The hotel's creaky old Moslift monstrosity is taking longer than normal to make its way up to the eighth floor. So Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, and pulls his jacket hood up over his head. (If it wasn't the middle of the night, he'd have his sunglasses on as well.)
Outside the room, it's a little easier to breathe. He's going somewhere, doing something. Not just sitting and watching the numbers change on the clock-radio.
Tomorrow. Numbers. Third place. Fifteen fucking points behind that prick JJ; almost twelve behind Katsudon. (And Lee's only six points below him, so he can't ignore that threat entirely, either.) He's got to make up the difference somehow, or his senior debut season might end with a bang right here. It's too late at night to be messing around with mathematics, but he'll have to change something about his program tomorrow if he's to have any hope of knocking one of the three of the off the top of the podium. It's something he can file away to discuss with Lilia tomorrow during warmups: one question that he won't have to deal with right now.
Finally, the doors open, and Yuri shuffles in, punches the button for the lobby, and slouches against the side. It's not likely to be a total zoo downstairs, since the reporters will all have gone out to file their stories and the competitors should be sacked out in their rooms for the night. Maybe he'll buy two candy bars while he's downstairs -- something chewy and comforting and tooth-rottingly sweet, like Ptichye Moloko, would be good. Yakov had said not to eat too many pirozhki tomorrow, but he'd never told Yuri not to eat his feelings with chocolate tonight.
When the floor settles with a lurch that he can feel in his stomach, and the doors creak open onto the ground floor, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and steps out, stopping for a moment to inhale some of the lobby's cooler air. The hood of his jacket blocks his peripheral vision, but he can still see a few people hanging around the front desk, coming and going through the entrance. He's not exactly dressed for stealth, so he'll have to make this quick --
-- but that's when he sees who's standing in the lobby. All by himself, facing the entrance. Alone.
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Outside the room, it's a little easier to breathe. He's going somewhere, doing something. Not just sitting and watching the numbers change on the clock-radio.
Tomorrow. Numbers. Third place. Fifteen fucking points behind that prick JJ; almost twelve behind Katsudon. (And Lee's only six points below him, so he can't ignore that threat entirely, either.) He's got to make up the difference somehow, or his senior debut season might end with a bang right here. It's too late at night to be messing around with mathematics, but he'll have to change something about his program tomorrow if he's to have any hope of knocking one of the three of the off the top of the podium. It's something he can file away to discuss with Lilia tomorrow during warmups: one question that he won't have to deal with right now.
Finally, the doors open, and Yuri shuffles in, punches the button for the lobby, and slouches against the side. It's not likely to be a total zoo downstairs, since the reporters will all have gone out to file their stories and the competitors should be sacked out in their rooms for the night. Maybe he'll buy two candy bars while he's downstairs -- something chewy and comforting and tooth-rottingly sweet, like Ptichye Moloko, would be good. Yakov had said not to eat too many pirozhki tomorrow, but he'd never told Yuri not to eat his feelings with chocolate tonight.
When the floor settles with a lurch that he can feel in his stomach, and the doors creak open onto the ground floor, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and steps out, stopping for a moment to inhale some of the lobby's cooler air. The hood of his jacket blocks his peripheral vision, but he can still see a few people hanging around the front desk, coming and going through the entrance. He's not exactly dressed for stealth, so he'll have to make this quick --
-- but that's when he sees who's standing in the lobby. All by himself, facing the entrance. Alone.