Lilia is in the middle of saying something incredibly polite to some junior minister's aide (the veiled disdain in her words intelligible only to those who have ears to hear it) when Yuri spots Katsudon's score flash up on the television screen.
The number barely registers. The rank does.
Third place. Third place.
More than a few of the people in the room have started to pay attention to the results as well, not least because Feltsman is on the screen when he should be here with them. That's Nikiforov's skater? The Japanese one? Low murmurs. Could've been worse. But, then, compared with yesterday....
Yuri's teeth are gritted, listening to them. Like any of you greasy apparatchiks would know a salchow from a sausage. Suddenly, he can't stand being in this room anymore -- but then movement on the screen catches his eye, and he inhales sharply through his nose, because why the hell is Katsudon hugging Yakov?
The camera cuts away before Yuri can figure out exactly what's going on in the kiss-and-cry, because that prick JJ is about to take the ice...and it's also at this moment that a horrible wave of fatigue, his body's delayed response to being pushed to its absolute limits, makes him weave a little on his feet. Shit, I need to sit down --
Bless Lilia for all things, because she comes to his rescue with a hand on his arm -- right where his upper arm meets his shoulder, just like he'd done to Katsudon last night -- and some blandly calm remark that he only half-hears about how Yakov will be with them in a moment, gentlemen, the press will need a word with Yuri about his performance today, and Yuri obediently lets her guide him out of the room.
Dimly, he supposes that he should watch the last skater of the day, to find out whether he's actually won the gold that he nearly killed himself to secure, but all he wants to do is sit down somewhere quiet and not move until he's told to do so.
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The number barely registers. The rank does.
Third place. Third place.
More than a few of the people in the room have started to pay attention to the results as well, not least because Feltsman is on the screen when he should be here with them. That's Nikiforov's skater? The Japanese one? Low murmurs. Could've been worse. But, then, compared with yesterday....
Yuri's teeth are gritted, listening to them. Like any of you greasy apparatchiks would know a salchow from a sausage. Suddenly, he can't stand being in this room anymore -- but then movement on the screen catches his eye, and he inhales sharply through his nose, because why the hell is Katsudon hugging Yakov?
The camera cuts away before Yuri can figure out exactly what's going on in the kiss-and-cry, because that prick JJ is about to take the ice...and it's also at this moment that a horrible wave of fatigue, his body's delayed response to being pushed to its absolute limits, makes him weave a little on his feet. Shit, I need to sit down --
Bless Lilia for all things, because she comes to his rescue with a hand on his arm -- right where his upper arm meets his shoulder, just like he'd done to Katsudon last night -- and some blandly calm remark that he only half-hears about how Yakov will be with them in a moment, gentlemen, the press will need a word with Yuri about his performance today, and Yuri obediently lets her guide him out of the room.
Dimly, he supposes that he should watch the last skater of the day, to find out whether he's actually won the gold that he nearly killed himself to secure, but all he wants to do is sit down somewhere quiet and not move until he's told to do so.