There's several degrees difference in temperature between the banquet room and the corridor outside, and both Yuri and Mila let out audible sighs of relief at the feeling of the cooler air. But then Mila shivers, and Yuri lets go of her arm so she can pull her wrap more closely around her.
'Ready for your signature quad axel?' she asks, and smiles at the heavy-lidded glare that Yuri gives her in response. 'Really, you did just fine tonight. You'll do fine tomorrow, too.'
'Mmph.' Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, squinting up at the ceiling. He'd like people to stop telling him that he'll do fine. That's not what he's here for. He here's to win the gold medal, to utterly crush the pig and Viktor, and to humiliate that prick JJ, in that order. (The last two have been battling it out for second and third place in his personal list of priorities all week, but this afternoon officially downgraded that asshole Canadian to the bronze medal slot.) Everything else is just noise.
It isn't long before Lilia appears, without Georgi. Hardly a surprise; he's not skating tomorrow, and with the Russian Nationals coming up at the end of December it's important for him to remain visible to the skating federation and the sponsors until they're all put on parade again at Sochi. But Lilia seems content enough to leave both him and Yakov behind, and so Yuri follows her and Mila to the lifts, fighting the urge to yank off his necktie and loosen the top button of his shirt. (It's feeling a little tight in the shoulders...and that's not a good sign if it means that he's starting to outgrow it.) On their floor, Yuri's room is the first they pass by, and Mila gives him a little wink of goodnight wishes as Lilia pauses, and says, 'Five minutes.'
The room is blissfully dim and quiet, with only the reflected glitter of the Moscow night sky through the window providing any external light. Even before the door can shut all the way, Yuri is sprawled face-down diagonally on the bed with one foot hanging off the end and his face half-mashed into a pillow, muffling his loud groan of frustration and exhaustion. Tempting as it is to simply not move ever again, when Lilia says five minutes you can set your watch by it, so after perhaps another half-minute of his boneless flop he lets out a series of grunts as he wriggles enough to first kick off his shoes and then push himself back to his feet.
The suit and tie come off immediately, everything deposited in a heap on the room's desk chair, and Yuri heads for the bathroom. He doesn't even bother with a glass, but turns on the faucet and bends down to drink directly from the tap, the rush of cool water dripping down his face as it washes the last traces of sour cherry juice from his mouth. Rinse, swish, gargle, and spit, not once but twice, and then he splashes some more water on his face and gropes for a towel. By the time that Lilia knocks on his door with a folded exercise mat under her arm, Yuri has changed into sleep clothes, devoured one of his two remaining pirozhki in three massive bites, and pulled his costumes and skates out for inspection.
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'Ready for your signature quad axel?' she asks, and smiles at the heavy-lidded glare that Yuri gives her in response. 'Really, you did just fine tonight. You'll do fine tomorrow, too.'
'Mmph.' Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, squinting up at the ceiling. He'd like people to stop telling him that he'll do fine. That's not what he's here for. He here's to win the gold medal, to utterly crush the pig and Viktor, and to humiliate that prick JJ, in that order. (The last two have been battling it out for second and third place in his personal list of priorities all week, but this afternoon officially downgraded that asshole Canadian to the bronze medal slot.) Everything else is just noise.
It isn't long before Lilia appears, without Georgi. Hardly a surprise; he's not skating tomorrow, and with the Russian Nationals coming up at the end of December it's important for him to remain visible to the skating federation and the sponsors until they're all put on parade again at Sochi. But Lilia seems content enough to leave both him and Yakov behind, and so Yuri follows her and Mila to the lifts, fighting the urge to yank off his necktie and loosen the top button of his shirt. (It's feeling a little tight in the shoulders...and that's not a good sign if it means that he's starting to outgrow it.) On their floor, Yuri's room is the first they pass by, and Mila gives him a little wink of goodnight wishes as Lilia pauses, and says, 'Five minutes.'
The room is blissfully dim and quiet, with only the reflected glitter of the Moscow night sky through the window providing any external light. Even before the door can shut all the way, Yuri is sprawled face-down diagonally on the bed with one foot hanging off the end and his face half-mashed into a pillow, muffling his loud groan of frustration and exhaustion. Tempting as it is to simply not move ever again, when Lilia says five minutes you can set your watch by it, so after perhaps another half-minute of his boneless flop he lets out a series of grunts as he wriggles enough to first kick off his shoes and then push himself back to his feet.
The suit and tie come off immediately, everything deposited in a heap on the room's desk chair, and Yuri heads for the bathroom. He doesn't even bother with a glass, but turns on the faucet and bends down to drink directly from the tap, the rush of cool water dripping down his face as it washes the last traces of sour cherry juice from his mouth. Rinse, swish, gargle, and spit, not once but twice, and then he splashes some more water on his face and gropes for a towel. By the time that Lilia knocks on his door with a folded exercise mat under her arm, Yuri has changed into sleep clothes, devoured one of his two remaining pirozhki in three massive bites, and pulled his costumes and skates out for inspection.