It feels like he got his tie stuck in the door of a moving car: the tug pulls him right around and then jerks him forward, while he windmills his arms to keep his balance, and to keep from toppling directly into Yuri. Yuri. Yuri who has him by the tie, and is still not letting go, hauling him close and tight until Victor is pressed into the rink wall and he can feel the brush of Yuri's lips almost against his cheek.

It's wildly intimate, in a massive public setting, but he can't hear the chant anymore, can't hear anything anymore except a tidal rush of blood slamming his eardrums, and Yuri's voice, low and promising and seductive. Seductive. Yuri.

(He blinks at the sudden flood of golden lights, the flirtatious nip of champagne on his tongue.)

Where it had been the whole of Russia calling for him, now he can't imagine a world containing anyone but the two of them, here, now. Yuri's grip still hard on his tie. Victor doing nothing to pull away, only acquiescing.

(He hasn't done anything like this since –– )

"You're right."

Just as low, just as layered. There's so much more happening here than anything they're saying. (Yuri's mouth is only a breath away.)

It's not the time or the place, but Yuri is making it the time, the place. And the performance –– the seduction ––

Yes. It has already begun.