He's already shucking the jacket from his shoulders as he heads into the room and flips on the first lamp he comes across, trying not to think about the way the jacket puddles at the foot of both of their beds because he'd pushed them together earlier. He focuses instead on what he needs to do: pull out some casual traveling clothes, pack his suit and the gray one still hanging in the closet, along with his toiletries and all the various items that have been thrown around this room because he expected to be here for at least one more day, and probably two, or even three. Apologies bubbling up in his throat, only to be swallowed, hard, while he's slipping the knot of his tie loose and tugging it over his head, fingers going to the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat even as he's sifting with his other hand through his suitcase for trousers, a loose collarless shirt, his traveling coat and scarf.
There's so much to say, and not enough time to say it in, and if he starts saying anything, he might wind up saying something he shouldn't. Something about how he won't go, after all, how he's being crazy, he can't abandon Yuri.
(Each time met with a memory of Maccachin so clear and immediate it slices a pang of exquisite pain into his chest.)
"I'll have to call down for a cab."
Thinking out loud, because he can't stand the silence, but he can't say anything of substance, either, as he's pulling off his shirt and waistcoat and replacing them with the soft top he'd pulled from his luggage, toeing out of his black patent dress shoes to switch trousers, dig out the more comfortable brown loafers he wears on the plane. "It's a little over nine hours, so it'll be in the middle of the night here when I land. I'll call once I get on the train, it should be late enough by then. Go to bed early tonight, so you can get some sleep before you meet Yakov."
He'll know if Yuri's tired, if Yuri hadn't slept, even if he barely knows Yuri. He has a sense for these things that must come with decades of doing the job, decoding and interpreting skaters in all their myriad moods and idiosyncracies.
It's probably for the best that he's too busy to really look at Yuri, as he's packing, his travel clothes hung on him without any of his usual polish. "And you still need to get dinner tonight. Don't eat too late, or you won't be able to sleep."
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There's so much to say, and not enough time to say it in, and if he starts saying anything, he might wind up saying something he shouldn't. Something about how he won't go, after all, how he's being crazy, he can't abandon Yuri.
(Each time met with a memory of Maccachin so clear and immediate it slices a pang of exquisite pain into his chest.)
"I'll have to call down for a cab."
Thinking out loud, because he can't stand the silence, but he can't say anything of substance, either, as he's pulling off his shirt and waistcoat and replacing them with the soft top he'd pulled from his luggage, toeing out of his black patent dress shoes to switch trousers, dig out the more comfortable brown loafers he wears on the plane. "It's a little over nine hours, so it'll be in the middle of the night here when I land. I'll call once I get on the train, it should be late enough by then. Go to bed early tonight, so you can get some sleep before you meet Yakov."
He'll know if Yuri's tired, if Yuri hadn't slept, even if he barely knows Yuri. He has a sense for these things that must come with decades of doing the job, decoding and interpreting skaters in all their myriad moods and idiosyncracies.
It's probably for the best that he's too busy to really look at Yuri, as he's packing, his travel clothes hung on him without any of his usual polish. "And you still need to get dinner tonight. Don't eat too late, or you won't be able to sleep."