It's only the fact that the last Group 1 skater is on the ice that finally shuts that prick JJ up, but he'll have to sit and stew for a little while longer. Once Crispino's done, they'll all be up next.
The Group 2 skaters catch the tail end of Crispino's performance, and to Yuri's mind it's nothing to write home about. He can tell that the Italian has a decent sense of the music and the story he wants to convey, but there's something weirdly stilted about it. He's obviously got something up his ass here today, and it shows -- to Yuri, it's like watching a bizarre inverse of Georgi, where it seems like they should be watching Crispino vomit his emotions out all over the ice but instead he just keeps swallowing them back and plunging ahead. But at least he finishes without choking on them, and goes to meet that sister of his over in the kiss-and-cry to wait for his scores.
It's a packed crowd in the seats, no hope of spotting individuals with any amount of ease. There are plenty of flags and banners, some professionally printed and some homemade, all just bright splashes in a sea of blurred faces. Yuri's as loose as he can be, runs through his last warmups as fast as he dares, but that restless energy is starting to build up to the point where he can't take it any longer. And yet when he clacks his way over to where Yakov and Lilia are standing, the look on his coach's face suddenly stops him cold...because it's not Yakov's usual stolid mid-competition expression. If anything, he looks oddly tired, and more than a little downhearted -- and that's where the dread starts to creep in.
'Your grandfather called me a few minutes ago,' Yakov says quietly. He pauses, and shakes his head slowly. 'He won't be able to make it here today, Yuri.'
Strange, how the blood in Yuri's veins suddenly feels like it's turned into ice water, but at the same time there's something thick and hot and heavy spreading through his chest. He barely hears himself murmuring a question that isn't a question at all:
no subject
The Group 2 skaters catch the tail end of Crispino's performance, and to Yuri's mind it's nothing to write home about. He can tell that the Italian has a decent sense of the music and the story he wants to convey, but there's something weirdly stilted about it. He's obviously got something up his ass here today, and it shows -- to Yuri, it's like watching a bizarre inverse of Georgi, where it seems like they should be watching Crispino vomit his emotions out all over the ice but instead he just keeps swallowing them back and plunging ahead. But at least he finishes without choking on them, and goes to meet that sister of his over in the kiss-and-cry to wait for his scores.
It's a packed crowd in the seats, no hope of spotting individuals with any amount of ease. There are plenty of flags and banners, some professionally printed and some homemade, all just bright splashes in a sea of blurred faces. Yuri's as loose as he can be, runs through his last warmups as fast as he dares, but that restless energy is starting to build up to the point where he can't take it any longer. And yet when he clacks his way over to where Yakov and Lilia are standing, the look on his coach's face suddenly stops him cold...because it's not Yakov's usual stolid mid-competition expression. If anything, he looks oddly tired, and more than a little downhearted -- and that's where the dread starts to creep in.
'Your grandfather called me a few minutes ago,' Yakov says quietly. He pauses, and shakes his head slowly. 'He won't be able to make it here today, Yuri.'
Strange, how the blood in Yuri's veins suddenly feels like it's turned into ice water, but at the same time there's something thick and hot and heavy spreading through his chest. He barely hears himself murmuring a question that isn't a question at all:
'Dedka...you're not coming?'