If the name, a creshendo'd shout only getting louder and louder, digs iced claws straight through Yuri's chest, skin and ribs and lungs and all, it's still not the worst part of it. He looks to Victor and Victor is looking somewhere else. Victor, who knows he only has seconds to hear whatever it is Victor is supposed to be telling him. Victor, who knows intimately if he doesn't get to the center before that time end, he'll be penalized before he even starts.

Victor, in front of him, but turned sideways, facing not Yuri, but the audience.

It comes back too sharp. His own words.
They'll wish it was you.

Victor, who'd said, they wouldn't be able to resist him once he started.

Victor, who's busy waving to the crowd shouting for him. Victor, who is laughing, and not even looking at him. Victor. Not even them. (Which he expected, feared, dreaded. Even dared to admit.) Victor. Who. He'd. Hadn't he. Wondered. Said. But. If even. Victor. But something tumbles too hard in that, snapping too sharp, almost violently in denial of proof, and his hand shoots out. Fisting Victor's tie just below the knot and jerking him forward with all the force he can, between the wall under his hand and the ice beneath his feet.

It's not everything on his tongue, but when Victor's hair is nearly brushing his nose, Yuri says it anyway. His voice strangely so much calmer than anything in him suddenly feels. Like he was reprimanding a child, and not his coach. (Not his ... ) "The performance has already begun, Victor."