The cab is already waiting by the time the elevator door slides smoothly open: he can see it through the lobby, past the glass doors leading out into a snowy Moscow night. He rolls his bag to the door ––
And then there's nothing else to do, and no time left. He should have spent these moments going over what Yuri should expect and focus on for tomorrow, but his time has run out. He can almost hear the cab driver grumble under his breath as he turns, eyebrows furrowing, grasping for the few seconds he has left. "Ask Yakov anything you don't understand."
Yakov may have agreed to look after Yuri for him, but Victor's under no illusions about how poorly the two of them might communicate with each other. He's familiar with Yakov's ways, but Yuri isn't, and the last thing Victor wants is for all of this to end ignominiously, in failure, because Yuri was shy or uncertain or Yakov was too brusque. "If you're in trouble ––"
Two quick steps, and his arms are around Yuri's shoulders again, cheek pressed to Yuri's hair, and he has to go, but he has to say this, first. "–– just hug him, and he'll help you."
Yakov might seem like an impenetrable wall, an unscalable mountain, but Victor knows better. He remembers being just past childhood, when everything seemed too big to handle. He remembers being eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and not knowing how to say what he needed, but the way Yakov always seemed to know, anyway.
Even tonight. (He can still almost feel the pressure of that hand on his back.) "Sorry, Yuri."
Whispered in Japanese against his ear, the first time he's said it aloud tonight, but not the first time he'd thought or felt or meant it. "Even if I'm not here, I'll always be with you in spirit."
And then there really is nothing else to say, or do, and the cold Moscow air is biting his cheeks while the snow kisses them, and then the door of the cab is slamming, and then the hotel –– and Yuri in it ––
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And then there's nothing else to do, and no time left. He should have spent these moments going over what Yuri should expect and focus on for tomorrow, but his time has run out. He can almost hear the cab driver grumble under his breath as he turns, eyebrows furrowing, grasping for the few seconds he has left. "Ask Yakov anything you don't understand."
Yakov may have agreed to look after Yuri for him, but Victor's under no illusions about how poorly the two of them might communicate with each other. He's familiar with Yakov's ways, but Yuri isn't, and the last thing Victor wants is for all of this to end ignominiously, in failure, because Yuri was shy or uncertain or Yakov was too brusque. "If you're in trouble ––"
Two quick steps, and his arms are around Yuri's shoulders again, cheek pressed to Yuri's hair, and he has to go, but he has to say this, first. "–– just hug him, and he'll help you."
Yakov might seem like an impenetrable wall, an unscalable mountain, but Victor knows better. He remembers being just past childhood, when everything seemed too big to handle. He remembers being eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and not knowing how to say what he needed, but the way Yakov always seemed to know, anyway.
Even tonight. (He can still almost feel the pressure of that hand on his back.) "Sorry, Yuri."
Whispered in Japanese against his ear, the first time he's said it aloud tonight, but not the first time he'd thought or felt or meant it. "Even if I'm not here, I'll always be with you in spirit."
And then there really is nothing else to say, or do, and the cold Moscow air is biting his cheeks while the snow kisses them, and then the door of the cab is slamming, and then the hotel –– and Yuri in it ––