Yakov, had he been present for any part of this confrontation, would have wasted no time in thumping Yuri soundly on the head and hauling him off to a hotel room to read him the lecture of his life. What sort of "top Russian figure skater" assaults another skater's coach and shoots his mouth off like a hooligan in front of a pack of reporters? Do you think that your little temper tantrum will impress anyone? All that you've done is make yourself look like a immature, undisciplined brat who thinks that he can kick and scream his way onto the podium! And so on in that vein, until having exhausted his vocabulary and his voice he would have let Lilia take over. And Lilia, wielding the rapier to Yakov's sledgehammer, would only have to look Yuri up and down once before saying quietly, You embarrass yourself, your coaches, and your country by being so nekulturny, Yuri. You know what is expected of you.
(That being said, Yakov and Lilia would never have let things escalate in such a manner in the first place. But the necessity of keeping Viktor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky apart had not entered into their minds as a top priority in these early hours of the Rostelecom Cup.)
Yuri, of course, doesn't need to actually hear the lectures to feel himself writhing under their combined attack. They're already playing out in his mind, their words burning like acid in his blood and making his eyes sting treacherously. His backpack is a solid weight on his shoulders, and right now it feels like it's the only thing keeping him from completely flying apart.
Fuck everything, and everyone, and Viktor Nikiforov in particular.
Once he's on the ice, at least, none of it will matter anymore. He'll get through tonight somehow, and tomorrow he'll be where he needs to be. For now, he can go up to his room and crank up his music as loud as it'll go. The elevators are right around the corner; soon, he'll be away from all of them.
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(That being said, Yakov and Lilia would never have let things escalate in such a manner in the first place. But the necessity of keeping Viktor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky apart had not entered into their minds as a top priority in these early hours of the Rostelecom Cup.)
Yuri, of course, doesn't need to actually hear the lectures to feel himself writhing under their combined attack. They're already playing out in his mind, their words burning like acid in his blood and making his eyes sting treacherously. His backpack is a solid weight on his shoulders, and right now it feels like it's the only thing keeping him from completely flying apart.
Fuck everything, and everyone, and Viktor Nikiforov in particular.
Once he's on the ice, at least, none of it will matter anymore. He'll get through tonight somehow, and tomorrow he'll be where he needs to be. For now, he can go up to his room and crank up his music as loud as it'll go. The elevators are right around the corner; soon, he'll be away from all of them.