The sunglasses hide most of his expression, but he it takes him a second to press his mouth back into a mild, ambiguous smile. It's ––
A sudden distraction he can see, just over the shoulders of the reporters in front of him, and he's pointing, even as he grins. "Oh, it's Yurio!"
It's the perfect bait-and-switch, as the reporters look, their curiosity about his plans giving way to the necessity of covering Russia's newest up-and-coming elite skater, the little hellion who is as ready to break his own neck as he is to shout at everyone around him or to slink off on his own in sullen silence. That last conversation had been like getting repeatedly bitten on the ankle ––
See you in Moscow, Coach Nikiforov.
–– and it's running through his head as the attention and cameras and tape recorders turn towards Yurio, as he pushes forward.
Yurio who looks startled, who looks unsettled, who looks off-footed in a way that brings another memory floating to the top: If you're not too busy showing off for the cameras to remember that anyone else even exists. That face, wide-eyed and uncertain, with teeth baring as if to bite, reminding him of another day, much longer ago: warm weather and large crowds and the smoky, salty scent of grilling squid.
He'd sent the dogs after Yurio (and was it because he was a convenient distraction, or because he knew Yurio would hate it?) but he can run interference for him, too. An arm going around Yurio's shoulders, companionably, while he slips off his sunglasses for the pictures that are getting snapped in quick succession. "Did you all see the short program I put together for Yurio?"
Agape is something he never gets to talk about anymore, and there's so much to be said, about how Yurio fought for it, found it, began to make it his own. How much it's changed, and how he's ––
no subject
A sudden distraction he can see, just over the shoulders of the reporters in front of him, and he's pointing, even as he grins. "Oh, it's Yurio!"
It's the perfect bait-and-switch, as the reporters look, their curiosity about his plans giving way to the necessity of covering Russia's newest up-and-coming elite skater, the little hellion who is as ready to break his own neck as he is to shout at everyone around him or to slink off on his own in sullen silence. That last conversation had been like getting repeatedly bitten on the ankle ––
See you in Moscow, Coach Nikiforov.
–– and it's running through his head as the attention and cameras and tape recorders turn towards Yurio, as he pushes forward.
Yurio who looks startled, who looks unsettled, who looks off-footed in a way that brings another memory floating to the top: If you're not too busy showing off for the cameras to remember that anyone else even exists. That face, wide-eyed and uncertain, with teeth baring as if to bite, reminding him of another day, much longer ago: warm weather and large crowds and the smoky, salty scent of grilling squid.
He'd sent the dogs after Yurio (and was it because he was a convenient distraction, or because he knew Yurio would hate it?) but he can run interference for him, too. An arm going around Yurio's shoulders, companionably, while he slips off his sunglasses for the pictures that are getting snapped in quick succession. "Did you all see the short program I put together for Yurio?"
Agape is something he never gets to talk about anymore, and there's so much to be said, about how Yurio fought for it, found it, began to make it his own. How much it's changed, and how he's ––