ll the gloss of the lobby, the Star Hotel is a little shabbier on the inside. The old lift creaks a little as it comes to a halt at the lobby level, but it's mercifully empty of reporters, fans, or skaters he has to be friendly with, and he drops against the back wall with a sigh, twirling his sunglasses idly in one hand, eyes up.
Surprise isn't the right word for it, but he feels annoyingly unsettled, like there's a thorn in his shoe that pricks him every now and again without warning, on an otherwise perfectly nice stroll. His pleasant mood –– the enjoyment of being full, for once, of familiar food, the delight in hearing his own native language spoken fluidly around him –– seems to have evaporated, and he just feels tired and a little peeved. What was he supposed to have done? A year ago that might have annoyed Yurio. He might even have struck Victor's hand away in a mirrored motion. None of that should bother him, or does.
His mouth tightens as a brusque, young voice goes slicing through his head. Stop acting like you're still the top Russian figure skater.
All of it frustrating, and aggravating, and it's a good thing the elevator hauls him up to the ninth floor without stopping on the way, because it's all a little easier to push away when he's back in motion, glancing at room numbers as he finds his keycard, until he finds the right one. "Yuri?"
It's quiet in here, and unlike the silence of the elevator, it helps quiet his head, too: darkening night outside the window, familiar cheap hotel furniture, and Yuri there on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone and quieting something in Victor's chest and head that had been spinning, spinning, spinning, without a spot or slowing momentum.
He's already shedding his jacket as the door closes with a soft click behind him, tossing it and the sunglasses on the foot of the other bed, before he's crawling next to Yuri and settling against his side with his nose and face in the crook of Yuri's neck and an arm over Yuri's stomach, to breath out a comforted, content breath. "What a long day."
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Surprise isn't the right word for it, but he feels annoyingly unsettled, like there's a thorn in his shoe that pricks him every now and again without warning, on an otherwise perfectly nice stroll. His pleasant mood –– the enjoyment of being full, for once, of familiar food, the delight in hearing his own native language spoken fluidly around him –– seems to have evaporated, and he just feels tired and a little peeved. What was he supposed to have done? A year ago that might have annoyed Yurio. He might even have struck Victor's hand away in a mirrored motion. None of that should bother him, or does.
His mouth tightens as a brusque, young voice goes slicing through his head. Stop acting like you're still the top Russian figure skater.
All of it frustrating, and aggravating, and it's a good thing the elevator hauls him up to the ninth floor without stopping on the way, because it's all a little easier to push away when he's back in motion, glancing at room numbers as he finds his keycard, until he finds the right one. "Yuri?"
It's quiet in here, and unlike the silence of the elevator, it helps quiet his head, too: darkening night outside the window, familiar cheap hotel furniture, and Yuri there on one of the beds, scrolling through his phone and quieting something in Victor's chest and head that had been spinning, spinning, spinning, without a spot or slowing momentum.
He's already shedding his jacket as the door closes with a soft click behind him, tossing it and the sunglasses on the foot of the other bed, before he's crawling next to Yuri and settling against his side with his nose and face in the crook of Yuri's neck and an arm over Yuri's stomach, to breath out a comforted, content breath. "What a long day."