There's a burst of loud, enthusiastic applause when Yakov Feltsman's group enters the banquet room -- though only Yakov would know from the sound of it that it isn't quite as loud or enthusiastic as it has been in previous years. A little hesitant, even, in way that it hasn't been before. (The ghost in the room, unseen but unforgotten, with them still.) But soon enough, an impromptu receiving line forms, and the whirlwind of introductions begins.
It's a mostly older crowd, mostly men, mostly with drinks in their hands. Yuri has to let go of Mila's arm when the handshakes start, though thankfully they're never more than a few feet from each other the whole time. He knows how to give a firm handshake -- his grandfather had taught him that from a young age -- and it's a tiny boost to his wavering confidence every time the smiling adult who's taken his hand can't quite conceal his or her surprise at the strength of his grip. All the same, he's grateful when the immediate press of crowds seems to recede a little and one of the hotel's waitstaff hands him and Mila drinks as well: some sort of sour cherry kompot, he notes with a faint scowl, so obviously different from the alcohol that nearly everyone else around them has in their glasses. But then there's a crackle of microphone feedback, and suddenly Yakov's voice booms out over the room's speaker system, momentarily too loud until an unseen hand hastily adjusts the volume.
'On behalf of myself and my skaters, I would like to thank you all for your kind hospitality and support here in Moscow this year. We hope that our performance in this penultimate event in the ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating' --
('In case you've drunk enough to forget why you're here already,' Mila murmurs right next to Yuri's ear, forcing him to turn his snort into a cough.)
-- 'will continue to showcase the internationally renowned strength of Russian figure skating, and give you an indication of the bright future that we expect to have for many years to come.' There's a pause, and though Yuri can't actually see where Yakov is standing he can tell that everyone appears to be raising glasses in preparation for a toast. 'Mila Babicheva and Yuri Plisetsky -- to their success!'
As the toast echoes around the room, Yuri quickly buries his nose in the sour-sweet kompot so he won't have to make eye contact with anyone who might be looking his way. This is only the start of the evening, and his mouth is already as dry as dust.
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It's a mostly older crowd, mostly men, mostly with drinks in their hands. Yuri has to let go of Mila's arm when the handshakes start, though thankfully they're never more than a few feet from each other the whole time. He knows how to give a firm handshake -- his grandfather had taught him that from a young age -- and it's a tiny boost to his wavering confidence every time the smiling adult who's taken his hand can't quite conceal his or her surprise at the strength of his grip. All the same, he's grateful when the immediate press of crowds seems to recede a little and one of the hotel's waitstaff hands him and Mila drinks as well: some sort of sour cherry kompot, he notes with a faint scowl, so obviously different from the alcohol that nearly everyone else around them has in their glasses. But then there's a crackle of microphone feedback, and suddenly Yakov's voice booms out over the room's speaker system, momentarily too loud until an unseen hand hastily adjusts the volume.
'On behalf of myself and my skaters, I would like to thank you all for your kind hospitality and support here in Moscow this year. We hope that our performance in this penultimate event in the ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating' --
('In case you've drunk enough to forget why you're here already,' Mila murmurs right next to Yuri's ear, forcing him to turn his snort into a cough.)
-- 'will continue to showcase the internationally renowned strength of Russian figure skating, and give you an indication of the bright future that we expect to have for many years to come.' There's a pause, and though Yuri can't actually see where Yakov is standing he can tell that everyone appears to be raising glasses in preparation for a toast. 'Mila Babicheva and Yuri Plisetsky -- to their success!'
As the toast echoes around the room, Yuri quickly buries his nose in the sour-sweet kompot so he won't have to make eye contact with anyone who might be looking his way. This is only the start of the evening, and his mouth is already as dry as dust.