"Don't worry about that. I'll be fine--" Yuri doesn't even flush at the rise of his voice, or the words that start pouring out of his mouth, more desperately necessary than deeply considered. Even though it tries to catch him in the center of his chest when he can hear his own voice in his ears, and it's just as impossible not to notice that people nearby are turning toward them, because it's loud. This disagreement, that isn't. Can't be. He won't let it. But it can't get a hold.

Everything that normally would trip him up, trap him back, make him quiet, drowning. "--but you have to go back!"

None of it has any weight against the way Victor's face had gone pale, is staying wan, the way Victor seems to get a hold of himself somewhere and but it cracks everywhere else. The way Victor's stalwart, effortless poise seems to have been tapped with a hammer to reveal it was always just made of glass. Or. That his heart was. Made of glass. Tapped with a hammer. Cracking everywhere. That shocked pain cracking Yuri's own.

Somewhere far away some other version of himself said the absolute reverse of his last outburst. It. Doesn't. Matter.

Maccachin might be dying. While they are standing here, arguing about this choice, that isn't a choice, because there's nothing else Victor should do, Maccachin might be dying. Yuri could wipe out on every jump, or get to the middle of the ice and never move for five minutes straight, until someone had to come collect him and even then. Yuri still wouldn't die, and Maccachin might.

He could never, would never, be the reason that happened to Victor.
Not to Victor, too. That he was here, when he shouldn't have been.

He couldn't. He would never. There was only way now.