While they were waiting to board the plane in St. Petersburg, Yakov had mentioned that he would leave Yuri's room keycard at the hotel's front desk for him. As promised, it's waiting for him when he goes to collect it. A room on an upper floor, not too bad -- Rostelecom might have bought out most of what passed for the suites in this place, but Yakov usually has a few tricks up his sleeve when it comes to finding decent rooms on quieter floors for his skaters. The concierge even wishes him good luck in the competition as he hands over the thin plastic rectangle, and doesn't bat an eye at Yuri's grunted response.

At the moment, all he wants to do is go flop on his hotel bed with his feet up on the wall and listen to something loud, full of screaming, and totally unconnected with his skating, but that's not an option right now. He'll probably only have time for a shower and some light stretching before he has to show up at Lilia's door, second-best suit on and necktie in hand, for her inspection and approval. Tonight's the standard clusterfuck of pre-event publicity, where he'll have to play the Russian Fairy flitting around the sponsors and the sports ministry representatives like some demented reject from Tchaikovsky's own personal hell, but he knows that it has to be done. This is his senior debut, and the ice isn't the only place he'll have to perform this weekend.

Maybe Mila will let him stick close to her for a little while. It'll be more tolerable than being paraded around by Yakov or Lilia the whole time. Or maybe --

It's at that point that Yuri notices a gaggle of press off to one side of the lobby, and his train of thought promptly derails itself.

Because right in the middle of the group of reporters, wearing his designer sunglasses indoors like the royal asshole he is, is Russia's National Hero, casually giving an off-the-cuff press conference as if he hadn't fucked off to Japan to skate with a pig for most of the past year.