It’s easier like this, playing for each other on the grand piano of Victor’s apartment. Windows open and the moon hanging low in the sky, the tinkling of the keys floating out towards the city.
There’s something about this moment in particular, though. The way they’ve spontaneously and collectively arranged a duet of de Falla’s Cuatro piezas espanolas: Cubana. It’s a conversation; sweet words that Yuuri’s never had the courage to say out loud, romantic lines that Victor’s always been apprehensive about spilling his heart out with.
So they play on, fingers flying over the ivories and occasionally brushing against each other’s. When the piece comes to an end, Victor’s left pinky curls over Yuuri’s right, linking them together.
His heart beats impossibly fast, stuttering out a tempo that would put Yuuri’s jazz skills to shame. He wants to say everything.
“Love you,” is what he says instead. It’s everything wrapped up in the one thing, the only thing that could possibly summarize all the emotions he’s ever poured into the pieces he’s played for and with Yuuri.
Yuuri leans forward, his hand knocking a few stray keys in the process, the notes ringing dissonantly. “Love you more, Vitya.”
And before Victor can open his mouth in protest and start them down that debate again, he presses their lips together.