So much for stay out of my way, and I'll pretend I don't know you. Even as he'd said it then, he'd known it would be impossible to pull off. Not in Moscow, certainly. But this is an entirely new adventure in self-sabotage, because in his jealous rage he'd completely left himself open to being spotted -- and when the reporters wheel around in response to Viktor's cry like hounds picking up a new scent in the hunt, Yuri freezes.
(Can't retreat. Can't escape.)
He doesn't know how Viktor manages to end up at his side before everyone else can get there, but when Viktor's arm goes around his shoulders and pulls him even closer, all perfect hair and clean clothes and coffee breath right next to his face, Yuri can't do anything but be swept along for the ride. His brain is not processing any of this fast enough to be remotely helpful, so takes him a second to actually hear the words that Viktor is saying as the cameras click and flash, something about the short program, his short program, his Agape --
And that's enough of a bolt to his ego to shatter the paralysis that had come over him.
When in doubt, lash out. A growl rises up from his chest, and as he starts to twist himself free his right hand automatically shoots up to dislodge the arm draped around his back. When he smacks Viktor's hand away from him, he feels as much as sees the coffee cup that had been in Viktor's hand go flying through the air to land with a heavy splash, its steaming contents cascading across the hotel lobby's polished floor. At least one of the reporters gasps in alarm at his violent reaction, but Yuri doesn't give a shit about them now. With the surge of territorial possessiveness racing through him, retreat or escape is suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.
'Quit acting like you're still the top Russian figure skater,' he snarls at Viktor, full of contempt. 'I'm the star in this event!'
The Russian flag flies for him here at this Rostelecom Cup. He'll carve it into their hearts with his skate blades before he lets anyone forget that.
no subject
(Can't retreat. Can't escape.)
He doesn't know how Viktor manages to end up at his side before everyone else can get there, but when Viktor's arm goes around his shoulders and pulls him even closer, all perfect hair and clean clothes and coffee breath right next to his face, Yuri can't do anything but be swept along for the ride. His brain is not processing any of this fast enough to be remotely helpful, so takes him a second to actually hear the words that Viktor is saying as the cameras click and flash, something about the short program, his short program, his Agape --
And that's enough of a bolt to his ego to shatter the paralysis that had come over him.
When in doubt, lash out. A growl rises up from his chest, and as he starts to twist himself free his right hand automatically shoots up to dislodge the arm draped around his back. When he smacks Viktor's hand away from him, he feels as much as sees the coffee cup that had been in Viktor's hand go flying through the air to land with a heavy splash, its steaming contents cascading across the hotel lobby's polished floor. At least one of the reporters gasps in alarm at his violent reaction, but Yuri doesn't give a shit about them now. With the surge of territorial possessiveness racing through him, retreat or escape is suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.
'Quit acting like you're still the top Russian figure skater,' he snarls at Viktor, full of contempt. 'I'm the star in this event!'
The Russian flag flies for him here at this Rostelecom Cup. He'll carve it into their hearts with his skate blades before he lets anyone forget that.