Yuri sounds almost as desperate as he feels, but what else can he do? He doesn't have the freedom to do the things that might be most important to him anymore: he's a coach. When had Yakov ever missed a single one of his competitions? Was there anything, any emergency, any sickness or crisis that could have kept him away?
That winter when a particularly bad strain of flu had swept through St. Petersburg like wildfire, and Yakov had still showed up to the rink, eyes streaming, face red, nearly delirious with fever, to coach him through the Russian Nationals.
And even if he could –– even if there were a way –– he can't leave his skater by himself, here in unfamiliar territory. Yuri still has another skate to go, and it's the one he'd been most worried about last week. His free skate, that they've been working to perfect for months, that takes everything out of him. He needs Victor here. He needs a coach, and Victor had stolen him away from the only other option. Celestino isn't even here, and wouldn't –– not that Victor would, or could ask ––
(But Maccachin might die. And he'd be here.)
Yuri's voice near a panicked fever pitch, stubbornly insisting that he go, which is, it's ridiculous, would be, if Victor could think clearly, if everything could just stop for a moment so he can figure out what to do. Running a gloved hand up into his hair, over this frown that's painfully crumpling his forehead, eyes squeezing shut, but he can't block it out. He can't go, but if he stays, could he focus? Could Yuri?
There's a small crowd growing around them, and he can feel their gazes even with his eyes closed, before they slit open again to stare at the floor.
(He wishes there were someone who could tell him what to do.)
Just as a brush of motion catches his attention, and he looks up, fingers still in his hair, before his eyes widen. "Yakov!"
Standing nearby by a surly angel sent directly from Heaven above, and Victor's nearly running toward him without even thinking about it: reflex and relief and the habit of nearly two decades taking over. Yakov will know what to do, what he should do. He always does. "Thank God."
All of the frustration with Yakov's comments, his disbelief, his lack of interest, dissipating like smoke, as Victor's hands reach for his shoulders. "You're the only coach for me."
The only one he can trust. The only one who can help him, who ever has.
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Yuri sounds almost as desperate as he feels, but what else can he do? He doesn't have the freedom to do the things that might be most important to him anymore: he's a coach. When had Yakov ever missed a single one of his competitions? Was there anything, any emergency, any sickness or crisis that could have kept him away?
That winter when a particularly bad strain of flu had swept through St. Petersburg like wildfire, and Yakov had still showed up to the rink, eyes streaming, face red, nearly delirious with fever, to coach him through the Russian Nationals.
And even if he could –– even if there were a way –– he can't leave his skater by himself, here in unfamiliar territory. Yuri still has another skate to go, and it's the one he'd been most worried about last week. His free skate, that they've been working to perfect for months, that takes everything out of him. He needs Victor here. He needs a coach, and Victor had stolen him away from the only other option. Celestino isn't even here, and wouldn't –– not that Victor would, or could ask ––
(But Maccachin might die. And he'd be here.)
Yuri's voice near a panicked fever pitch, stubbornly insisting that he go, which is, it's ridiculous, would be, if Victor could think clearly, if everything could just stop for a moment so he can figure out what to do. Running a gloved hand up into his hair, over this frown that's painfully crumpling his forehead, eyes squeezing shut, but he can't block it out. He can't go, but if he stays, could he focus? Could Yuri?
There's a small crowd growing around them, and he can feel their gazes even with his eyes closed, before they slit open again to stare at the floor.
(He wishes there were someone who could tell him what to do.)
Just as a brush of motion catches his attention, and he looks up, fingers still in his hair, before his eyes widen. "Yakov!"
Standing nearby by a surly angel sent directly from Heaven above, and Victor's nearly running toward him without even thinking about it: reflex and relief and the habit of nearly two decades taking over. Yakov will know what to do, what he should do. He always does. "Thank God."
All of the frustration with Yakov's comments, his disbelief, his lack of interest, dissipating like smoke, as Victor's hands reach for his shoulders. "You're the only coach for me."
The only one he can trust. The only one who can help him, who ever has.