Even as he says it, he's trying to hide his concern, and it only makes him come out sounding petulant. Much as he's happy to see his grandfather -- he nearly fell down half a flight of stairs in his haste to get outside, because he's here, he's here, he came to see me, he came to watch -- Yuri knows how hard the seats in the Moscow Small Sports Arena can be. It's a long time to have to sit in one of them and wait for one person to perform, if your back is bothering you. The pain of a bruised hip is nowhere near as bad.
Oddly, his grandfather doesn't seem to notice. Brushes it off completely, like he always does when Yuri tries to get him to look after his health more. (Eat better food. Go for walks. Move to St. Petersburg, where the air is a little bit cleaner and a two-bedroom isn't that much more expensive.) 'Just try these,' he says, and then there's a paper bag, and suddenly the bag is in Yuri's hands.
The bag is slightly greasy and full of warm lumps, and Yuri doesn't have to open it before the rich smell tells him what's inside. Pirozhki? Now? It doesn't make sense. He doesn't usually eat a full meal the day of a competition; his grandfather knows this better than anyone. And even then, he wouldn't eat something as solid and loaded with meat as a pirozhok mere hours before he's scheduled to take the ice. Still, they're Nikolai Plisetsky's own recipe, so of course he'll have one now, but he's not some little kid who needs to be placated with a snack --
The first bite is a revelation.
Instead of the seasoned ground beef he'd been expecting, a swell of warm and chewy rice (rice?) fills his mouth, and his teeth bite down hard on something firm in the middle. And there's something else mixed in with the rice and the meat, something savoury, and then there's a little burst of vegetable on the tip of his tongue, just like....
Stunned, he looks down at the interior of the half-eaten pirozhok, and he can't believe his eyes. It's the same basic yeast dough on the outside, but the inside is as far from the traditional filling as...as Kyuushuu is from Rostov-na-Donu. 'There's pork cutlet, scrambled eggs, and white rice in here?!' he exclaims. 'What's with these pirozhki?'
'It's katsudon pirozhki!' his grandfather declares triumphantly.
And then, before Yuri can say a word or even make a sound, there's a warm hand on his head. A familiar weight, so easy and perfect and reassuring that the katsudon filling can barely make it down to Yuri's stomach for the lump that's formed in his throat. The lump only swells further when his grandfather smiles at him and says, 'Eat them, and do well in today's free skate, Yuratchka.'
A handful of simple words and a warm paper bag...and somehow, it's everything he'd been missing. Everything he hadn't known he'd needed.
If only he were performing Agape today --
(Viktor isn't here)
-- but not even that thought can quell the smile that's dawned on his face, cheeks flushed with an excitement that fills and warms him like the pirozhok in his hands.
'Okay,' he says. Because for the first time all day -- no, more than that, for the first time since he left Hasetsu, since he'd been beaten, since he'd lost -- it really does feels okay. More than that, it feels right, like that moment in an arabesque when it goes from painful to perfect. This is his city, his country, his home. Third place after the short program? He's come back from worse. The sponsors and the sports ministry breathing down his neck? He'll show all those snide bastards that he's no usurper skater, no second-rate upstart, no pale shadow of a living legend, but the true heir to the empty throne.
With Viktor gone, I'm the only one who can win. Everything should be on my side.
And afterwards, once he's crushed them all and the Rostelecom gold is his by right, he'll have the rest of the katsudon pirozhki that his grandfather made for him. And then maybe, just maybe....
no subject
Even as he says it, he's trying to hide his concern, and it only makes him come out sounding petulant. Much as he's happy to see his grandfather -- he nearly fell down half a flight of stairs in his haste to get outside, because he's here, he's here, he came to see me, he came to watch -- Yuri knows how hard the seats in the Moscow Small Sports Arena can be. It's a long time to have to sit in one of them and wait for one person to perform, if your back is bothering you. The pain of a bruised hip is nowhere near as bad.
Oddly, his grandfather doesn't seem to notice. Brushes it off completely, like he always does when Yuri tries to get him to look after his health more. (Eat better food. Go for walks. Move to St. Petersburg, where the air is a little bit cleaner and a two-bedroom isn't that much more expensive.) 'Just try these,' he says, and then there's a paper bag, and suddenly the bag is in Yuri's hands.
The bag is slightly greasy and full of warm lumps, and Yuri doesn't have to open it before the rich smell tells him what's inside. Pirozhki? Now? It doesn't make sense. He doesn't usually eat a full meal the day of a competition; his grandfather knows this better than anyone. And even then, he wouldn't eat something as solid and loaded with meat as a pirozhok mere hours before he's scheduled to take the ice. Still, they're Nikolai Plisetsky's own recipe, so of course he'll have one now, but he's not some little kid who needs to be placated with a snack --
The first bite is a revelation.
Instead of the seasoned ground beef he'd been expecting, a swell of warm and chewy rice (rice?) fills his mouth, and his teeth bite down hard on something firm in the middle. And there's something else mixed in with the rice and the meat, something savoury, and then there's a little burst of vegetable on the tip of his tongue, just like....
Stunned, he looks down at the interior of the half-eaten pirozhok, and he can't believe his eyes. It's the same basic yeast dough on the outside, but the inside is as far from the traditional filling as...as Kyuushuu is from Rostov-na-Donu. 'There's pork cutlet, scrambled eggs, and white rice in here?!' he exclaims. 'What's with these pirozhki?'
'It's katsudon pirozhki!' his grandfather declares triumphantly.
And then, before Yuri can say a word or even make a sound, there's a warm hand on his head. A familiar weight, so easy and perfect and reassuring that the katsudon filling can barely make it down to Yuri's stomach for the lump that's formed in his throat. The lump only swells further when his grandfather smiles at him and says, 'Eat them, and do well in today's free skate, Yuratchka.'
A handful of simple words and a warm paper bag...and somehow, it's everything he'd been missing. Everything he hadn't known he'd needed.
If only he were performing Agape today --
(Viktor isn't here)
-- but not even that thought can quell the smile that's dawned on his face, cheeks flushed with an excitement that fills and warms him like the pirozhok in his hands.
'Okay,' he says. Because for the first time all day -- no, more than that, for the first time since he left Hasetsu, since he'd been beaten, since he'd lost -- it really does feels okay. More than that, it feels right, like that moment in an arabesque when it goes from painful to perfect. This is his city, his country, his home. Third place after the short program? He's come back from worse. The sponsors and the sports ministry breathing down his neck? He'll show all those snide bastards that he's no usurper skater, no second-rate upstart, no pale shadow of a living legend, but the true heir to the empty throne.
With Viktor gone, I'm the only one who can win. Everything should be on my side.
And afterwards, once he's crushed them all and the Rostelecom gold is his by right, he'll have the rest of the katsudon pirozhki that his grandfather made for him. And then maybe, just maybe....