And never comes, because suddenly something slams his right side, pain blossoms and explodes, and he's flying through the air. The flying isn't so bad, even with the manic dose of unprepared shock. No, that's slamming the ground. That's every muscle and bone in his body meeting the hard cement, which jars him like he's made of the glass he's so often compared to, instead of catching him, on his side, tipping him the next second so his hands, ear, then face meeting a wet, and not nearly thick enough to soften the cement, pile of snow.

Before he even makes it to getting his arms, his hands under him, to more than looking over his shoulder, there's already yelling. Which makes sense when he does get there. With his hands, the looking over his shoulder, the coercion of making his body conform to his will of turning over to face the familiar, biting wrath of -- "Oh, Yurio..."

Not sure if that mumble of words is for him, or for the boy.

He's not sure what it says that he finds the disgust written clear there a numb relief.