Yuri's truly not entirely sure what to make of it when Yurio speaks, when it's a warbled question, not a decisive command or scathing insult or blistering dismissal, and it reminds him without warning of that day in the Ice Palace. The sudden desperate ringing clarity of his own voice. So loud. Too loud. Echoing in the changing room. His hands folded in front of his face, with a partial bow Yurio wouldn't even understand or recognize. Asking for help with his salchow.

It's just chopsticks. It's not like it's part of what could help Yurio where it matters, but Yuri stands there.

A little surprised. A little wary. A little thrown off course entirely. Not quite even to blinking. Like if he blinks it will be a dream. Except that nothing this confusing, this awkward, the unmatching ends up being a dream in his life. His life isn't made of moments where the weird, odd, confusing, painful, and unsettling ones are anything as simple as dreams. Those all happen when he's awake. All the moments of every day. All awake, all where he can mess them up.

There's a second he wants to look back to the door. It's not even quite out of his peripheral vision. Like Victor would be there now, like Victor might understand why, or have an answer, or understand the consideration that stumps him. Might give permission, or explanation. Both. All. Wrapped up in a pair of blue eyes and graceful, long-fingered hands, and a disastrously unnecessary amount of flare, neither of which Yuri could deny or control.

But he doesn't look. Even if that tension, that magnetism, whatever it is, inside his chest, tightens.
From the almost heading back to the opposite, when he says simply, with a small bobble: "Okay."