imagine that Viktor is looking to play the violin again. its an important moment for him, having been through so much and away from the instrument for so long that he's almost hesitant to even touch the bow, afraid that he'll find he's not as proficient as before or that the notes come out robotic instead of the natural he'd spent his childhood perfecting.
he's too scared to do it. what if its gone? that talent he spent so many hours building? that one thing he'd been so proud of, when there'd been nothing else for him to be proud of? the one thing that reginald had never made him feel horrible for enjoying? the one thing that he'd done while five and ben had been reading, playing music for them and making them smile after a hard mission where they'd come back with shadows in their eyes?
he can't face that it might be gone. so he puts the violin down and tries to ignore it, leaving his room and going about his day.
that night he enters his room to find a folder sitting on top of his violin case. its old and banged up, torn at the edges and weathered in a way that spoke of frequent touch. frowning, he opens it---and finds pages he'd thought long lost to the trash or the fireplace. pages and pages and pages of old notes, some printed and some written in grace's hand. some in his own, still wobbly with youth and the hesitance that had marked his every action back then. smudged and faded with time, but still very much legible.
he hadn't seen them in over a decade. what were they doing there, then, complete and un-torn? who had saved them from the trash can that reginald would have shoved them into or the fire that viktor might have thrown them into during a fit of loneliness or despair?
at the bottom there's a note:
Thought these might help. returning to your roots always makes things a little easier when coming back to something. and anyway, it was not like i was going to use them. instruments still hate me.
i've missed your playing for decades, brother. hopefully you can remedy that.
(five listens that night, sitting on the roof under the stars, to viktor's music wafting out of his open window. it sounds like all the fantasies of home he'd ever imagined during the apocalypse, and so much more.)