and yet really, isn't it the one that makes the most sense?
Yuri has to set his phone down before he does something he'll regret with it. And as he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees so he can bury his hands in his hair and rest his forehead on his palms, he tries to slow his breathing in order to get his pulse rate under control.
The usurper. The imposter. The fake. Is that what people -- his people, the Russian people -- think of him? That he'll never compare to the real thing, the legend they'd spent more than a decade building up into something almost like a national folk hero? He'd heard the cheers in the arena today, seen the reporters flock around that familiar figure. If that's what they think of Viktor Nikiforov now, after he went and fucking abandoned them all at the glittering height of his career, how much harder is he, Yuri Plisetsky, going to have to work to even remotely come close to being more than just a pretender to Russia's empty throne?
And the worst part of it is, he can't even find the rage to fire him up and give him the push he needs to overcome this sick, helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because every time he tries to conjure up a suitable focal point for his anger -- that faux-friendly embrace and blandly dismissive smile in the hotel lobby yesterday afternoon, that absolutely disgusting display in the kiss-and-cry a few hours ago -- it's overshadowed by the memory of a halting, frightened voice pleading for Yakov Feltsman's help. No posturing for the cameras, no posing for an adoring audience of one or a hundred or a hundred thousand....no other thought in the man's mind but finding someone who he could trust to look after his skater so he could fly halfway around the world to be there for his deathly sick pet.
'Fuck this,' Yuri whispers to his knees, closing his eyes against the burning feeling at the back of his eyelids. Beside his hip, the bag of ice shifts, melting slowly with his body heat.
no subject
(quit acting like you're still the top Russian figure skater)
this one had never entered his thoughts
(​they'd probably let you walk right into the Kremlin and crown yourself in the Dormition Cathedral)
and yet really, isn't it the one that makes the most sense?
Yuri has to set his phone down before he does something he'll regret with it. And as he leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees so he can bury his hands in his hair and rest his forehead on his palms, he tries to slow his breathing in order to get his pulse rate under control.
The usurper. The imposter. The fake. Is that what people -- his people, the Russian people -- think of him? That he'll never compare to the real thing, the legend they'd spent more than a decade building up into something almost like a national folk hero? He'd heard the cheers in the arena today, seen the reporters flock around that familiar figure. If that's what they think of Viktor Nikiforov now, after he went and fucking abandoned them all at the glittering height of his career, how much harder is he, Yuri Plisetsky, going to have to work to even remotely come close to being more than just a pretender to Russia's empty throne?
And the worst part of it is, he can't even find the rage to fire him up and give him the push he needs to overcome this sick, helpless feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because every time he tries to conjure up a suitable focal point for his anger -- that faux-friendly embrace and blandly dismissive smile in the hotel lobby yesterday afternoon, that absolutely disgusting display in the kiss-and-cry a few hours ago -- it's overshadowed by the memory of a halting, frightened voice pleading for Yakov Feltsman's help. No posturing for the cameras, no posing for an adoring audience of one or a hundred or a hundred thousand....no other thought in the man's mind but finding someone who he could trust to look after his skater so he could fly halfway around the world to be there for his deathly sick pet.
'Fuck this,' Yuri whispers to his knees, closing his eyes against the burning feeling at the back of his eyelids. Beside his hip, the bag of ice shifts, melting slowly with his body heat.