Yuuri sipped his tea slowly, trying not to get mired in his own voice, the words that had come from his own mouth. Ones he could piece together, with some effort, but that weren't in the right voice. Except in his head. Victor, still not here. Not here to gasp, overdramatically, and cover his mouth, pretending to cry, like being evoked, or even copied, wasn't something half the world, or more, did.

Even if Yuuri knows he's not half the world, or more. (Not anymore.)
Like them, but something more now, too. Off the ice. (In Victor's arms.)

Something so fragile, and hazy, and new, and suddenly so, so suddenly empty in realization, connection, that it just aches to even cut a glance in that direction of tonight, with Victor slipping further and further away by the minute, Door or no Door, frozen time, or not, unhelping. (Like the thought of returning to that hotel room. Going to sleep alone. Waking up alone. Unbothered and uncrowded. All the silence Victor effortlessly smashed.)

It helps when Yuri starts talking, dragging his attention back to the conversation, in far too large part, because he doesn't get it.

He follows the words, but even when those are clear, he wonders if it means something different in Russian. The way Yuri is saying it means something different in Russia. Something about needing to remember how bad it was, showcase that ... as the reason for why he has to do so well? Even when everything isn't bad anymore?

Trying to piece that into any of skating he's seen Yuri do. As some backbone or side message to it?

It doesn't make sense, so maybe his voice quiet a little, even in refrain, "Then, you'll show them that tomorrow, too."