The world plays through a sieve Yuri can't seem to get his hands around, can't remember why he's supposed to, as he stands there. Staring through the glass doors. At the empty space where the cab, and Victor, aren't. Where the snow is falling. While the people in the lobby who've been watching him, or not watching him (them, when there was a them), still are or aren't. Are existing. Too many eyes. Too much movement to his stillness. His inability to move. To breathe.
Just enough to press at all the edges of Yuri's inability to forget them, salt stinging against fresh blood. He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to look away. Doesn't feel like he could. He should. ... But.
The cab doesn't come back.
(Isn't coming back.
Victor said, to hug Yakov?
Victor's gone. Just. Gone. The cab won't come back.
Victor said, he was sorry?
He's just gone. For real this time. He was always going to go eventually, wasn't he?
He said -- )
Yuri has to swallow. Has to ball his fingers up in the pockets of his black and blue country jacket, still layered right over his Eros costume. Everything. Everything so out of sync. Out of sorts. The snow is still falling outside the doors, and the cab is still not coming back, and he tries to tell himself, he does. It's not the same thing. Victor didn't leave him. Victor went to Maccachin. Victor went where everyone, including Yuri, said he should. Wants him to. And he does. He still does, needs him to get there in time, which only hurts more.
(Since when does anyone listen to him?)
It's too fast, too layered. Victor trying to tell Yuri no, while Mari was still on his phone. Victor's voice, in a hundred unknown words, pleading with Yakov. Victor saying, thank you. Victor saying, I'm sorry. Victor saying he needs to eat, and he needs to sleep. Tomorrow a million miles away from when it had seemed real, and two breaths from happening in that late night gloom outside the glass doors. He doesn't want to eat. He doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't want to move, exist, breathe.
He doesn't even want to think about skating at this second. Or even changing. Like if he dares any of those it will make everything else take out the very last strut.
Somewhere the large crowds are getting out, day one is ending, and people will be coming back. People in anther world, who don't know how much has happened in how little time. Barely to hours since.
(He wants to call home. He wants to know if there's any word, any update. Desperate to know. Terrified to hear. If Maccachin is-- )
It's too late and he still has no words, and he didn't hug Victor goodbye (twice), and he didn't say anything real, not after telling Victor he should go, maybe an hour and, but not even to two, before he did, so fast, everything so fast, and maybe it's good Yuri didn't, so Victor couldn't see how weak he really was, and how it's all he can now do to hold his breath, hold every muscle in his body still, and will himself not to cry now. (Not now, not here, not yet.)
In the middle of this too well-lit foyer of a too nice hotel. Where people were watching him stand there, alone. While he watched the darkness consume the snow.
no subject
Just enough to press at all the edges of Yuri's inability to forget them, salt stinging against fresh blood.
He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to look away. Doesn't feel like he could. He should. ... But.
The cab doesn't come back.
(Isn't coming back.
Victor said, to hug Yakov?
The cab won't come back.
Victor said, he was sorry?
He was always going to go
eventually, wasn't he?
He said -- )
Yuri has to swallow. Has to ball his fingers up in the pockets of his black and blue country jacket, still layered right over his Eros costume. Everything. Everything so out of sync. Out of sorts. The snow is still falling outside the doors, and the cab is still not coming back, and he tries to tell himself, he does. It's not the same thing. Victor didn't leave him. Victor went to Maccachin. Victor went where everyone, including Yuri, said he should. Wants him to. And he does. He still does, needs him to get there in time, which only hurts more.
(Since when does anyone listen to him?)
It's too fast, too layered. Victor trying to tell Yuri no, while Mari was still on his phone. Victor's voice, in a hundred unknown words, pleading with Yakov. Victor saying, thank you. Victor saying, I'm sorry. Victor saying he needs to eat, and he needs to sleep. Tomorrow a million miles away from when it had seemed real, and two breaths from happening in that late night gloom outside the glass doors. He doesn't want to eat. He doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't want to move, exist, breathe.
He doesn't even want to think about skating at this second. Or even changing.
Like if he dares any of those it will make everything else take out the very last strut.
Somewhere the large crowds are getting out, day one is ending, and people will be coming back.
People in anther world, who don't know how much has happened in how little time. Barely to hours since.
He wants to know if there's any word, any update.
Desperate to know. Terrified to hear. If Maccachin is-- )
It's too late and he still has no words, and he didn't hug Victor goodbye (twice), and he didn't say anything real, not after telling Victor he should go, maybe an hour and, but not even to two, before he did, so fast, everything so fast, and maybe it's good Yuri didn't, so Victor couldn't see how weak he really was, and how it's all he can now do to hold his breath, hold every muscle in his body still, and will himself not to cry now. (Not now, not here, not yet.)
In the middle of this too well-lit foyer of a too nice hotel.
Where people were watching him stand there, alone.
While he watched the darkness consume the snow.