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 Me (About Me)


[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 12:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri secures a plane ticket. Officially, two-in-one. Direct to Tokyo, then a commuter to Fukuoka.

He packs his suitcase, removing all of the last whispers of himself from the room, and even though he could leave his bag in there, when he walks out of the room, he's not coming back to it (and he already wants to walk out of it and not return). It's overdramatic. He has a little while still that feels like far, far too long. That doesn't change the fact he leaves his bag with the desk and turns in the matching door keys.

He stays in the hotel lobby, only until he realizes he's studying the air between the main opening and the door, like it's going to produce answers. Or a phantom of Victor's face, his voice, from last night. It hardly feels like last night. It was five years ago, and five seconds. He puts his jacket it on, digging in the pockets for his mask, and tells the, far too cheerful for how late it is, lady at the desk he'll be back to get his bag.

Russia's great long night is a dark stretch across everything.
Broken up only by street lights, car lights, and the fresh falling snow,
that catching it as it falls, of in patches where the light does. Cold, and sparkling.

Like Russia. Like his win. With a little more rest, a hot shower, ice, painkillers, and a meal in him, his mind focuses slightly better. The exhaustion is there, but the paralysis of shock and stress -- it doesn't let go entirely, but the nails and the fingers aren't digging straight into his brain and his lungs so hard. He's going to the Grand Prix. He can't change today, but that won't stop him trying to think about his skate, about his morning, bout Yakov and Yurio, like maybe somehow he could.

For all intents and purposes he did basically lose here, without actually losing. It's too close, the blunt edge of a razored blade. But he's not done. Not done skating. Not done training. Not done fighting. Not done, because the thing he set out do is in his hands now. His career didn't end today. (Without Victor.) He has another month. The whole season. He's this close to the peak of his competitive career, and he really does want the gold now. Still. (With Victor.)

The Grand Prix Final would be his last chance.

Even if he didn't win, he'd have Victor step down as his coach after the Grand Prix Finale, and
Edited 2017-03-27 12:50 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Me (Tryin' to pretend)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 02:01 pm (UTC)(link)
And never comes, because suddenly something slams his right side, pain blossoms and explodes, and he's flying through the air. The flying isn't so bad, even with the manic dose of unprepared shock. No, that's slamming the ground. That's every muscle and bone in his body meeting the hard cement, which jars him like he's made of the glass he's so often compared to, instead of catching him, on his side, tipping him the next second so his hands, ear, then face meeting a wet, and not nearly thick enough to soften the cement, pile of snow.

Before he even makes it to getting his arms, his hands under him, to more than looking over his shoulder, there's already yelling. Which makes sense when he does get there. With his hands, the looking over his shoulder, the coercion of making his body conform to his will of turning over to face the familiar, biting wrath of -- "Oh, Yurio..."

Not sure if that mumble of words is for him, or for the boy.

He's not sure what it says that he finds the disgust written clear there a numb relief.
theglassheart: By Me (But I know what you deserve)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 05:03 pm (UTC)(link)
He thinks, maybe, he's been waiting for this.

He thinks, maybe, it's still not right.

It's still not the right person, voice, face. His head is heavy, his body is exhausted, but his mind has cleared far too much to not make the comparision and connection in his head, exactly on line with the immeadiacy of his feelings, with his thoughts, anymore.

Yurio isn't Victor, anymore than Yakov wasn't Victor.

No one who isn't Victor is Victor.

Unlike Yakov who stopped yelling at him after being hugged suddenly, Yurio just yowls louder about almost being hugged, and Yuri stays there, already cold bare hands getting colder and colder in the snow, turning to freezing water on his skin's fading heat (and he thinks Victor would have words to say about that, too). He doesn't look away. Doesn't even cringe this time. Almost doesn't blink.

Yurio keeps on yelling about how Yuri can't possibly feel this bad without Victor (without Victor), not in comparison to his getting a better score, and still losing to JJ. The way his face is a perfect riot of angry insult and something else. Something that has the mask of anger, but is, also, something else. Scalding cracks in worth. Again. Again? Like Yuri, even on that second highest rise.

He thinks, maybe, he's right, too. About how Yurio needed so much.
About how he wasn't wrong. About what he said to Victor.

Even more about what he didn't say to Victor, when he crumbled.
(He's going home. He's going home so soon. He's going home to Victor.

I miss you, and Please,
Victor's voice repeats.

Yuro's a little too aware to let the echo form.
Of the day. His feelings, thoughts. Yurio.
The one in his head, all foreign curves.

It hovers at the edge anyway.)
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (If you wonder)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 12:30 am (UTC)(link)
Confusion is bigger than surprise. First that Yurio throws something at him, eliciting a sound of that confusion. A brown paper bag. That lands on his lap. Not heavy, but definitely not empty. The faintest of spots around the bottom, and whatever it's holding. But the rest is even more confusing.

Because Yurio mentions his birthday, which is as true as it's not, there's still time, but it leaves him startle-struck, only able to elicit another confused sound, by the confusion of the word birthday. How does Yurio know when his birthday is? Why was he just handed something, framed as a birthday gift, by Yurio, who is now doing his best to not even look at him?

Shock has him finally picking up his chill-soaked hands, curling toward the bag and opening that flap.
Tipping the bag forward so he can look into it, not expecting what's inside it either. "Pirozhki?"
theglassheart: By Me (But I know what you deserve)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 01:25 am (UTC)(link)
Yuri blinks. Confused even more by the quiet order. Yurio still not looking at him. Or the bag.

"Huh? Right here?" On the ground? His pants getting wetter? And the snow falling on the pirozhki already?
theglassheart: By Existentially (No matter how your teeth sink and pull)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 02:01 am (UTC)(link)
The snap is back toward a more familiar territory. Yurio glaring icy dagger at him. Hands on his hips. Shouting that word, and more, too. Yuri does at least push up from the snow, making sure to gather the top of the brown paper bag in his alternate hand. If he has to eat it, he'd rather be standing, than go on soaking up the snow while he's doing it.

He brushed the snow off his pants, and then off his fingers on a part of his jacket. He pulled a pirozhki out. Cool and solid, even though everytime he's seen them anywhere in these days they've been steaming, but he doesn't think of that long. The logic between asking and being shouted at again is a very short line.

The world might still be too big and too heavy, but he'd still like to avoid more screaming and swearing.
He does what he's told. Hoping that it'll make some sense, or do whatever it is Yurio seems to think he is doing.

He takes a bite and starts chewing, talking as he is, like it's a report he owes Yurio and his strange birthday present. Warm and filling in his mouth, familiar, with the glimmer of a surprise. "There's rice in this..." Not potato, like all the ones he'd seen, and he keeps chewing, before it hits him, what those other flavors in his mouth are. "Pork cutlet and egg, too."

His mouth dropping open in sudden surprise, so wide, it's under his scarf, when he looks down at the inside of the pirozhki for the first time. Pork, surrounded by egg, surrounded by rice. The surprise is grander than anything else, wiping away all of it for a delighted shock. "It's katsudon!"
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (And keep my eyes above the waves)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 02:58 am (UTC)(link)
"Yeah!" He doesn't stop to think. He can't. His cheeks are warm and he's taking another bite before he can stop himself. Something deliriously like joy climbing into his cheeks with the widened corners of his mouth, when from somewhere he can't pinpoint it bounces across his brain like a crashing star, fiery blinding brilliance that doesn't hurt --

He's going to the Grand Prix Finale, and he's eating celebratory katsudon.

Right now. Right here. In the snow, in Russia. With Yurio.

It's not Victor, but for a second, that thought doesn't hurt. Victor is coming, soon and this is -- this is the second best thing he can even think to that. With the only other person who understands. Who heard him say those words, so long ago. Who knows what it is for him. Who brought it to him. As a gift. Who looks so happy to be sharing it. And Yurio must have seen his grandfather then, and he's almost laughing from where he doesn't know, doesn't care, when he's chewing. It's the lightest he's felt, even briefly in more than a day.

"They're вкусно!" He can't even stop himself eating more quickly than he's eaten anything since midday the day before.
Edited 2017-03-28 02:59 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Jewelry (Need that picture of you)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 03:50 am (UTC)(link)
Yuri doesn't even look that crestfallen for the comment. It does. He knows that. But warm against the flavor of pork and eggs, even Yurio sounds more amused than insulted about that. About Yuri. Making the statement and just jumping straight into a vocabulary lesson about, stricter for focus but still lighter. He looks so pleased, and Yuri knows how that goes.

Knows how proud he was of Victor and Yurio both loving his mother's famous katsudon dish. His favorite.
The number of times they made it, and it warms in that same place, that somehow it's translated here, too.

Not just language. But katsudon. That isn't just katsudon anymore either.
Because it's piroshki, too. A translation of two different places, and people. Together.

"Pi-ros-" He tries, except Yuri moved on to another word and then a threat with a smile. Which was almost distracting. Yurio looking happy. Happy in a way Yuri hasn't ever seen. It's so completely different from the death glare at JJ on the silver box. Or the disgusted yelling at the beginning of these minutes, which feels a million miles away, as he loses the end of that new word.

It's brilliant. This look on him. It changes him, changes everything, and Yuri doesn't try to stop the slightly sideways shift he takes it, when even blushing faintly for forgetting, and even the fact he's talking about bites of food, because stopping is not an option for every reason now. He still tilts to, "Pi-ro-" He feels for it, dragging the vowel too long, but it isn't. He's already lost it. Only the word he know is there, and he instead changes it midword, the second half going higher, "-katsu?"

Half of two worlds, half of two languages, half of two words.

Something he would have bounced harmlessly, fearlessly off Victor.
It's foolish and silly, but he can't help smiling at the warmth in his chest and belly.
Edited 2017-03-28 04:15 (UTC)
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (Where my trust is without borders)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-28 03:34 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri doesn't take any offense or affront, or even show any embarrassment, in listening to how Yurio corrects the Russian in the first half of the word. Catching the the addition of the harder middle consonants of the original word with attentive interest. He knew where to shorten his own language, but not the Russian, and the word repeats a little giddily in his head, as Yurio looks surprised and pleased even as he tries the word out.

That makes his own smile soften, to something whisper small, but so genuine. The softest of echoes of it's earlier startled delight. Settling less in his face and more in strange new looseness of his shoulder, and the pink flush that finds Yuri's cheeks, without chagrin as he starts coming down. "да, do!"

They are delightful and Yuri's stomach rumbles with actual hunger with his unexpected seconds of happiness, even as everything quiets for The fact Yurioi has seen his grandfather (his ... De-ed-a-kah, his mind tries turning over the word) and it makes his next question a tentative assumption, based on Yurio's lingering brightness, even as he furtively looks away and back. "He came today, then?"

He knows, Yuri does, what it is to push yourself,

to shine like a star, willing to burn alive,

for the right person watching.
Edited 2017-03-28 15:38 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (But to never lose it?)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-29 01:50 am (UTC)(link)
He doesn't exactly love how he can feel the delight giving way to weight, as the topic turns the thing that holds it. The Cup today. The skate today. The paths closed and those left open for tomorrow, and next month. Not even if he started it. Not even if, without a word, it makes him relieved. Like a breath gets both let out and held in. Yurio had his grandfather today, and he'll probably have him tomorrow, and so maybe he can stop feeling guilty, too, for going.

But Yurio, also, did another thing for him. Last time an escape.
This time a gift. A birthday, and celebration for winning, gift.
A gift from his grandfather he was under no need to share.

But still had. Without anything to be gained.

It's enough to make that guilt well from a different spring.

"In one day?" Yuri's words are a quiet amazement. There's not a single thing he thinks he could make that he's been handed, aside from that open breakfast sandwich, that he's eaten since touching down in Russia. But to not even know what it looked like or to have had it, and he made it and made it like this? "He did a very good job. It's very much like it. He could use more--" But Yuri chokes a little at catching himself in offering to help correct or even imply any error of the man who did this for Yuri, without knowing it. Sullying any notion of his gratitude.

It's a little softer, even trying to push on, as an idea strikes him quietly in the next second. "There are some spices and ingredient if he's still testing it. If he can't find them here, we could probably have them shipped here?"

The internet was probably full of places Yurio could find them if he needed them, and recipes to tweak, too. But Yuri loved his mother's best, and if he was going to even pretend anyone knew better than the internet, it would have been her. She'd know what he needed, or they needed. (She'd love knowing all about this.) If they ever wanted any help to begin with, and he hadn't just stepped over the line unwittingly.
theglassheart: By MeBy Me (I will always wish I was worth)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-29 02:50 am (UTC)(link)
Its the uncanniness, without quite having its own emotion, of how Yurio says it. Statement, not question. With no real indication of his thoughts behind it. It's that which makes Yuri's fingers tighten, shoulders push in, and his voice twist softer than it had been, even with a small nod, and he wonders even as he says the words, how it's possible to sound like he might both be apologizing or apologizing about not apologizing.

(He's going home to Victor.

He lost, but won. Narrowly.)

"In a few hours." And a good half a day, or a whole day, depending how you counted. Too long still, standing here in the snow, with the uncertain feelings of different guilts and yearnings, and the echo of delight drifting away with the falling snow, all tangled up together. In his head and on his tongue. Making him use Victor's words, like it somehow isn't a cover. "I should be there in time for us to watch the exhibition still."
Edited 2017-03-29 02:52 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (I lack confience)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-29 04:05 am (UTC)(link)
Yuri feels something, somewhere soften at the first words. He's sure, involved with watching it he'll watch whatever JJ's exhibition is, and even Michele's, not that either had been the point. It will be more because they are there, and because they will be bookends to the only reason he cares about the exhibition at all right now.

There's some part of him aware, he wouldn't really care otherwise.
He probably wouldn't watch it live, if he'd lost and he'd known no one here.
He'd have found it a day or two later, watching it with his blanket over his head.

It's a strange feeling. All of this, wherever they are now, that is still in the snow the side of a road, but is somehow changed, too. Especially when it comes a step out of context, and then, again, when Yurio suddenly snaps those words, and Yuri's eyebrows shoot up too high for a second. Not certain how to take it, or consider it something that ever held an option. Not even now, with how it turned out. There was only one option ever.

There's something solemn, even if it tinges disappointment. "He had to."

Not disappointment in Victor.

Disappointment in himself.
Responsibility for all that came after.

He should have done better. He should have found a way. Somewhere before he was in the middle of Yuri on Ice, gripping his performance like he'd never had to before. Before he was in fourth place, and sliding into the Grand Prix Finale on a five-hundredths of a point, and his earlier Silver. He has to do better in the next month. He has to do better at the Grand Prix Finale. There's no question that either now. Not if he's going to get the Gold.

But he has tomorrow, and whatever lecture Victor will have ready, and the next month for that.

"He called earlier." A point that might not need making. But. "Maccachin is going to be okay."
Edited 2017-03-29 11:24 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (From the start)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-29 12:15 pm (UTC)(link)
If he's not entirely certain what to do, what to say, how to feel about last night and today where it comes to this. This dramatic, snapping, denial ridden, defense of himself before himself, but Yurio of all people, shift. That feels ... as fragile ... as undefined as Yurio's face shutting away to a side. It's not that he doesn't agree. He doesn't see that there was ever a choice, ever a chance Victor would stay, ever any possibility he would have ever told Victor anything but to go.

But it isn't right. Whatever the amorphous unshaped 'is' is. It hasn't been since Victor vanished into a taxi.
A bruise he's pressed his fingers to, just to feel the pain, feel anything real for hours and hours, while so much else went on.

It's the background for the confused surprise at Yurio's last word before he looks away. I, like Yurio (Yurio?) ... had to save him if Victor wasn't there, couldn't? Like Yurio ... had tried? Last night in Milliways. Before swearing and ordering him away, and ignoring him entirely until now. And Yuri doesn't think he's wrong, he's somehow impossibly positive in the confusion of feelings. That Victor is wrong. That Yurio would have watched him tomorrow, whether it was here or somewhere else, whether he'd made it, himself, or not.

And when did that happen? How ... and where ... and why?

But he did, they both ... cold comfort, but truth all the same and the only words that form -- "We both made it."
For better or worse, nothing is over yet. (And Yurio has his dead-kah. And soon Yuri will have Victor back.)
Edited 2017-03-29 12:18 (UTC)

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