As though he’d let himself slip off his seat and sink his head down under the water in the Onsen.
That’s what it becomes when every single one of Victor’s words becomes Russian, at a speed that Yuri can’t make out any word of, except Maccachin’s name. Time and again. All of it in a tone Yuri’s never heard before. Something ... desperate and afraid, sharp and rough and unconcerned with any amount of gentle affected public presentation, while he’s all but pressed to his former coach.
That.
Somehow that is worse.
He never thought he’d be this scared (about something that wasn’t skating) while standing next to Victor.
Except he’s not either, is he? He’s standing back here, watching, because he’s not the one who can do anything about this. The person Victor needs to fix whatever has to be fixed so the one thing that is breaking most can be seen to. He can’t really do anything. Setting free a helpless, painful scrabbling thing, tearing and spinning and digging with nails on the inside of his ribs, straight through his heart like it wasn’t even paper, everywhere, listening to Victor.
He just wants to make it better. Now. Somehow. Anyhow. Anyway. (Doesn't want to see this. Doesn't want to see what happens if -- if --)
And he can’t.
(Who is he, and what are they even pretending at this week,
if Yuri can’t do even that much when Victor needs it most?)
The only thing he can do to help is stand there. Listening, and not understanding. Waiting, and watching. Until he's ordered, without any explanation, to follow someone he's never spoken to himself, but Victor needs. Trusts. Victor trusts him. To do what needs doing, and all Yuri can do is agree to whatever it takes to get Victor back to Maccachin. Even this. Because it's where he should be. Where he has to be. Go.
Yuri does at least take the steps to catch up with somewhere near Victor, looking over at him, while having to keep pace with the rapid movement of Yakov Feltsman dividing all the people around them in one stormy, straight forward, motion.
no subject
As though he’d let himself slip off his seat and sink his head down under the water in the Onsen.
That’s what it becomes when every single one of Victor’s words becomes Russian, at a speed that Yuri can’t make out any word of, except Maccachin’s name. Time and again. All of it in a tone Yuri’s never heard before. Something ... desperate and afraid, sharp and rough and unconcerned with any amount of gentle affected public presentation, while he’s all but pressed to his former coach.
That.
Somehow that is worse.
He never thought he’d be this scared (about something that wasn’t skating) while standing next to Victor.
Except he’s not either, is he? He’s standing back here, watching, because he’s not the one who can do anything about this. The person Victor needs to fix whatever has to be fixed so the one thing that is breaking most can be seen to. He can’t really do anything. Setting free a helpless, painful scrabbling thing, tearing and spinning and digging with nails on the inside of his ribs, straight through his heart like it wasn’t even paper, everywhere, listening to Victor.
He just wants to make it better. Now. Somehow. Anyhow. Anyway.
(Doesn't want to see this. Doesn't want to see what happens if -- if --)
even pretending at this week,
if Yuri can’t do even that much
when Victor needs it most?)
The only thing he can do to help is stand there. Listening, and not understanding. Waiting, and watching. Until he's ordered, without any explanation, to follow someone he's never spoken to himself, but Victor needs. Trusts. Victor trusts him. To do what needs doing, and all Yuri can do is agree to whatever it takes to get Victor back to Maccachin. Even this. Because it's where he should be. Where he has to be. Go.
Yuri does at least take the steps to catch up with somewhere near Victor, looking over at him, while having to keep pace with the rapid movement of Yakov Feltsman dividing all the people around them in one stormy, straight forward, motion.