The return to the hotel is a silent taxi ride. Lilia spends it texting the details of the situation to Mila and Georgi and issuing instructions to them in response to their replies. Yuri stares out the window, chin propped on his hand, as the Moscow streets slip by in the night.
(He won't forget his responsibilities. No matter what may be happening back at the arena right now, nothing will alter his point score from this evening, or the third-place position he currently occupies. No matter what things will be like tomorrow morning, he has only one chance to redeem himself: to burn away the weakness that he can still feel at the point of impact in his hip, and the danger of that thick, hot, suffocating feeling in his chest.)
The event staff are putting the finishing touches on the paperwork, but Yakov hasn't let his guard down in the slightest. In the old days, they would have had a pack of chekist handlers breathing down their necks; today, it's the media that poses the real threat, and the sponsors can't be trusted to keep them in line. Even now, over in the corner there's a furtive-looking young man bent over his fancy phone, thumbs moving rapidly as he sends a message to someone -- almost certainly a press contact, if Yakov's guess is correct. It's been a long day for the reporters and camera crews, but this sort of news will spread like wildfire within the hour.
Scowling faintly, he glances at his watch. The ice dancers should be almost finished with their performances, which means that Viktor and his Japanese skater have only this short window of opportunity to make a break for it. Unless they are out the door in the next five minutes, there's no guarantee that they won't be stopped by someone eager for a scoop. Give it half an hour, and the reporters will be hunting them down at the hotel as well. And considering how anxious and upset they both clearly are, he would not trust either of them to hold up under any degree of questioning, let alone make a suitably neutral public comment on the situation.
All of this is at the forefront of his mind when he moves over to Viktor, who is rapidly losing control of his own decision-making abilities in a way that is viscerally painful for his old coach to see. 'Vitya,' he says, low but penetrating, using their native language in an effort to ground those wildly flying thoughts. 'Go now. Get to the airport. I'll hold off the inquiries here.' A small pause, before he concludes, with all the assurance he can put behind his words, 'Trust your skater to do what you have taught him.'
(Whatever he may have said, and in truth to some extent still thinks, in this moment he is speaking as one coach to another.)
That said, he looks over at Yuuri Katsuki, giving him a top-to-toe once-over before drawing whatever impenetrable conclusion lies in the back of his mind. 'Katsuki,' he says, picking up the thread in English once more. 'You will go back to the hotel with Vitya, and meet us in the lobby tomorrow morning. 7.30, no later. Is that clear?'
no subject
(He won't forget his responsibilities. No matter what may be happening back at the arena right now, nothing will alter his point score from this evening, or the third-place position he currently occupies. No matter what things will be like tomorrow morning, he has only one chance to redeem himself: to burn away the weakness that he can still feel at the point of impact in his hip, and the danger of that thick, hot, suffocating feeling in his chest.)
The event staff are putting the finishing touches on the paperwork, but Yakov hasn't let his guard down in the slightest. In the old days, they would have had a pack of chekist handlers breathing down their necks; today, it's the media that poses the real threat, and the sponsors can't be trusted to keep them in line. Even now, over in the corner there's a furtive-looking young man bent over his fancy phone, thumbs moving rapidly as he sends a message to someone -- almost certainly a press contact, if Yakov's guess is correct. It's been a long day for the reporters and camera crews, but this sort of news will spread like wildfire within the hour.
Scowling faintly, he glances at his watch. The ice dancers should be almost finished with their performances, which means that Viktor and his Japanese skater have only this short window of opportunity to make a break for it. Unless they are out the door in the next five minutes, there's no guarantee that they won't be stopped by someone eager for a scoop. Give it half an hour, and the reporters will be hunting them down at the hotel as well. And considering how anxious and upset they both clearly are, he would not trust either of them to hold up under any degree of questioning, let alone make a suitably neutral public comment on the situation.
All of this is at the forefront of his mind when he moves over to Viktor, who is rapidly losing control of his own decision-making abilities in a way that is viscerally painful for his old coach to see. 'Vitya,' he says, low but penetrating, using their native language in an effort to ground those wildly flying thoughts. 'Go now. Get to the airport. I'll hold off the inquiries here.' A small pause, before he concludes, with all the assurance he can put behind his words, 'Trust your skater to do what you have taught him.'
(Whatever he may have said, and in truth to some extent still thinks, in this moment he is speaking as one coach to another.)
That said, he looks over at Yuuri Katsuki, giving him a top-to-toe once-over before drawing whatever impenetrable conclusion lies in the back of his mind. 'Katsuki,' he says, picking up the thread in English once more. 'You will go back to the hotel with Vitya, and meet us in the lobby tomorrow morning. 7.30, no later. Is that clear?'