Yuri's not sure that he's ever seen Katsudon move that fast off the ice. It's entirely possible that he's never seen anyone move that fast, on or off the ice. One moment, he's watching Katsudon's expression shift into something that makes his own hands clench reflexively because it's too much to look at directly (he wants to rip that look off his face, it shouldn't be like that, no one should have to look like that), and some misplaced fight-or-flight instinct that he's never been good at suppressing makes him dig his nails into his palms to provide a kind of insane counterpoint to it. The next moment, he's out of his own seat a split second too late, because it's just in time to watch as Katsudon reaches blindly for the door handle...and to Yuri's eyes, his fingers seem to pass right through it.
Like it's not there.
Like it had been there for him, and then it wasn't.
Like he'd seen it disappear before his eyes.
(It's a small, twisted, wretched, helpless feeling, dredged up from a time almost before memory, when he'd tried to help set the table and a too-full glass of water had slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the floor. It's liquid spreading inexorably across tile and light reflecting off the fragments and a pleading voice that at first he doesn't recognise as his own. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it -- )
(But it doesn't make the glass any less broken, does it?)
When he reaches Katsuki's side, he doesn't hesitate to take hold of the door handle. The very solid, all-too-real door handle that will give at the slightest pressure of his hand. But he doesn't open it, not just yet.
'I shouldn't have brought us here.' His voice is a cold half-whisper. His gaze is fixed on the door handle as if he could melt it from the force of his glare alone. 'Go back to your room.'
Because there's nothing more he can do. He's not what Yuuri Katsuki needs, or wants, and what more proof of it is there than this?
So he turns the handle, and the sterile light of a Moscow hotel corridor floods in around the edges of the door as it opens a crack.
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Yuri's not sure that he's ever seen Katsudon move that fast off the ice. It's entirely possible that he's never seen anyone move that fast, on or off the ice. One moment, he's watching Katsudon's expression shift into something that makes his own hands clench reflexively because it's too much to look at directly (he wants to rip that look off his face, it shouldn't be like that, no one should have to look like that), and some misplaced fight-or-flight instinct that he's never been good at suppressing makes him dig his nails into his palms to provide a kind of insane counterpoint to it. The next moment, he's out of his own seat a split second too late, because it's just in time to watch as Katsudon reaches blindly for the door handle...and to Yuri's eyes, his fingers seem to pass right through it.
Like it's not there.
Like it had been there for him, and then it wasn't.
Like he'd seen it disappear before his eyes.
(It's a small, twisted, wretched, helpless feeling, dredged up from a time almost before memory, when he'd tried to help set the table and a too-full glass of water had slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the floor. It's liquid spreading inexorably across tile and light reflecting off the fragments and a pleading voice that at first he doesn't recognise as his own. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it -- )
(But it doesn't make the glass any less broken, does it?)
When he reaches Katsuki's side, he doesn't hesitate to take hold of the door handle. The very solid, all-too-real door handle that will give at the slightest pressure of his hand. But he doesn't open it, not just yet.
'I shouldn't have brought us here.' His voice is a cold half-whisper. His gaze is fixed on the door handle as if he could melt it from the force of his glare alone. 'Go back to your room.'
Because there's nothing more he can do. He's not what Yuuri Katsuki needs, or wants, and what more proof of it is there than this?
So he turns the handle, and the sterile light of a Moscow hotel corridor floods in around the edges of the door as it opens a crack.