It's not entirely clear to Yuri how they've suddenly ended up back in the anteroom outside the arena. If Yakov or Lilia had led him out here, he doesn't remember following them. Some more pragmatic part of his mind tries to fill in the logical explanation -- if you've got bad news to break to your skater, don't do where there are cameras nearby -- but it's all blurring together, and he has to make a conscious effort to wrench himself back into the here and now when Yakov starts speaking to him again.
'I had tried to call him earlier, but there was no response,' Yakov says. It's nothing like his normal brusqueness, and there's a quiet sympathy in his tone that makes the hot heaviness in Yuri's chest swell and fester like an abscess. 'But he called me back when you were finishing your warmups. He said that he was very sorry, but that he wasn't feeling very well...and he said that he would do everything he could to be here for your free skate tomorrow.' Another pause, as he studies Yuri carefully. 'If you wanted to call him back and talk to him before -- '
'No.' Yuri cuts his coach off forcefully, before Yakov can finish the suggestion. He knows his grandfather better than anyone else, and if Nikolai Plisetsky says that he's not feeling very well then the pain must be truly terrible. Almost certainly bad enough for him to have needed a full dose of the painkillers that he hates to take, which are too strong for him to drive safely at the very least. 'If he's not well, he needs to rest. It's late enough as it is; I can call him tomorrow morning, maybe.'
I won't make Dedka feel bad for taking care of himself. It's a thought he can cling to, a knife driven into place to pin his resolve firmly against his heart, lancing that toxic heaviness before it can swell even more and choke him completely. I'm not a little kid anymore, damn it -- I can take care of myself, too. I won't let him down. I'll make him proud.
(His gaze is fixed on the curtain that's drawn over the entrance, so he doesn't see the look that Yakov and Lilia exchange. Which is possibly for the best, because one look at the sadness and concern shared between them would have cracked his fragile determination possibly beyond repair.)
With the second set of skaters about to begin, starting with Japan's Yuuri Katsuki, the noise of the crowd is audible even in the anteroom. And just as Yuri is about to put his headphones back in and lose himself in his music, he starts to hear the repeated chant that he'd been anticipating all weekend: a heady and excited Vik-tor! Vik-tor! rising from the mostly Russian audience.
Just as I thought. His eyes narrow, and his mouth twitches in a mirthless half-smile in the shadow of his hood. No one cares about the pig. Hope you're happy, Coach Nikiforov -- all your hard work promoting your skater certainly paid off, didn't it?
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'I had tried to call him earlier, but there was no response,' Yakov says. It's nothing like his normal brusqueness, and there's a quiet sympathy in his tone that makes the hot heaviness in Yuri's chest swell and fester like an abscess. 'But he called me back when you were finishing your warmups. He said that he was very sorry, but that he wasn't feeling very well...and he said that he would do everything he could to be here for your free skate tomorrow.' Another pause, as he studies Yuri carefully. 'If you wanted to call him back and talk to him before -- '
'No.' Yuri cuts his coach off forcefully, before Yakov can finish the suggestion. He knows his grandfather better than anyone else, and if Nikolai Plisetsky says that he's not feeling very well then the pain must be truly terrible. Almost certainly bad enough for him to have needed a full dose of the painkillers that he hates to take, which are too strong for him to drive safely at the very least. 'If he's not well, he needs to rest. It's late enough as it is; I can call him tomorrow morning, maybe.'
I won't make Dedka feel bad for taking care of himself. It's a thought he can cling to, a knife driven into place to pin his resolve firmly against his heart, lancing that toxic heaviness before it can swell even more and choke him completely. I'm not a little kid anymore, damn it -- I can take care of myself, too. I won't let him down. I'll make him proud.
(His gaze is fixed on the curtain that's drawn over the entrance, so he doesn't see the look that Yakov and Lilia exchange. Which is possibly for the best, because one look at the sadness and concern shared between them would have cracked his fragile determination possibly beyond repair.)
With the second set of skaters about to begin, starting with Japan's Yuuri Katsuki, the noise of the crowd is audible even in the anteroom. And just as Yuri is about to put his headphones back in and lose himself in his music, he starts to hear the repeated chant that he'd been anticipating all weekend: a heady and excited Vik-tor! Vik-tor! rising from the mostly Russian audience.
Just as I thought. His eyes narrow, and his mouth twitches in a mirthless half-smile in the shadow of his hood. No one cares about the pig. Hope you're happy, Coach Nikiforov -- all your hard work promoting your skater certainly paid off, didn't it?