He hadn't planned for any of this. All he'd wanted to do was get both of them out of the hotel, away from the press and Yakov or anyone else, before the shock had worn off. And now he's having to figure things out, right on the spot, like being in the middle of a flagging performance and knowing that your only hope is to let the momentum of a spin or the glide out of a landing buy you enough time to determine how to make up the difference.

'You don't need to talk to them just to be polite.' Yuri pushes a strand of hair out of his eyes. 'Tell them if you want anything, if there's something wrong with your skates or you need tape or a bandage or anything like that. But they won't bother you if you don't want to be bothered, and it won't offend them if you don't ask them for help. Yakov wouldn't get in the way of anything that someone else's coach has had them do.'

The tea might have helped the tension in his shoulders, but only enough to let it move to his chest, strained like a rubber band pulled too far. It's that tension as much as anything else that makes him glance away then, and mutter:

'Anyway, I'm the one who screwed up today. So they've got other things to think about than what you're doing.'

He can still feel the impact from that stupid triple axel at the start. Hitting the ice right off the bat, like he'd never landed it a thousand times before. All because the agape wasn't there.