It's disjointing (for all that everything seems very clear and very distant, or very now and stuck like sludge) that it takes so little time. That somehow the physically binding legal line between Victor and him, in this small closed room, is nothing more than the mouthed words of explanations that aren't clear, the double printing of some papers, and the signing of them.
Is it strange that it's so easy? Is it strange that it really seems like so little of a hassle? Is it strange that it takes no time at all to be removed from Victor's hands and put someone else's?
Yuri doesn't want to think about that. This isn't about him. This is about Victor. And Maccachin. He pushes it back, pushes it down (later, tonight, tomorrow, if he's lucky never). Blinks back to attention and Victor's voice somewhere just before his name, and absently kicks himself for anything he might have missed before that. It's all the things left. The plane. Victor's luggage. His -- his free skate? Victor wants them, him, to talk about the free skate, with Yakov?
Somewhere that's logical. The rest of it is just a sort of horrification that has his eyes go wide. Right before Yakov starts talking to Victor in Russian, again, and it feels like having a door slammed right in his face. Between him and both of them, again. (Not about him.) When that's a conscious choice. (Not about him.) When Yuri can only make out one word of the entire torrent of those Russian sentences. (Not about him.)
( But the too distant-too close voice in his head says
it probably is, too. This time.)
When the consciousness of that choice seems even clearer when Yuri's eyes snap up when his name was said, like an icicle had cracked. But he's simply being ordered where to go now (as though Victor was already gone, already done with that, since signing his name) and where to be tomorrow. Unwanted or unneeded for Victor's suggestion, maybe, but Yuri's as relieved as he is unnerved by the absolution of no response to it.
Or one he was excluded from hearing. Makes himself dig through cold for, "Yes."
Something cold, and hard, and aching building in the center of his chest. But he won't look at it. It can't have him. Not yet. Not when he lets his gaze slide toward Victor, and there, in the reverse of everywhere else, where he has to make himself look at people, with Victor he can't stop himself from it. (Not yet. Not here. Not about him.)
There's the urge to fidget, but he just digs his toes into his shoes, into the floor. Yuri tries not to look away at the thought anything he says might have already been said, or that Victor might already have been given an order for everything, too, and anything he might say still just useless. Feeling impossibly smaller and hating that he's the one who is going to be heard by more than Victor.
"We should get a cab back, so you can start looking for flights now. I can update Mari and my parents."
Simple steps. Find a plane. Pack his things. Leave on the plane. Hopefully, get there in time.
no subject
It's disjointing (for all that everything seems very clear and very distant, or very now and stuck like sludge) that it takes so little time. That somehow the physically binding legal line between Victor and him, in this small closed room, is nothing more than the mouthed words of explanations that aren't clear, the double printing of some papers, and the signing of them.
Is it strange that it's so easy? Is it strange that it really seems like so little of a hassle?
Is it strange that it takes no time at all to be removed from Victor's hands and put someone else's?
Yuri doesn't want to think about that. This isn't about him. This is about Victor. And Maccachin. He pushes it back, pushes it down (later, tonight, tomorrow, if he's lucky never). Blinks back to attention and Victor's voice somewhere just before his name, and absently kicks himself for anything he might have missed before that. It's all the things left. The plane. Victor's luggage. His -- his free skate? Victor wants them, him, to talk about the free skate, with Yakov?
Somewhere that's logical. The rest of it is just a sort of horrification that has his eyes go wide. Right before Yakov starts talking to Victor in Russian, again, and it feels like having a door slammed right in his face. Between him and both of them, again. (Not about him.) When that's a conscious choice. (Not about him.) When Yuri can only make out one word of the entire torrent of those Russian sentences. (Not about him.)
voice in his head says
it probably is, too.
This time.)
When the consciousness of that choice seems even clearer when Yuri's eyes snap up when his name was said, like an icicle had cracked. But he's simply being ordered where to go now (as though Victor was already gone, already done with that, since signing his name) and where to be tomorrow. Unwanted or unneeded for Victor's suggestion, maybe, but Yuri's as relieved as he is unnerved by the absolution of no response to it.
Or one he was excluded from hearing. Makes himself dig through cold for, "Yes."
Something cold, and hard, and aching building in the center of his chest. But he won't look at it. It can't have him. Not yet. Not when he lets his gaze slide toward Victor, and there, in the reverse of everywhere else, where he has to make himself look at people, with Victor he can't stop himself from it. (Not yet. Not here. Not about him.)
There's the urge to fidget, but he just digs his toes into his shoes, into the floor. Yuri tries not to look away at the thought anything he says might have already been said, or that Victor might already have been given an order for everything, too, and anything he might say still just useless. Feeling impossibly smaller and hating that he's the one who is going to be heard by more than Victor.
"We should get a cab back, so you can start looking for flights now. I can update Mari and my parents."
Simple steps. Find a plane. Pack his things. Leave on the plane. Hopefully, get there in time.