Moscow (and Milliways): Rostelecom Tea Time [1.08-1.09]

[yuri_plisetsky]

He hadn't been certain that it would work. He's only ever reached this place through his bedroom door before, only in St. Petersburg, only at the end of the day. There's no guarantee that it would show up here in a random Moscow hotel room just because he wanted it to appear badly enough.

But it does. Perhaps because he does. When he swipes the keycard in his hotel room door and opens it a crack, the bar is on the other side.

There's no time to be surprised, or grateful, or concerned about what this might mean. Yuri simply pulls the door open wider and propels the Katsudon through it, steering him over to the nearest empty booth with one hand.

'Sit here,' he commands, with a touch of Lilia's steel in his voice. 'Don't you dare leave.' And he's off to the bar before he can hear a word of protest. Not that he'd pay attention to it if he heard it.

Comments

[yuri_plisetsky]

And there it is at last: the anger. Beautiful, blissful anger. It burns away enough of Yuri's extraneous emotions to show him an escape route, a way out for both of them -- the second in as many hours. He's got one chance to make this moment work .

His free hand catches hold of the upper back part of Katsudon's arm, right below the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make it clear that this isn't a opportunity to do anything but listen.

'So now you have our schedule, yes?' he says in firm English, forcibly overriding any lingering translation magic provided by the bar. Their shared second language sounds rough and crude after the fluidly translated Russian he'd been speaking for the past however many minutes, but that's most of the point. It's unmistakably Yuri Plisetsky's voice ringing out in English in the empty hotel corridor, deliberately pitched for an unseen audience. 'If you're late, we'll leave without you. Now get the fuck out of my room -- I want to sleep.'

His grip shifts, switching to a hand at Katsudon's back. And there's just enough pressure to propel him forward, into the corridor, without actually shoving him head-first out the door...which, coming from Yuri, might as well be gentle guidance.

All the same, he doesn't shut the door just yet. He waits, one hand on the door and one on his hip, allowing the anger to settle on his face in his natural flat stare. It remains to be seen whether he will have to literally kick Katsudon's ass down the hall and fling him into an elevator before they can both pretend that they'll be getting any sleep tonight.

(Viktor would have handled this better. Made it look easy. Made it look natural.)

(Viktor isn't here.)

[theglassheart]

Contact is a shock. Another in the dozens and dozens that seem to be buffeting through him like strong, bone-cold, winter wind. But the pressure (real pressure, not quite to pain, but real, unimagined, this time with a location, a reason, a pintpoint exactness, when his eyes find the hand on his arm) helps. Oddly.

Easier not to question why. Answers haven't been forthcoming for minutes.
(Even Milliways, the impossible place where nothing is impossible, said no.)


The English is rough, ruthless in his ear, all harsh Russian accents (nothing like the glide of Victor's inflections). Demands his attention like the hand on him. On his arm. Then his back. Not asking, because Yuri never asks. But even more than the original, hard order, made even harder.

Because Yuri wants him out of his room, his space, near him, too. Like he's sullying even the air. There's a part of him trying to say that's absolutely normal. The same as every other time he's been near Yuri. The same as Hasestu months ago, and those seconds right before his skate today.

Except.

Minutes that feel like more years. He remembers that face. The one Yuri made.
He remembers the tea, and Yuri talking about them together. Wishing him luck.

(Except.

It doesn't want to hold either.)

It doesn't matter (or it matters more than he knows how to translate with everything else he doesn't know how to translate, suddenly feels like it's all in a language he's never been taught) because he's already stumbled the propelled steps in the hallway. Found motion again. The lights too bright for late night, and there's only one place to go.

(Their room.
The one Victor arranged.
The one Victor won't be in.

The one Victor won't return to.)

Not yet.

Or is it -- not still?


He looks back over his shoulder, searching for something, the words Yuri had just said maybe. Newest insult jangling ice shards into everything else nebulous and overwhelming everywhere -- he's suddenly so tired, in every bone, made of bricks (not music) even if he's sure sleep won't come easy. But he remembers anyway. The words. The insult.

"I'll be there." It's deflated, even unwavering.

Before he does turn back toward the hallway and start walking back to the elevator.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Yuri watches him leave. Stands there in the doorway, making sure that Katsudon doesn't turn around, doesn't need anything else from him -- but then again, why would he?



'Fuck you, Viktor Nikiforov,' he whispers in Russian, the barest exhale of breath, and he has to close his eyes because they're starting to burn. From exhaustion, of course.

When he steps back into the bar and shuts the door behind him, everything feels detached, slightly out of phase. But he can't leave just yet. He started this whole thing, and he has to finish it. The empty teapot and cups go back to the bar proper. While he's there, a muttered request for a bag of ice, which appears without fanfare or comment. The coldness radiates from it into his hand as he carries it back to the door, and he takes out his room keycard again.

Outside. Close the door. Hear the locking mechanism click with an unpleasantly final sound. Look around, pretending as if he'd heard a noise or something.

(Katsudon's gone.)

Swipe the keycard. Open the door...and it's an empty hotel room once more.




The next time he gets a bright idea about helping someone out, he'll keep it to himself.