Smiling and waving, surrounded by camera flashes and the audience's overwhelming delight, the brilliant twinned firework bursts of a personal best score and a smashingly triumphant grab for the first place slot...but more than that, it's the look on their faces that stirs a strange dull ache in the pit of Yuri's chest. Like there's no one else in the world but them; nothing else in this moment; nothing else that matters. And it's an ache that spreads, slowly but inexorably, like that terrible hot thick feeling from a few minutes before --
But then Viktor slides out of his chair, down onto one knee, and his lips touch the side of Yuuri Katsuki's skate, and the crowd lets out a collective shriek of gleeful surprise as the press photographers voraciously capture the moment
(if you're not too busy showing off for the cameras)
and that ache in Yuri's chest abruptly collapses in on itself like a dying star giving way to a black hole.
And then the pig (who is actually blushing) looks up, and calls out to him (wait, shit, was that Russian?!), and it sends Viktor springing in out front of him (in front of the cameras) to wave and call out to him (and fuck, fuck, that's Japanese) -- and suddenly it's not a black hole in his heart but a supernova of absolute fury that sends him exploding away from the rink wall, flinging himself out onto the ice to put as much distance between him and THEM as he possibly can.
(Yakov might have called out his name as he pushed away from the wall. Yuri has a distinct lack of fucks to give at this particular juncture.)
The cheers and applause rise in volume as he flies out across the ice, building up speed as he aims for his starting position. The announcer's voice echoes high above, ricocheting off concrete and steel. Even though his rage is still at the boiling point, training and instinct take over to keep him in enough control to whip back and forth in order slow to a stop. Yet even as he settles into his opening pose, the last thought in his mind as he waits for the music to begin is as far from Agape as he's ever felt:
Damn it, I'm not so down on my luck that I need you assholes cheering me on.
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But then Viktor slides out of his chair, down onto one knee, and his lips touch the side of Yuuri Katsuki's skate, and the crowd lets out a collective shriek of gleeful surprise as the press photographers voraciously capture the moment
(if you're not too busy showing off for the cameras)
and that ache in Yuri's chest abruptly collapses in on itself like a dying star giving way to a black hole.
And then the pig (who is actually blushing) looks up, and calls out to him (wait, shit, was that Russian?!), and it sends Viktor springing in out front of him (in front of the cameras) to wave and call out to him (and fuck, fuck, that's Japanese) -- and suddenly it's not a black hole in his heart but a supernova of absolute fury that sends him exploding away from the rink wall, flinging himself out onto the ice to put as much distance between him and THEM as he possibly can.
(Yakov might have called out his name as he pushed away from the wall. Yuri has a distinct lack of fucks to give at this particular juncture.)
The cheers and applause rise in volume as he flies out across the ice, building up speed as he aims for his starting position. The announcer's voice echoes high above, ricocheting off concrete and steel. Even though his rage is still at the boiling point, training and instinct take over to keep him in enough control to whip back and forth in order slow to a stop. Yet even as he settles into his opening pose, the last thought in his mind as he waits for the music to begin is as far from Agape as he's ever felt:
Damn it, I'm not so down on my luck that I need you assholes cheering me on.