In his need to get up and move around, the first thing Yuri does it to take the bag of melting ice into the bathroom and empty it into the sink. His hip is about as good as it'll be for now, and the cold isn't doing anything except to make the ache turn inward.
Lilia's door is open to him. She'd said as much, and she wouldn't have said it if she didn't literally mean it. But this isn't really something he can take to Lilia, is it? She'd probably just tell him that he shouldn't read so much into one reporter's comment, that it doesn't matter to anyone who really understands their art, that it isn't something Yuri should worry about because it isn't something he can control. And Yakov (who isn't here; who's dealing with the fact that he'll be looking after one more skater tomorrow) would have even more choice words to share about the idiocy of the press -- as if it wasn't something that they all lived with, day in and day out. As if Yakov himself hadn't spent most of his working life cultivating his skaters' images and reputations, the faces they all showed to the world, the internationally envied strength and prestige of Russian figure skating. How could they ever understand, even if they wanted to?
(The dark secret shame, hot and thick in his chest, is that he really wants to go home. He wants his grandfather. Wants to know that he's all right. Wants to curl up next to him on their worn-out sofa, resting against Nikolai Plisetsky's warm, solid bulk, and tell him everything. About Viktor and his dog, and Katsudon, and Yakov and Lilia, and everything that had gone wrong during the short program, and how he's sorry, he's sorry that he hadn't skated Agape like he'd wanted to today, that his grandfather deserved better than that, so much better, and he'll work harder to do it right next time...and when he finally ran out of words, he could just sit there and not say anything at all, because he wouldn't have to. And maybe this horrible weariness inside him could go away for a little while.)
He can't go to Lilia's room. He can't go home. And it's probably cold enough outside to freeze his balls off, because it's Moscow in November. But he can grab his jacket and jam his feet into his sneakers, and go wander downstairs for a little while. Maybe buy a candy bar or some other cheap snack from the kiosk in the lobby. Give himself something to do so he doesn't go running out screaming into the night.
He stuffs his keycard, his wallet, and his phone in his jacket pockets. Right now, that's all he needs.
no subject
Lilia's door is open to him. She'd said as much, and she wouldn't have said it if she didn't literally mean it. But this isn't really something he can take to Lilia, is it? She'd probably just tell him that he shouldn't read so much into one reporter's comment, that it doesn't matter to anyone who really understands their art, that it isn't something Yuri should worry about because it isn't something he can control. And Yakov (who isn't here; who's dealing with the fact that he'll be looking after one more skater tomorrow) would have even more choice words to share about the idiocy of the press -- as if it wasn't something that they all lived with, day in and day out. As if Yakov himself hadn't spent most of his working life cultivating his skaters' images and reputations, the faces they all showed to the world, the internationally envied strength and prestige of Russian figure skating. How could they ever understand, even if they wanted to?
(The dark secret shame, hot and thick in his chest, is that he really wants to go home. He wants his grandfather. Wants to know that he's all right. Wants to curl up next to him on their worn-out sofa, resting against Nikolai Plisetsky's warm, solid bulk, and tell him everything. About Viktor and his dog, and Katsudon, and Yakov and Lilia, and everything that had gone wrong during the short program, and how he's sorry, he's sorry that he hadn't skated Agape like he'd wanted to today, that his grandfather deserved better than that, so much better, and he'll work harder to do it right next time...and when he finally ran out of words, he could just sit there and not say anything at all, because he wouldn't have to. And maybe this horrible weariness inside him could go away for a little while.)
He can't go to Lilia's room. He can't go home. And it's probably cold enough outside to freeze his balls off, because it's Moscow in November. But he can grab his jacket and jam his feet into his sneakers, and go wander downstairs for a little while. Maybe buy a candy bar or some other cheap snack from the kiosk in the lobby. Give himself something to do so he doesn't go running out screaming into the night.
He stuffs his keycard, his wallet, and his phone in his jacket pockets. Right now, that's all he needs.