yuri_plisetsky: (on ice [Troika])
Yuri Plisetsky ([personal profile] yuri_plisetsky) wrote2017-05-23 02:39 pm

Moscow: Rostelecom Cup, GPF Qualifer Short Program (1.08)

The Rostelecom Cup is the last event of the 2014 ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating series. In the men's figure skating division, two competitors -- Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan and Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland -- have secured their places in the Grand Prix Final. The remaining four slots will be determined by the final standings of the six skaters competing in Moscow, based on their scores in previous ISU Grand Prix events:

- Michele Crispino (Italy): 3rd Place, NHK Trophy
- Yuuri Katsuki (Japan): 2nd Place, Cup of China
- Seung-gil Lee (Republic of Korea): 2nd Place, NHK Trophy
- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canada): 1st Place, Skate Canada
- Emil Nekola (Czech Republic): 3rd Place, Skate Canada
- Yuri Plisetsky (Russian Federation): 2nd Place, Skate Canada

As the competitors arrive in Moscow, two particular skaters are the focus of much press and fan speculation. Fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky is making his senior debut in his first major competitive event in his home country, after a strong showing at Skate Canada in Kelowna, British Columbia. At the same time, Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki has arrived in Moscow with his coach, the long-reigning world champion Viktor Nikiforov, and based on his remarkable performance at the Cup of China in Shanghai...

...but all of this is only to be expected from the official press coverage.

On the ground, the reality is a little more complicated than that.
fivetimechamp: (^_~)

Re: Arrivals - Sheremetyevo and the Star Hotel, Moscow

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-24 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
They aren't the first to arrive, but they're nowhere near the last, either, and that's by design. Jetlag hits Yuri like a train and Victor wants to make sure they have plenty of time to settle in, time for Yuri to nap if he needs to, or practice if he'd prefer to push himself until bed tonight, and it was a long flight from Shanghai. Too long: all he wants is a shower and some food, and then as large a coffee as he can find. They were both a little rumpled and tired coming off the plane –– although not tired enough he forgot they had to go through different gates, no matter what Yurio might have implied –– and it was a relief to get into the taxi and head towards the hotel, even it seems strange to be so exhausted just from sitting.

Except it wasn't really just from sitting, was it? It's from the people, too.

He's never minded being surrounded by people: fans, reporters, sponsors, fellow skaters, he enjoys them all. He's used to it, even being away in Japan for the last eight months. The experiences of almost two decades have made the relative quiet of Hasetsu the abnormal, not the usual. There was a strange sensation of homecoming not simply from being back in Russia, seeing the familiar Cyrillic letters on the signage, hearing the language spoken fluidly all around him, but the attention, too. Fans and well-wishers, wanting photographs or a greeting, many flying in for the same competition he's here for.

It's nice. But tiring.

And not nearly as fun for Yuri, who dislikes being in the spotlight nearly as much as Victor enjoys it, and that gives him an excuse to shuffle them out of the airport and into a waiting cab as soon as possible, before slumping back against the seat and smiling over at Yuri, wanting to reach and take his hand. "That could have been worse."

Better still is actually getting to the hotel, even if it's not the best possible choice. It's still a hotel, not a plane or a taxi, and he's grateful for it, and for the ease of checking in before the real rush of skaters and visitors floods the lobby.

But best will be actually getting to the room itself, and taking full advantage of a hotel shower, with all the accompanying hot water and pressure it can offer.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Until we die)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-24 02:09 am (UTC)(link)
It's a week for nerves, and one with no room for breaks. Short, shot between action and exhaustion.

Giving up all of his daytime hours to running his programs again and again, back to back, until even Victor is certain he should take a breather, because most people like them, even the best of the best of them, wouldn't do even that much without between each one. To the harness and pushing himself hard to learn the quad flip landing, while, also, not injuring anything this close to Rostelcom. Giving up his nights two to tthe NHK Trophy, and two to the Trophée de France, following close, too close, just close enough, as Grand Prix Finalist slots begin to fill.

(And Victor.

Victor, too.
In a whole new way.
In every single one of them.)

The first real pause comes with travel, and as much as his body is desperate for it, it makes the rest of him more restless. The flight is long. It doesn't matter whether it would be shorter or longer from home, or from anywhere else. It makes him restless, fills him with the feeling of being trapped, when he should be up, running, doing something, anything, but there's nothing to be but still. Stay sitting. Wait.

Wait for the airplane to arrive. Wait for the airplane to takeoff. Wait for the airplane to touch down.

Wait to walk out into the world of Moscow. Russia. Land of the dozen or so half-phrases Victor has been helping him with over the last week. Weekend where he has two days left. Two. To prove he deserves to be sent to Barcelona. To compete against the other top five skaters in the world. (To be one of those top six.)

The airport on arrival is madness, and for the first time since getting up at something that shouldn't even be considered a relative of morning yet, and especially anytime in the last any number of hours, he wants to get back on the plane. Or be back in Pudong, where so many fewer people were actually left to watch them leave. Not no one. Just. Nothing like the crowds that greet them beyond baggage and held back by security to specific spaces. Pandemonium that drills into Yuri's head like actual nails, while Victor effortlessly waves and laughs.

Minako isn't there to make any comments (isn't going to be there at all, this time, for the first time [again]), but Yuri pastes an ungainly smile on his mouth. Already hearing in his head the message she might leave if he doesn't in some picture or video she finds. Still it's really nothing like ease either while he waits on Victor who is only too glad to have pictures taken, or to toss out amusing one-liners and his signature smile or wink.

(And how is that something that just coils too tight in the center of him?
When this is normal. Absolutely normal. It always was. Even a week ago.


The taxi is a relief, if marginally, and he spends most of the ride staring out the window at a million things he can't read. Taking in the look of the buildings, the streets, and cars, and the gray, gray, gray sk ywith its matching thick, thick snow. Heavy and impending at him from above and below. Cold and white to cloud up his head. Victor says it isn't too bad, and Yuri just slides a look at him, having to turn his head to find him, and then almost back to the window. But he stops himself. "Yeah."

Though at this second he doesn't have an image from something he'd consider worse
(that isn't his favorite go-to, and that doesn't apply to airports so much as tomorrow on the ice).
Edited 2017-05-24 02:19 (UTC)
fivetimechamp: by niedola (content and conversational)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-24 02:52 am (UTC)(link)
He's never liked Moscow much –– no one who considers themselves to be from St. Petersburg does. The two cities are as unlike each other in character and image as ... well, as him and Yurio. Moscow isn't as beautiful, it lacks the ocean setting and the calm cries of the gulls, and it isn't as refined or sophisticated as St. Petersburg ––

But it is closer to home than anywhere he's been in the last eight months, and that means something. It means he knows to wave off the cab driver when he tries to take their bags, and can converse easily with the concierge in the hotel, and the food on offer at the hotel restaurant is so familiar it almost aches just to see the names on the menu. All of it mixing with the weariness of travel and the simmering excitement about tomorrow, and it leaves him feeling wired and exhausted all at the same time. If it were just him, he'd go for a run, or to a rink for laps and jumps, and then find a local bar and wait for his friends to roll into town, but it isn't just him. It's him and Yuri in the elevator, on the way up to this newest hotel room (it feels somehow as if they've been in hotels forever), and that makes him smile over at his skater.

Maybe he could have been doing all those things. His own prep. Food and company. A night out enjoying the town and socializing.

This is still better.

Even when he sighs, and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head while he leans back against the elevator wall. "Oh, I could use a shower. It's nice to be off the plane, isn't it? We can take our time unpacking and getting something to eat."
theglassheart: By Existentially (Well...)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-24 03:24 am (UTC)(link)
The hotel is like the cab, is like the way he assumes a number of things here might be -- outside of the arena, where everything whille be clearly translated in a dozen languages at all times in different areas. He waits, and listen to Victor talk. Smooth Russian, and something light about it. It's not a light language. Russian. It's nothing like light.

He knows that even more the more he starts looking into it. Because of this weekend.

( ... because of other things.)

Which means it's not the Russian that is light. It's Victor. Light. Smiling. Even through the edges Yuri can see, too. Hanging on the way he moves, or the press of his mouth. It's still there. Through it. Like a light rippling through water, travelworn edges. While interacting with people and exchanging words Yuri gets by context, but not translation. Seeing Victor from the outside -- but not all at once. Seeing him here. In Russia. Talking the way he hasn't been able to for months maybe. Unfettered. His language. His world.

A juxtaposition of things, when Victor is standing in the elevator, leaning on the wall, travel clothes and dark sunglasses. Like a few minutes back was a track skipping, where this looks absolutely normal. Which maybe makes Yuri stare more. Even if it's not exactly head on, until Victor speaks again. Sighs first, and pushes his glasses up, tired familiar smile, fading from the center out, as Yuri nods.

"Anything has to be better than airplane food."

Victor had said honey cakes, Yuri hadn't forgotten. What he might want most.

(And the Red Square. The one Yuri has looked up since it was originally brought up, and had to be told the name again. With its hanging lights and massive glowing austere buildings, almost like American holiday decorations. That even on a screen still seemed so far away. Across the world, and across a divide of something so much greater than distance or time.

With The Rostelcom Cup between here and there, and the wholly realistic question of whether it would exist at all in two days, if Yuri didn't make it, couldn't make it, if Yuri had no reason to be here the last day and Victor would, instead, be figuring out what he needed to do now that he had no reason to return to Hasetsu.)

Yuri tried not to shift too much, fingers loose on the handle of his bag, swallowing and glancing toward the screen counting up the numbers to their floor. Pushing it back, taking a breath in. Something more. Something here, and now. "Do you want to order something while you shower? Or did you have somewhere in mind?"

This was his world, and it was Victor.

There was no doubt Victor could, without warning, whip out a plan detailed enough to make Yuri regret asking.
Edited 2017-05-24 03:28 (UTC)
fivetimechamp: by me (what are you talking about?)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-24 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'm not very familiar with Moscow."

Not to the point he'd know where to go, or what to do first. Unlike Barcelona, Tokyo, all the cities he's traveled to for competitions, he hadn't ever spent much time sight-seeing in his home country. Not much in Moscow, and not much in Sochi, either –– although Sochi at least had the benefit of being a travel destination even for Russians. "We can ask the concierge where to go. I think I want to get out for a little while, don't you?"

Hotel to plane to cab to hotel: his lungs are crying out for fresh air and his legs need to be stretched. "And then you can go to bed early so you won't be too jetlagged tomorrow."

The room itself is the same as every other hotel room: basic furniture, tiny bottles of shampoo and lotion, bedside table, thick drapes to cut out the light from the Moscow nightlife, such as it is. For a moment, there's a strange sense of deja vu, as if they've just arrived in Shanghai all over again, doomed to repeat the same week in a constant loop without ever leaving the hotel –– but there's Russian on the instructions for room service and for the phone, and the view out the window is nothing like Shanghai's glittering streets. It's gray and cold and it isn't home, but it's not a stranger, either.

The shower is satisfying, and so is changing into fresh, clean clothes. The kind he doesn't wear as often anymore: not his black and comfortable work clothes, not one of his suits, which he sends along with Yuri's costumes to be pressed before they're needed tomorrow and the day after. The sun has broken through the clouds by the time they leave, and he slips his sunglasses back on while his other arm goes companionably around Yuri's shoulders to direct him back out towards the elevator. "Let's go!"

Except it takes longer than he'd hoped to actually get food, because the lobby is beginning to be choked with arriving skaters and fans, and the reporters are out in full force. It takes nearly ten minutes to navigate his way just back to the front desk to even get a restaurant recommendation, and fifteen to get out of the lobby entirely, while deflecting questions in English so Yuri can understand, and smiling for pictures, dragging Yuri in alongside him every time a new camera or phone lifts.

But the food is good, and the restaurant is mostly quiet and tries to comp their food, each piece of which Victor explains and watches Yuri try with a look of pure delight on his own face, laughing at each reaction whether good or bad. (The tip he leaves is substantial.)

All of it only making that buzz under his skin grow a little louder, a little more insistent, with each bite of food that used to be familiar, and is now almost novel.

The borscht is particularly good.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Wait a minute)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-24 05:49 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri is not certain he wants to be anywhere like 'out,' but he's not in bad mood and it sounds no more or less taxing than it normally does, and given Victor's lived for need to to go out first thing somewhere new (or even not-quite-new, but not known) pretty much since he first arrived? There's something of a non-verbal sound and shrug, but there's nothing like dread in his expression.

He lays down on the furthest bed, while Victor showers. On top of the covers. Feeling as restless as he does exhausted, but that's normal enough, too. It's been a frozen day, without all the driven, pushing, reaching, demanding movement of the last at least week, and its the ramping energy for tomorrow and the day after.

The two days, of moments only five minutes and less, twice.
Minutes to make everything this whole week look like he was only playing.

He doesn't actually mind the way Victor grabs his shoulder to steer him from the room, through the hallways, into the elevator -- until the elevator opens. Until any number of surprised and suddenly delighted eyes shoot from one of them to the other, back and then back, and it's not new. But the flavor is just slightly different. It is.

(He hates how relieved he is when Victor has to let go to cross the lobby.

Then, only minutes later, how awkwardly he can't seem to smile right
every time Victor drags him back in for a photo,
or a conversation of questions he only half understands.)

Still, they do get out of there.

To a restaurant where everyone is, once they've been there longer than half a minute, still smiling, and the whispering, which might be normal everywhere he's been with Victor has been since leaving home -- it's another different here, too. More buzz. More staring. More laughing. Pride and excitement that doesn't at all center on Yuri. He's not lucky enough to miss it or lack inclusion, but it's Victor's. Not his. That is clear.

Every glint in every eye of people who seat them, serve them, fill their water. The faintest tremble, here. Blushing cheeks, there. Conversations from nearby tables that he doesn't know the language of, but he can't miss hearing either of Victor's names even in other mouths or blurred ocean of only partly familiar sounds.

The food is distracting, as is the fact that no matter how many people say Victor's name and don't stop staring at Victor, Victor won't stop staring at him. As though every single thing dropped on the table has to be pushed to Yuri fist, as though everything puts in his mouth needs to be related.

Even prepared for the idea, the tea still tastes more like a dessert. The olivier reminds him a little American chicken salad. The pelmeni is, if folded differently, just like dumplings from home. The borsct is ... very red, but nothing like the spice he expects from the color. He rather likes the shashlik, but the cabbage rolls are a slightly embarrassing mess.
fivetimechamp: by cherrytini (pleased as punch)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-24 06:31 pm (UTC)(link)
It's a good, solid meal, but it's not the kind Yuri's used to, and he already looks tired by the time the bill is settled up, so as much as it might be a good idea to walk around to keep from giving into the temptation of a too-early bedtime and a likewise too-early wake-up, Victor's not going to keep him out too late. Just long enough to wander the few blocks near the hotel, point out the arena and let the good food settle in their stomachs, before it's time to start heading back.

Well, back by way of a small café near the hotel, which offers a wide variety of the sort of sweets Victor never thought he'd crave, but found himself missing in Japan: pastila, bird's milk cake, vatrushka, piles of chak-chak glinting with hardened honey. All of it toothsome and tempting, all of it too heavy for Yuri to eat right now, but that doesn't stop Victor from hauling them off their route to beg for samples from a rosy-cheeked, laughing girl behind the counter, who willingly hands over not only a few bites of pastry, but also the large coffee in a to-go cup Victor requests.

(Yuri needs to sleep well tonight, but he still has some preparations to see through, has old sponsors to meet and catch up with, has too much on his mind to succumb to the coaxing, gentle fingers of jet-lag, even if the prospect of stealing a few hours to curl up with Yuri in a dim and quiet room away from the hubbub is a tempting one.)

It's still in his hand when they walk back in through the hotel doors, only for the call to go up –– his name, Yuri's, the scurry of shoes against the lobby floor, the sudden flash of cameras –– before they're surrounded. Not unexpected, but Yuri looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than answering questions or taking pictures, and Victor leans down to him, first.

"Yuri, why don't you go on up? I'll be right behind you."
Edited 2017-05-24 18:32 (UTC)
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (And I wonder)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-25 12:32 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri spends too much of the walk with his eyes darting in a loop. Around him, to the people, back to somewhere a few feet in front of his shoes and then to his side, when Victor explains certain things. Next to them. In the distance. It's not what he was expecting but he's not sure what he was expecting. It's not quite the same to imagine Victor could be the embodiment of a whole country, no less a city, and somehow, not certain there even was a something he was expecting, he's not expecting it.

(He's definitely not expecting to round one of the corners and catch Victor's face on a far away building billboard, he can't tell whether is a hanging or attached there, three, or four streets up the way they aren't going, with letters beside it too far away and too small to read, in a language he probably wouldn't be able to read anyway, even if it was right above them.)

Victor stops them by a cafe wher his stomach gives some combination of whining about wanting desperately for more, being unable to survive without it, and gurgling about already being stuff with unknown foods it hasn't made up its mind about being in him, and he doesn't buy anything. He samples what he's handed, but he knows the fact he feels hungry has absolutely nothing to do with being hungry. He can feel it attaching itself to the back of his spine and the bottom of his lungs, like another whole lifeform.

A presence that has so much more to do with being here.
Wanting to bury himself again the ramping realization of being here.

Rostelcom is tomorrow, and he'd been on a strict enough diet all of the last few months. One meal doesn't change that. Or being a foreign confusing place, that is only foreign and confusing to him, and not Victor, putting a glass wall of longing and uncertainty into him. Between them. Being hungry, as a reaction to all it, doesn't change that. It's actually the most normal thing that could be, is, happening.

Well. And the siege of faces and cameras at the door. Sending him back toward ramrod stillness, like his spine only had two settings for the day -- and when exactly had he relaxed even enough to feel that snap back, frozen-stiff? Somewhere between Victor's laughing and constant familiar chatter, a tune he never could shut out. Not like the crowd. Not like the newest barrage of questions, beginning to come fluently in both languages as different crews of interviews make their appearances finally in Moscow, here, too.

He isn't expecting Victor's suggestion, but it doesn't take even needing to glance around to know he will. Even if something tightens and sinks in his stomach all at the same time. But away is a relief, and Victor always liked this. The attention. Yuri nodded, and let Victor excuse him. In a way Yuri never could have, where the interviewers were smiling and tittering good-natured, supportive laughs at the reason for Yuri's exodus.

If he stops just before turning the corner toward where he'll find the hallway to take him to the right tower of the hotel, just to watch Victor surrounded on all sides by the lights and microphones and buzzing questions, it's not like Victor or anyone around Victor is looking at him to catch it either.
fivetimechamp: by cherrytini (everyone's hotter in sunglasses)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-25 01:52 pm (UTC)(link)
The competition hasn't even started, but the performance has: skaters and sponsors arriving to mingle before things kick off tomorrow, reporters hanging around waiting for a chance to scoop an interview or find a new angle to cover for the next few days. It's the kind of thing Yuri dislikes, his natural reticence at being in the spotlight or talking to people he doesn't know choking up all his words and shattering his self-assurance, but Victor has never minded it.

That's not even the right term. He enjoys it. The attention, the questions, the photos. He loves talking about skating, and he's never minded being open about himself and his personal life, and he's still the reigning champion, and that makes him a favorite of the press. He knows that would be a vain thing to say, but that doesn't make it any less true: what might come across as simple arrogance from someone else is often charming, even magnetic, from him.

So he's glad Yuri took the out. He'll have to talk to all of these people sooner or later, but right now, Victor just wants him to rest and focus, and he'll have a harder time doing that when "How do you feel about returning to Russia?" is one of the first questions launched his way, swiftly followed by: "When will you return to skating?"

It's not surprising that the press corp here is focused more on his return than on Yuri's comeback, but Victor's an old hand at deflecting them, easily, with a polite enough delivery that he can appear flattered by their interest but remain firm on this line. "Until the Grand Prix Final is over, I won't comment on any future plans."

He'd looked forward to coming back here, he'd said earlier. As a coach. He might be the problem with the press right now, but he can also be the solution: if he wants them to focus on something other than him, they will. "Right now, I see a lot of potential in Katsuki Yuri's skating. I'd like you all to focus on Yuri at the Rostelecom Cup."

It's a good line, and a firm one, and he's mentally patting himself on the back for directing attention away from himself and towards Yuri, when another reporter leans in, smiling. "If the skater Katsuki has that much charisma, don't you want to face him as a fellow competitor?"
fivetimechamp: by me (photo op!)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-25 03:20 pm (UTC)(link)
The sunglasses hide most of his expression, but he it takes him a second to press his mouth back into a mild, ambiguous smile. It's ––

A sudden distraction he can see, just over the shoulders of the reporters in front of him, and he's pointing, even as he grins. "Oh, it's Yurio!"

It's the perfect bait-and-switch, as the reporters look, their curiosity about his plans giving way to the necessity of covering Russia's newest up-and-coming elite skater, the little hellion who is as ready to break his own neck as he is to shout at everyone around him or to slink off on his own in sullen silence. That last conversation had been like getting repeatedly bitten on the ankle ––

See you in Moscow, Coach Nikiforov.

–– and it's running through his head as the attention and cameras and tape recorders turn towards Yurio, as he pushes forward.

Yurio who looks startled, who looks unsettled, who looks off-footed in a way that brings another memory floating to the top: If you're not too busy showing off for the cameras to remember that anyone else even exists. That face, wide-eyed and uncertain, with teeth baring as if to bite, reminding him of another day, much longer ago: warm weather and large crowds and the smoky, salty scent of grilling squid.

He'd sent the dogs after Yurio (and was it because he was a convenient distraction, or because he knew Yurio would hate it?) but he can run interference for him, too. An arm going around Yurio's shoulders, companionably, while he slips off his sunglasses for the pictures that are getting snapped in quick succession. "Did you all see the short program I put together for Yurio?"

Agape is something he never gets to talk about anymore, and there's so much to be said, about how Yurio fought for it, found it, began to make it his own. How much it's changed, and how he's ––
fivetimechamp: by me (Default)

[personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-05-26 02:35 pm (UTC)(link)

There's a short gasp, and a hush that makes the falling coffee cup sound like the crash of a guillotine, but while the reporters murmur behind him, Victor says nothing. He's been dealing with Yurio all wrong from the beginning, it seems. It's not even unusual to be smacked away, even if it's normally verbally, rather than with actual physical violence. He'd probably love it if Victor rose to the attack.

Not as much as the reporters would, though, and Victor's been doing this too long to let anything slip past the carefully curated half-smile on his face, all the animation he'd just been deploying wiped away and replaced with something bland and blank, although those looking at him head-on might feel a sudden shiver, the way one might if a chilly wind had blown across an otherwise mild spring day.

There's nothing to do but to let him stalk off, before bending to retrieve the fallen coffee cup, shrugging off that sudden cool stillness like someone had hit a button marked play on his back, only to turn with a wide smile to the reporters, shoulders relaxed, to lift the cup and lid in exaggerated mournfulness. "Looks like I'll need a refill."

It gets the laugh he'd intended, which relaxes the mood, and as he focuses back on the questions coming his way, it leaves him with his back turned to the elevators and the black storm cloud currently headed that direction.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Well...)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-27 01:16 pm (UTC)(link)
No one tries to follow him, and for that Yuri’s quietly grateful. Not that he expects it. Not against the murmur of shot out questions and Victor’s delighted voice, the later of which follows him a small bit around a corner, until he’s gone too far to be able to hear any more of it. When it's just the wide open and empty hallway, basically across lines the reporters can't cross.

Yuri rubbed at his cheek and kept walking. He wouldn’t mind laying down. He’s not certain he could sleep exactly yet, but he wouldn’t mind laying down. Maybe to just lay down and scroll his feed, and listen to his music for a while. Think over the pieces he needs to most work on, most focus on tomorrow. Before Victor would reappear, and they'd end up going over the same things for tomorrow.

The first sound to bring Yuri back from his thoughts to the empty space, is the sound of steps that has Yuri looking to his side to find Seung-Gil Lee. The Korean skater, who got approval for a mambo, and showed up last week in the NHK Trophy. Yuri is certain it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out how to open his mouth, but all he finds is the feeling of suddenly being further adrift from the skaters that will be here for Rostelecom than China.

There isn’t anyone he knows here. Not like he’d known Phichit.
Which was almost like being drug into knowing everyone.

The elevator doors open the next second, on a far more unexpected scene as Yuri blinks at two more of his competitors — Michele Crispino, also, from the NHK Trophy, and Emil Nekola, from Skate Canada — in the middle of what almost looks like a fight. The Italian skater, clutching a girl to his chest, who it becomes quickly obvious is his sister, due to the yelling about her.

It’s an awkward pause, as the two men in the elevator keep talking but don’t yet get off, and Yuri and Seung-Gil stand there staring at them. Yuri would already like to be somewhere that is not here, even as it’s clarifying that it seems to all mostly belong to Crispino overreacting to something, while Emil is laughing through an apology and his sister is defending whatever it was.

The girl turns and says hello to both of them outside the elevator, and Yuri wonders for a long second, with no response poised or appearing by any stray strike of luck, if he’s met the smiling girl who winks at him, before. If she was in China, as well. But he never has to decided on a response, because Seung-Gil soldier’s into movement and moves to walk into the elevator, brushing off the hello from the girl.

Stumbling right over her invitation to come out with them.

Then, right into asking if there is any value in being polite to her.

With a not quite hunch of shoulders, Yuri slides toward the other elevator, as it dings to announce itself, wanting nothing more than to escape without being the next person drug into everything over in the other elevator.
theglassheart: By Jewelry (We're coming out)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-28 04:38 am (UTC)(link)
If there's confusion, for the elevator door jamming open, followed by panic, for thinking he wasn't going to make it away from the scene in the other elevator, it's a little surprising that the next feeling to join panic is ... relief. When it's not any of the four, nameable but unknown, persons, but instead it's: "Yurio."

His shoulders drop with the surprise and some of that gathered tension goes right out of him. There's something that never truly makes itself into a smile, but it heads in the gray nebulous direction of that realm more than the one it had been in. The words are perfunctory, but he's alarmed to note that it's true, too. "Good to see you again."

It's been months and even the whole of a good amount of time since he was last following Yuri in the Skate Canada performances and scores.

"Um." Even if the words are true, it makes having any clue what to say after those perfunctory words as completely new kind of grey and fogged endlessness. Has him reaching his hands into, even just to produce something else perfunctory. "Good luck to both of us in the Rostelecom Cup."
theglassheart: By Existentially (Looking for scraps to tear from me)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-05-28 05:58 pm (UTC)(link)
It’s strange really. Yuri’s not sure he could explain it if he tried. A few minutes ago he’d been thinking about how no one he knew, no one like Phichit, was here in Russia during this competition like the last. Yurio isn’t anything at all like Phichit, they’re so far apart it would be like comparing the sun and the moon, but Yurio’s voice goes biting and scathing and Yuri finds himself smiling.

It’s familiar. It’s exactly what Yurio should be like.
Sullen and shatteringly sharp, unwavering about Yuri’s doom.

He shouldn’t smile, but he does at the beginning. It’s the first truly normal thing aside from Victor (who even seems a little different here, too). Which is an odd half-thought to already be in, when Yuri mentions he’s going to have Victor stay when he wins, and Yuri's smile does fall away, like it was gossamer dissolved against the touch of the air, and …

Hadn’t Yuri been thinking that earlier?

If he doesn’t rank high enough.
If he doesn’t make it to the Grand Prix Finale.
If Victor no longer has a reason to return to Hasetsu.

What would Victor do, then?

What would Yuri?

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