts to carve the ham. “Should I congratulate you?”

“I’d like that,” replies Viktor sweetly. Phichit claps his back.

“Congrats on the sex,” he replies. “I feel slightly obligated to give you a shovel talk, but both of you are older than me and probably should know better. So just – do things that I wouldn’t do.”

Viktor snorts. “Thanks for that advice.”

“He looks better in your shirt than you ever did, by the way.” Phichit winks, pouring himself a glass of wine as he does so. Viktor finishes carving the ham and sets to work on an accompanying quiche. “It fits you, but it’s an artistic loose on him. Love it.”

“I didn’t dress him. That was his own damn fault.” Viktor smiles, and nods towards a stack of plates. “Help me set the table?”

Phichit takes a sip of wine before setting down the glass and grabbing the stack. “Seriously, though, it was about time,” he says. 

Hi! This is a bit late, but here's a preview of my piece for @yoilitmag! Please support this project! Everyone's works are super amazing. :)

Summary: In a reality where the most honest representation of a human being is the light that their soul gives, Yuuri dances; Victor loves.

-----

Up until this moment, Yuuri has always held Victor at a distance. At first, it’s because of the idolization (read: in what reality are you really here?), but later, Yuuri realizes that it’s out of fear—that niggling urge to give into self-preservation. Victor can’t decide to dislike him if he doesn’t know him, right?

“Yuuri.”

And Yuuri blinks, brought back from the turmoil of his thoughts as he recalls Victor’s question.

Victor stands in front of him, one palm lazily held up as he effortlessly maintains a tiny floating sphere of silver as a makeshift lantern of sorts. Yuuri eyes it wearily and unconsciously rubs at his chest. “No lights, please.”

Immediately, Victor drops his palm. Even in the dark, his expression can be obviously identified as concern. “Yuuri?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Not now.

“You want… to sleep,” Yuuri instead repeats haltingly. “Inside my room?”

There’s a moment of reluctance.

“...Yes!” Victor exclaims, letting the matter go and nodding enthusiastically with a smile that’s far too charming to be completely genuine.

“To sleep?” Yuuri asks again hesitantly, unsure if the usual connotations of the phrase applies or not.

“To sleep, yes,” Victor says, trying to seem at ease while standing awkwardly by Yuuri’s doorway. He fails, but Yuuri is hardly one to point it out. He, of all people, is prone to his own bouts of anxiety, after all. For all that the world has forgotten, Victor Nikiforov is still human.

Human. Blue eyes shadowed just like his and a smile straining on his lips. The tightening grasping of a pillow against a chest and a poodle heeling obediently by his feet.

Yuuri coughs. “We can… not sleep?”

The strained smile is stretched wider. “Oh?”

And Yuuri’s cheeks redden at the implications of what he has just said. “Ah, no!” he says, shaking his hands wildly, “I meant we can do something else! Talk. We can talk? Do you want to talk, Victor?”

Here’s a sneak preview to my story: Royalty comes from what you do

Relieved it was still on the tray in the room, Viktor glanced around, realizing that this wasn’t the work of the maids as the room itself still looked the same as it always had aside from the slight changes. With a silent huff, he walked into his inner rooms and paused when he saw that someone was asleep in his bed. Walking quietly towards it, he smiled, seeing familiar ears poking out from underneath the blanket, hands curled into fists on the pillow. Sitting down gently, Viktor reached over to run a hand through the dark hair, laughing softly when his hand was followed by the head for more caresses.

Slowly one of the eyes slid open, revealing stunning eyes that almost seemed to glow with flecks of light, making it seem that constellations were painted into the very recesses of his eyes. The blanket slid down to his shoulder, revealing more and more of his face. If Viktor leaned a bit closer, he could see the clothes he wore followed the consistent black and white theme he’d always worn, yet it almost felt ethereal, for the shirt was lined with stars and constellations, telling a story Viktor had heard numerous times before.

Introducing Issue 3 Artist, crimson-chains!

A pineapple who is shooting for her dreams!!! Grew arms and legs to bring art into the world, a terrifying being.

With unrivaled skill in remodeling the familiar into the new, and making the new feel familiar, @crimson-chains is continuously creating new worlds, characters and situations to enthrall her audience. Her striking brushwork, inimitable style, and soft yet vibrant colors never fail to turn even the darkest subjects into something utterly magical. Between the fluff and the comedy, the charm and the heart, one dive into her art will have you willingly not coming back for air ever again.