yuri_plisetsky: (be what I see in you)
Yuri Plisetsky ([personal profile] yuri_plisetsky) wrote2017-03-21 08:09 pm

Moscow: Pirozh-katsu!...and the Rostelecom Cup Free Skate (1.09)

To say that Yuri had been able to go back into his room and go to sleep after leaving Milliways was an accurate but misleading statement. He had indeed gone back into his room, spent ten minutes staring out the window at the Moscow lights as he iced his aching hip with the bag of fresh ice he'd grabbed at the bar, half-assed some stretches, taken a shower in water turned up as hot as he could stand it, pulled the blackout curtains over the windows, checked his phone alarms, and flopped into bed. Between the day's physical (and mental, and emotional) exertions, the scalding shower, and the several cups of mint tea he'd consumed, it was only a few minutes before his eyes closed. But the sleep that came over him was less like sleep and more like simply not-being-awake: it was a heavy, overwhelming sort of blankness that wasn't particularly restful or refreshing.


When his alarm goes off, shrill and disorienting in the darkened hotel room, it takes a moment for him to resurface from the blankness into a groggy half-awareness as he paws at his phone to shut off the noise. As consciousness trickles in, it brings with it a steady flow of memories of everything that had happened the night before -- Viktor, Yakov, Katsudon, the hotel, the bar, the door -- and Yuri grinds his teeth hard enough to hurt as he rolls over and pounds the lumpy hotel mattress twice with his fist.

Idiot. You idiot. Could you have fucked things up any more than they already were?

On any other day, he'd pull the covers back over his head and give himself five more minutes to wallow in his own misery before hauling himself out of bed. But Lilia is expecting him at her door in fifteen minutes, with all of his gear and a polite good morning for her. He can't sit around and sulk. Besides, there's still an asshole Canadian who needs taking down a peg or two or twelve -- and considering how badly he'd screwed up yesterday (on and off the ice) he can't afford to think about anything else.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Yet expect it to remain)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 01:42 am (UTC)(link)
The night is too long. The night is too short. Yuuri was still up and out of the hotel, too many words, too many voices and faces, tumbling in his head, to find breakfast not made by the hotel. There's a need, prickly up from under it, to run. It's early. It's morning, even bitter cold and black. He would usually be running around now. As the sun came up, or before it.

(He can't run. He shouldn't. It's the competition morning. He needs his strength today.
It makes him want it even more. To run into the black. To out run the day coming at him.
The silence, and the too many, too many, too many words, he just can't stop circling him.)

He tries instead to be brave. At least to pretend he's capable of it. Staring at the pictures of food on the menu from not too far down the street, with a name he can't even pretend he's understood, and when it comes творог, бутерброд and яйца, it looks closer to something he could have put together in his university cafeteria than expected.

He doesn't eat enough of it. He can hear Victor grumbling in his ears, even if the place is dead, except for him and one other person. (His stomach won't listen. It's just sour. Tight as a knot.) But Victor never said he had to eat everything. Just something. (He doesn't order tea. чай is not tea. To Victor, maybe, and the man down the counter across the room. But tea doesn't need syrup or jam or candy in Yuuri's world.

Not that he's in his world.

How many ways is that true right now?)




If trying to sleep in that empty room made the night rough, and talking to Victor (it won't be so different, laughs in his head, too often) made the morning rougher, it's nothing compared to anxiousness that creeps into his veins, his bones, every smaller and smaller breath, when he trails the Russian Federation Skating group.


It's instantly clear how familiar they are with each other, all their matching jackets, and their way of speaking to each other, even with the obvious tension of the morning, and almost all of it completely in Russian. Yuuri keeps his face down when at all possible. When people join them. When they head for the rink. During sudden bursts of laughter from Mila, and strange sighs from Georgi.

They jump to attention, like soldiers, at Yakov's orders. (His Russian is so different from Victor's. It's all slashing, biting, sharp edges and crashing cymbals. Perfectly even, and more than a little terrifying. Making Yuuri jump more than a few times, when no one is even looking at him.)

And they do.


These people. They do look at him.


As much as he studies his knees, his feet, the ground, anything in the far distance. He can't help looking at them. When there's a squeak, or some simple teasing in a tone. The cultured brogue Lilia uses that stops everyone, and makes them attentive. He doesn't know them. Not really. Only that they are where Victor came from. (Making him want to know, across glass walls and cement barriers.)

And they don't know him. They haven't been alone with him, not really. (Except Yuri.) Not for more than seconds or minutes. In locker rooms, warming up. Not talking to each other. Never outside of the rinks, themselves. They've never been alone with him like this. Where Victor isn't there. Where it's just him.

The boy who stole Victor from them (and Russia, and the season).


He tries to shove it down, but it doesn't work. It circles, bites. He doesn't understand most of what gets said, and in the few times when English is used, he can't bring himself to even think well enough to say something, anything, before it slides back to things he doesn't know. Between people he doesn't know.

(But it doesn't stop them from looking. Him, or them.)



It's worse when he reaches the locker rooms. Everyone except Yurio leaves to other places.

But there are more glances in his direction than usual from the rest of the people there. Most of them don't hold his gaze long if he looks up at the wrong moment. They flash away, like no one can be caught touching what he has. Like it's a disease that might infect them. The only one who stares long enough, tips his head almost opening his mouth -- making Yuuri turn away, accidentally closing his locker far too loud and absolutely too desperately, no matter how red he turns for it -- is Nekola.

Pity, he thinks, is worse. He doesn't -- can't have those words either.

(It's strange that Yurio screaming at someone is almost easier this morning.
Even when he's the one person who seems to never looking at Yuuri this morning.
To have dismissed his existence right out of existing. Nothing like those few seconds last night.)


But night is gone. Taking with it Victor's voice on the phone, and the last words of his last text, and the way Yurio had looked over the table, and the frantic jumble of words tumbling out Victor's mouth as he left. It's morning. The second day of the Rostelecom Cup. The girls vanish to their practice and return. Then the pairs. While all of them stretch and warm-up, in their own impossibly untouching, and yet far too close, spaces. The way it always is.

(Everything circling. Everything repeating. Every breath a little harder. Every reminder a little louder.)


Until it is their turn.
theglassheart: By Existentially (And judgement taught us)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 03:44 am (UTC)(link)
He focuses too much and not at all. He'd looked toward Yakov and Lilia, waiting at the wall for Yuri to go once, more than. Twice. Not sure if it was to continue to make them real, to continue to prove to himself this really was all happening, or constantly question whether he should go over, should say something, have something to ask. (This was Victor's coach. Victor said to listen to Yakov.)

He goes over and over everything Victor's said to him about this morning, about today. In the lobby (but he can't imagine anyone hugging Yakov, which makes the suggestion he should do it if he's in trouble), and on the phone (and something in his is still obstinant at the idea of taking it easy).

Yuri said he didn't have say anything. Victor, too.
He's not that tired. (He is.)



It's his footwork that gets unexacting, making him go over it several times, slower, when his thoughts won't hold together. (He makes himself stop. He makes himself breathe. He tries to remember. What Victor would say. Have him do. To make him focus.) He can't stop his mind from racing. Can't stop thinking about the numbers. The hours since Victor left. The hours since he last heard how Maccachin was. The new personal best score that has him still in second place.

(He stops the 3 turn mid segment without launching as Seung Gil crosses fifteen feet in front of him.)

The possible number of points needed to keep it.
At least four people who need to knock it down, and five if it all counts, and it does.

No one wants less than they can take. (No even him.) He does want to win. (He does.) And if he whispers it to himself, just to movement of lips and no sound, maybe it will stay longer than a second.) The silver from China is still in his room. (Tucked away.) Less than twenty-four hours ago, in the seconds between his announcement and his beginning, his fingers were gripping Victor's tie and dragging him back from being the Champion Prince. To only him. Already on the stage.

He doesn't remember how he managed to be so bold. He needs it now. (But it feels as far away, now, as Victor is.)

Yuuri pressed his lips, teeth too tight for a second, and did his crossover, sliding into a lunge, arms out, letting them carry him. But it feels drowned. It's not what it should be. What is he missing? Seduce me, Yuri. Victor's voice says in his head. The same refrain over and over. Charm me, and no heart will be safe. When all the words blur, the meaning. When. How long.

(There will be no lips at his ear. There will be no cheek pressed against his. No solemn and serious faith. No stumbling fall at not being able to pick up everything as Yuri lost the ability to carry it. No blur of Victor right over the end of his fingers when he finishes, no matter how well or badly. No lecture or laughter in the Kiss-and-Cry.

How were his fingers in that tie. Or Victor's lips pressed against his skate. Beaming. How is any of that the same.)


No. No. He can't. His eyes close and he runs it in his head.

(He has to show them. Show Victor. Russia. The World. Everyone.
Even with him here, this is. He's still the same. He can win. Beat them.)

He breathes. Goes over the jump circuit. The way it meets the music. Makes it. He does.




It's a miracle he didn't fall down.

It's the first thought when the announcement sounds that their time is over (in the middle of his half loop, ending his slachow before it would have begun). He watches the others skate toward the open gate, and the waiting coaches, with advice for what they just watched, and not far away, the teams of interviewers and cameras, with the flash already on high, salivating for their newest soundbite.
theglassheart: By Laura (Let's skip this conversation)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 05:13 am (UTC)(link)
Yuuri's near to last. Partially for being so far out, and partially for it being that everyone else has someone they are going to ... and he doesn't. It doesn't send him into some rush. He could ask Yakov. He could. But Yakov is already with Yuri and it wasn't like he'd even asked Yakov to watch him. Or for anything at all since Victor handed him over.

Maybe he'd be disappointed with Yuuri's choice -- avoidance of choosing any action -- if he talked to Yakov later.

He can at least go get his first round with the cameras done. Even if he wants that even less. Words. Having to say something now.

He dawdles taking care with his skates. Skate guards. His jacket. Until there's really nothing he can do but slink toward the area that where Taihei Katō is just finishing up with JJ. Who is striking his signature pose, throwing an arrogant, fearless smile at the camera, before walking off toward a dark-haired woman calling his name excitedly.

They keep the video rolling, and the camera never even drops, even Yuuri wishes both would somehow.
They won't. They never do, and mostly he prays he can just get through this as fast as possible.

What he is not hoping for, or expecting is, the first words Taihei Katō say,
"Um, it didn't look like you exchanged any words with Coach Yakov at this morning's practice."

Making him startle, and sweat, and stand too tall, at the implication he's done it all wrong. Everything already. Not even to the skate, and he's mismanaging his hand off. His practice, and it makes him blurt out, "I'm fine!" Too fast, a good bit too loud. Needing to add more right on to it, because Victor said (Yuri said Victor said), "I'll just do what I've always done in practice with Victor!"

Which isn't entirely what he did, but he had kept trying to go back to it everytime he wasn't.



And he hadn't fallen down. At least. He was still intact (and Victor with him). For now.
Edited 2017-03-25 05:21 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (It's not hard to contain it)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 10:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Which just really, it opens a completely different kind of can of worms. Though he's not certain he ever expected that one not to be opened. Not when Victor is gone, and everyone knows Victor's gone, and he keeps hearing his name and Victor's name, and Victor's name more than his, whispered in rooms he's just walked into, and even by people who don't realize he's walked up nearby, and the reporters are bound to know and want to know more.

Even if he demurs with things that mumble off. Too sharp, too jangled, too quiet.
It's a family emergency. It's private. He's fine. It'll be fine. Yuri will what they've practiced.



He runs away nearly as soon as not actively rude. (Any longer and he may have melted into the floor.)

Though he has absolutely nothing to run to. There's no Victor waiting to tell him what he should because this or that looked too tight, looked too sloppy. There's so many hours between right now and the next time he'll step back on the ice. Nearly one-fourth of the day, two hours until the first group of Ladies Freeskaters, and it suddenly seems vast. The space of a desert. Empty and burning. Sand in his eyes, sliding down the tunnels of insides.

He takes a seat, not paying too much attention to the Ice Dancers who've started practicing, or the larger than normal crowd backstage. His finds himself hunched over, hands pressed together to his mouth, trying to think only seconds later. He needs a plan. He needs something to hold on to. Something to guide him. Something to hold on to. He's never done this like this. Never. Never without Celestino even.

He should have planned this last night. He should have asked Victor on the phone.
He should have asked for more. Should have said more than one or two words.


Victor said, it won't be so different (and some part of him, something curled in his chest shudders, throbbing worse than his feet and the muscle in the back of his shoulder, too raw for ruthless reminder), and maybe Victor's not wrong (maybe Yuri is wrong ; Yuri is so often wrong). Because he needs that, too. He needs this part to still be the same. He needs to make it through this. He needs to warm up. He needs to keep snacks light. He needs to not lose it completely (again).

He needs to show them. He can do this. Victor hasn't wasted this year on him.




(His foot, even with his toes pressed hard into the floor, still starts bouncing.)
Edited 2017-03-25 22:25 (UTC)