Moscow: Pirozh-katsu!...and the Rostelecom Cup Free Skate (1.09)

[yuri_plisetsky]

To say that Yuri had been able to go back into his room and go to sleep after leaving Milliways was an accurate but misleading statement. He had indeed gone back into his room, spent ten minutes staring out the window at the Moscow lights as he iced his aching hip with the bag of fresh ice he'd grabbed at the bar, half-assed some stretches, taken a shower in water turned up as hot as he could stand it, pulled the blackout curtains over the windows, checked his phone alarms, and flopped into bed. Between the day's physical (and mental, and emotional) exertions, the scalding shower, and the several cups of mint tea he'd consumed, it was only a few minutes before his eyes closed. But the sleep that came over him was less like sleep and more like simply not-being-awake: it was a heavy, overwhelming sort of blankness that wasn't particularly restful or refreshing.


When his alarm goes off, shrill and disorienting in the darkened hotel room, it takes a moment for him to resurface from the blankness into a groggy half-awareness as he paws at his phone to shut off the noise. As consciousness trickles in, it brings with it a steady flow of memories of everything that had happened the night before -- Viktor, Yakov, Katsudon, the hotel, the bar, the door -- and Yuri grinds his teeth hard enough to hurt as he rolls over and pounds the lumpy hotel mattress twice with his fist.

Idiot. You idiot. Could you have fucked things up any more than they already were?

On any other day, he'd pull the covers back over his head and give himself five more minutes to wallow in his own misery before hauling himself out of bed. But Lilia is expecting him at her door in fifteen minutes, with all of his gear and a polite good morning for her. He can't sit around and sulk. Besides, there's still an asshole Canadian who needs taking down a peg or two or twelve -- and considering how badly he'd screwed up yesterday (on and off the ice) he can't afford to think about anything else.

Comments

[yuri_plisetsky]

It's easy enough to ignore Katsudon during morning practice. They're all focused on their own problems, and Yuri's biggest immediate problem is one of pure mathematics. His current jump combination is perfectly acceptable, a solid and challenging set that works well with Lilia's artistry, but even if he lands every single one with no mistakes he'll be cutting it much too close for comfort against both Katsudon and that prick JJ. If he had another day or two to prepare, he could spend it all with Lilia to hammer out a revised version of the Allegro that keeps the basic choreographic structure but increases the difficulty, but there isn't enough time for that now. And since both Katsudon and that prick JJ go on after him, he can't change his program specifically to compensate for how they do on theirs. No matter what he does, he'll be flying blind.

The other three, he can set aside for now. Nekola has no stamina for his ambitions, in spite of the bronze he'd managed to squeak out in Canada. Crispino takes too many risks on combinations. Lee thinks he has the cold-hearted mindset to win, but in reality he has more blood than ice in his veins, and the shadow of Pyeongchang looms too large over him. No, it's Katsudon and that prick JJ who have to go down, and to do that....

Yuri runs through the possibilities as he runs through an aborted version of his step sequence, turning potential options over and discarding them when the mathematics don't work out. It's enough to occupy his thoughts completely throughout his time on the ice. At one point, he skates over to Yakov and asks him a question (something about adjusting the angle of his approach to his main combination? about the toe pick on his left skate? something critical, or something completely inconsequential?), and Yakov's reply goes in one ear and out the other.

Lilia would probably try to dissuade him from the idea that's forming in his mind. But he knows she's danced the most brutal roles, the gruelling Rose Adagio and Odile's innumerable fouettes and the icy inhumanity of the dead Giselle. You don't stand at the head of the Bolshoi unless you are willing to push your body beyond what you think it can endure -- and when he'd promised himself to her, body and soul, he'd allowed her to reshape his limits.

It will be enough. It has to be enough.

It's both the longest and shortest pre-competition morning practice he can remember, because it seems like either whole hours or mere minutes pass before they're being asked to vacate the rink so that the ice dance teams can take their place.

And he hasn't so much as glanced in Katsudon's direction the entire time.

[theglassheart]

He focuses too much and not at all. He'd looked toward Yakov and Lilia, waiting at the wall for Yuri to go once, more than. Twice. Not sure if it was to continue to make them real, to continue to prove to himself this really was all happening, or constantly question whether he should go over, should say something, have something to ask. (This was Victor's coach. Victor said to listen to Yakov.)

He goes over and over everything Victor's said to him about this morning, about today. In the lobby (but he can't imagine anyone hugging Yakov, which makes the suggestion he should do it if he's in trouble), and on the phone (and something in his is still obstinant at the idea of taking it easy).

Yuri said he didn't have say anything. Victor, too.

He's not that tired. (He is.)

It's his footwork that gets unexacting, making him go over it several times, slower, when his thoughts won't hold together. (He makes himself stop. He makes himself breathe. He tries to remember. What Victor would say. Have him do. To make him focus.) He can't stop his mind from racing. Can't stop thinking about the numbers. The hours since Victor left. The hours since he last heard how Maccachin was. The new personal best score that has him still in second place.

(He stops the 3 turn mid segment without launching as Seung Gil crosses fifteen feet in front of him.)

The possible number of points needed to keep it.
At least four people who need to knock it down, and five if it all counts, and it does.

No one wants less than they can take. (No even him.) He does want to win. (He does.) And if he whispers it to himself, just to movement of lips and no sound, maybe it will stay longer than a second.) The silver from China is still in his room. (Tucked away.) Less than twenty-four hours ago, in the seconds between his announcement and his beginning, his fingers were gripping Victor's tie and dragging him back from being the Champion Prince. To only him. Already on the stage.

He doesn't remember how he managed to be so bold. He needs it now. (But it feels as far away, now, as Victor is.)

Yuuri pressed his lips, teeth too tight for a second, and did his crossover, sliding into a lunge, arms out, letting them carry him. But it feels drowned. It's not what it should be. What is he missing? Seduce me, Yuri. Victor's voice says in his head. The same refrain over and over. Charm me, and no heart will be safe. When all the words blur, the meaning. When. How long.

(There will be no lips at his ear. There will be no cheek pressed against his. No solemn and serious faith. No stumbling fall at not being able to pick up everything as Yuri lost the ability to carry it. No blur of Victor right over the end of his fingers when he finishes, no matter how well or badly. No lecture or laughter in the Kiss-and-Cry.

How were his fingers in that tie. Or Victor's lips pressed against his skate. Beaming. How is any of that the same.)


No. No. He can't. His eyes close and he runs it in his head.

(He has to show them. Show Victor. Russia. The World. Everyone.
Even with him here, this is. He's still the same. He can win. Beat them.)

He breathes. Goes over the jump circuit. The way it meets the music. Makes it. He does.




It's a miracle he didn't fall down.

It's the first thought when the announcement sounds that their time is over (in the middle of his half loop, ending his slachow before it would have begun). He watches the others skate toward the open gate, and the waiting coaches, with advice for what they just watched, and not far away, the teams of interviewers and cameras, with the flash already on high, salivating for their newest soundbite.

[yuri_plisetsky]

The local reporters, Yuri knows he can handle. That's expected of him (the usurper skater, just let them say that to his face, the cowards), and he's figured out the right meaningless words to say when the cameras and microphones are running. It's the rest of the Moscow scum he doesn't want to deal with right now -- oh, yes, Yakov, he'd noticed the other night how that one Rostelecom creep with the blotchy red nose had discovered that if he pretended to talk to Yuri, to ask him about skating, he could spend the entire time staring at Mila's breasts.

(Maybe, when he wins gold here today, he'll find some way to punch that bastard right in the face. Or maybe he'll wait and save it up, just to make sure that he can't get suspended or some shit like that before the Grand Prix Final.)

It isn't until he comes out of the locker room in search of Lilia that he spots Katsudon being pinned down a foreign reporter and his crew -- and he looks so utterly frazzled that Yuri's automatic first reaction is one of irritation, not sympathy. Fuck it all, if he can't even handle the press without Viktor, what's to stop him from going to pieces on the ice? And contrary to what he'd expected, Yakov is nowhere in sight.

With a huff, Yuri hunkers down in his jacket, hoping that his hood will keep him from attracting anyone's attention as he strolls past.

[theglassheart]

Yuuri's near to last. Partially for being so far out, and partially for it being that everyone else has someone they are going to ... and he doesn't. It doesn't send him into some rush. He could ask Yakov. He could. But Yakov is already with Yuri and it wasn't like he'd even asked Yakov to watch him. Or for anything at all since Victor handed him over.

Maybe he'd be disappointed with Yuuri's choice -- avoidance of choosing any action -- if he talked to Yakov later.

He can at least go get his first round with the cameras done. Even if he wants that even less. Words. Having to say something now.

He dawdles taking care with his skates. Skate guards. His jacket. Until there's really nothing he can do but slink toward the area that where Taihei Katō is just finishing up with JJ. Who is striking his signature pose, throwing an arrogant, fearless smile at the camera, before walking off toward a dark-haired woman calling his name excitedly.

They keep the video rolling, and the camera never even drops, even Yuuri wishes both would somehow.
They won't. They never do, and mostly he prays he can just get through this as fast as possible.

What he is not hoping for, or expecting is, the first words Taihei Katō say,
"Um, it didn't look like you exchanged any words with Coach Yakov at this morning's practice."

Making him startle, and sweat, and stand too tall, at the implication he's done it all wrong. Everything already. Not even to the skate, and he's mismanaging his hand off. His practice, and it makes him blurt out, "I'm fine!" Too fast, a good bit too loud. Needing to add more right on to it, because Victor said (Yuri said Victor said), "I'll just do what I've always done in practice with Victor!"

Which isn't entirely what he did, but he had kept trying to go back to it everytime he wasn't.



And he hadn't fallen down. At least. He was still intact (and Victor with him). For now.

[yuri_plisetsky]

There's a restless instinct that would have Yuri prowling the halls of the Moscow Small Sports Arena until the last possible second, stalking through the crowds to stake out his territory. He should probably drink some water or juice, or have a handful of nuts, but it's not hunger or thirst that has him on the move. At this point, he's almost not even looking for Lilia. He's not entirely sure what he'd say to her, or to Yakov, when he actually found them.

Yakov. Why did Yakov even take on Katsudon? It's not as if a sob story about a sick pet would fly as an excuse from any other coach in their business. And Viktor has even less of an excuse than anyone for assuming otherwise: everyone at the Sports Champions Club has (repeatedly) heard the story of the time that a 5-mm kidney stone hadn't stopped Yakov from seeing Viktor through a runaway win at the Russian Nationals, sometime back in '07 or '08. A dog hardly seems a priority by comparison. And considering the vitriol that Yakov had heaped upon his former golden boy's head for running off to play coach in the first place, to some extent Yuri still can't entirely understand why Yakov hadn't simply told him to find someone else to dump his pet Japanese skater on. Sentiment can only go so far.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. Katsudon's the only one who can help himself now. You can't rely on other people to be there for you, or you're only setting yourself up for disappointment.

(Being disappointed doesn't make the glass any less broken.)

In the end, it isn't Lilia he finds, but Yakov. And before Yuri can open his mouth, the first thing that Yakov says to him is the last thing that Yuri had expected to hear this morning:

'Yuri, your grandfather is waiting for you outside.'

[theglassheart]

Which just really, it opens a completely different kind of can of worms. Though he's not certain he ever expected that one not to be opened. Not when Victor is gone, and everyone knows Victor's gone, and he keeps hearing his name and Victor's name, and Victor's name more than his, whispered in rooms he's just walked into, and even by people who don't realize he's walked up nearby, and the reporters are bound to know and want to know more.

Even if he demurs with things that mumble off. Too sharp, too jangled, too quiet.
It's a family emergency. It's private. He's fine. It'll be fine. Yuri will what they've practiced.



He runs away nearly as soon as not actively rude. (Any longer and he may have melted into the floor.)

Though he has absolutely nothing to run to. There's no Victor waiting to tell him what he should because this or that looked too tight, looked too sloppy. There's so many hours between right now and the next time he'll step back on the ice. Nearly one-fourth of the day, two hours until the first group of Ladies Freeskaters, and it suddenly seems vast. The space of a desert. Empty and burning. Sand in his eyes, sliding down the tunnels of insides.

He takes a seat, not paying too much attention to the Ice Dancers who've started practicing, or the larger than normal crowd backstage. His finds himself hunched over, hands pressed together to his mouth, trying to think only seconds later. He needs a plan. He needs something to hold on to. Something to guide him. Something to hold on to. He's never done this like this. Never. Never without Celestino even.

He should have planned this last night. He should have asked Victor on the phone.
He should have asked for more. Should have said more than one or two words.


Victor said, it won't be so different (and some part of him, something curled in his chest shudders, throbbing worse than his feet and the muscle in the back of his shoulder, too raw for ruthless reminder), and maybe Victor's not wrong (maybe Yuri is wrong ; Yuri is so often wrong). Because he needs that, too. He needs this part to still be the same. He needs to make it through this. He needs to warm up. He needs to keep snacks light. He needs to not lose it completely (again).

He needs to show them. He can do this. Victor hasn't wasted this year on him.




(His foot, even with his toes pressed hard into the floor, still starts bouncing.)

[yuri_plisetsky]

'Dedka, I thought you weren't feeling well.'

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....