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

Morning Practice

[yuri_plisetsky]

For Yakov Feltsman's contingent (plus an unintended extra), it's an unpleasantly quiet trip to the Moscow Small Sports Arena. Neither Yakov nor Lilia are the type to waste unnecessary words first thing in the morning, and their skaters are all plugged into their headphones, absorbed in their own music, their own thoughts. Mila keeps shooting odd glances at Yuuri, as if she's not sure whether she should try to say anything to him, but her reticence seems to win out over her curiosity. Silence reigns.

The men's locker room is also oddly subdued that morning. By now, word has spread to the other skaters and coaches that Katsuki's coach (yes, Victor Nikiforov, the Victor Nikiforov, can you believe it?) has had to leave suddenly. Some sort of personal emergency, first flight out of Moscow, Katsuki hastily stuffed under Feltsman's wing. The nearest anyone gets to asking for more information is one of the pairs skaters, a thin young man from Perm, who hesitantly asks Yuri (in Russian) if everything is okay and gets a snarled mind your own fucking business, Korolev for his pains.

All that matters is getting onto the ice. They've all seen what each other can do in the short program; they know who they have to beat.

Men's Free Skate

[yuri_plisetsky]

At last, it's time. He's stretched with Lilia, taken a few final pointers from her on his hand positions and the angle of his head. She and Yakov are with him, ready to go. Katsudon...appears to have gone off somewhere to stretch on his own. Whatever, it's not his problem anymore. (As if it ever was in the first place.)

Nekola. Crispino. And now Lee, whose song choice makes Yuri want to roll his eyes at the insipidness of it all. (Dead princesses? Really? First Georgi, then Lee -- what is it with his fellow skaters and their obsession with princesses?) But he's next on deck, ready to shed his warm-up jacket...and it's at that point that he remembers that he should probably tell Yakov what he's planning to do.

First, keep it casual: 'Hey, Yakov.'

'What?' Not expecting anything important.

Next, broach the subject: 'I'm changing the jump combination.'

'Huh?' Some surprise, but more confusion.

Then, drop the bomb: 'I'll reduce the number of jumps in the first half from four to two.'

'So you'll have six in the second half?' Now he's catching on.

Confirm it, without question: 'That's right.'

'Do you have a death wish?'

To hear it spoken so plainly...it sends a chill through Yuri's blood. A blast of winter wind, because Yakov is not one to exaggerate merely for the sake of theatrics. But the cold, sharp bolt that stiffens his spine is just what he needs to know that he's made the right decision. 'I can't win against JJ or Yuuri otherwise,' he says, and leaves it at that.

It's more than just his own personal pride at stake. Yakov needs this win as much as he does -- to prove to the sponsors, the sports ministry, that even without God's Own Anointed Viktor Nikiforov they're worth the support. And Yuri has absolutely no intention of disappointing his grandfather, who has come to see the very best that his grandson has to offer. There is no other option but the one before him.

Pirozh-katsu!

[theglassheart]

Yuri secures a plane ticket. Officially, two-in-one. Direct to Tokyo, then a commuter to Fukuoka.

He packs his suitcase, removing all of the last whispers of himself from the room, and even though he could leave his bag in there, when he walks out of the room, he's not coming back to it (and he already wants to walk out of it and not return). It's overdramatic. He has a little while still that feels like far, far too long. That doesn't change the fact he leaves his bag with the desk and turns in the matching door keys.

He stays in the hotel lobby, only until he realizes he's studying the air between the main opening and the door, like it's going to produce answers. Or a phantom of Victor's face, his voice, from last night. It hardly feels like last night. It was five years ago, and five seconds. He puts his jacket it on, digging in the pockets for his mask, and tells the, far too cheerful for how late it is, lady at the desk he'll be back to get his bag.

Russia's great long night is a dark stretch across everything.
Broken up only by street lights, car lights, and the fresh falling snow,
that catching it as it falls, of in patches where the light does. Cold, and sparkling.

Like Russia. Like his win. With a little more rest, a hot shower, ice, painkillers, and a meal in him, his mind focuses slightly better. The exhaustion is there, but the paralysis of shock and stress -- it doesn't let go entirely, but the nails and the fingers aren't digging straight into his brain and his lungs so hard. He's going to the Grand Prix. He can't change today, but that won't stop him trying to think about his skate, about his morning, bout Yakov and Yurio, like maybe somehow he could.

For all intents and purposes he did basically lose here, without actually losing. It's too close, the blunt edge of a razored blade. But he's not done. Not done skating. Not done training. Not done fighting. Not done, because the thing he set out do is in his hands now. His career didn't end today. (Without Victor.) He has another month. The whole season. He's this close to the peak of his competitive career, and he really does want the gold now. Still. (With Victor.)

The Grand Prix Final would be his last chance.



Even if he didn't win, he'd have Victor step down as his coach after the Grand Prix Finale, and