His thoughts are going everywhere, like someone opened a door leading out to a hurricane onto a room full of down feathers. He can't seem to catch any of them with any sort of fastness, now fearful about Maccachin, now uncertain what to tell Yakov, now worried about Yuri, now fighting back the urge to call the airlines this second and get a ticket, now frozen with the cold wash of certainty that he shouldn't be going anywhere.
Yakov's firm voice makes him blink, and focus. He's trained to that voice for years, and it must be how a retired soldier feels when he hears an officer barking orders. Everything narrows into a single task: to listen to Yakov and obey whatever it is he's saying. It's a reflex developed from over a decade of his life being determined by, shaped by, guided by that voice, and he can feel the trust like bedrock beneath his feet. It's an easy enough order to follow -- leave now, before the vultures descend, let Yakov fend them off as he has so many times before -- and though his hand goes to Yuri's shoulder when he agrees (unknowingly enough, he's just barely able to recognize; Yuri doesn't speak Russian), he doesn't take his eyes off Yakov.
Nods, before his hand leaves Yuri's shoulder so he can put his arms around the old man's bull neck and hug him, all too aware that the last time he did this, he was leaving suddenly, too.
(That he'd been a disappointment. That in chasing what he needed, wanted, he'd given nothing but pain to someone who had given him everything for years.)
So when he whispers "thank you" in their shared language close to Yakov's ear, it feels like the apology he never gave. He's not –– couldn't be, won't ever be –– sorry for going to find Yuri. He isn't sorry for trying something new, discovering how far Yuri can go, what it's like choreographing for someone else, everything he's learned and gained and loved in these last eight months.
He is sorry for never considering what his leaving might do to Yakov, or Russia, or even Yurio. He's sorry for causing pain to the person who has known him longest and best and had no reason to think he'd suddenly be gone.
But there's no time for anything further, so he pulls away and finds Yuri with a nod. "You're right. Let's go."
no subject
Yakov's firm voice makes him blink, and focus. He's trained to that voice for years, and it must be how a retired soldier feels when he hears an officer barking orders. Everything narrows into a single task: to listen to Yakov and obey whatever it is he's saying. It's a reflex developed from over a decade of his life being determined by, shaped by, guided by that voice, and he can feel the trust like bedrock beneath his feet. It's an easy enough order to follow -- leave now, before the vultures descend, let Yakov fend them off as he has so many times before -- and though his hand goes to Yuri's shoulder when he agrees (unknowingly enough, he's just barely able to recognize; Yuri doesn't speak Russian), he doesn't take his eyes off Yakov.
Nods, before his hand leaves Yuri's shoulder so he can put his arms around the old man's bull neck and hug him, all too aware that the last time he did this, he was leaving suddenly, too.
(That he'd been a disappointment. That in chasing what he needed, wanted, he'd given nothing but pain to someone who had given him everything for years.)
So when he whispers "thank you" in their shared language close to Yakov's ear, it feels like the apology he never gave. He's not –– couldn't be, won't ever be –– sorry for going to find Yuri. He isn't sorry for trying something new, discovering how far Yuri can go, what it's like choreographing for someone else, everything he's learned and gained and loved in these last eight months.
He is sorry for never considering what his leaving might do to Yakov, or Russia, or even Yurio. He's sorry for causing pain to the person who has known him longest and best and had no reason to think he'd suddenly be gone.
But there's no time for anything further, so he pulls away and finds Yuri with a nod. "You're right. Let's go."