Yuri Plisetsky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
yuri_plisetsky) wrote2017-05-23 02:39 pm
yuri_plisetsky) wrote2017-05-23 02:39 pm
Moscow: Rostelecom Cup, GPF Qualifer Short Program (1.08)
The Rostelecom Cup is the last event of the 2014 ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating series. In the men's figure skating division, two competitors -- Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan and Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland -- have secured their places in the Grand Prix Final. The remaining four slots will be determined by the final standings of the six skaters competing in Moscow, based on their scores in previous ISU Grand Prix events:
- Michele Crispino (Italy): 3rd Place, NHK Trophy
- Yuuri Katsuki (Japan): 2nd Place, Cup of China
- Seung-gil Lee (Republic of Korea): 2nd Place, NHK Trophy
- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canada): 1st Place, Skate Canada
- Emil Nekola (Czech Republic): 3rd Place, Skate Canada
- Yuri Plisetsky (Russian Federation): 2nd Place, Skate Canada
As the competitors arrive in Moscow, two particular skaters are the focus of much press and fan speculation. Fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky is making his senior debut in his first major competitive event in his home country, after a strong showing at Skate Canada in Kelowna, British Columbia. At the same time, Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki has arrived in Moscow with his coach, the long-reigning world champion Viktor Nikiforov, and based on his remarkable performance at the Cup of China in Shanghai...
...but all of this is only to be expected from the official press coverage.
On the ground, the reality is a little more complicated than that.
- Michele Crispino (Italy): 3rd Place, NHK Trophy
- Yuuri Katsuki (Japan): 2nd Place, Cup of China
- Seung-gil Lee (Republic of Korea): 2nd Place, NHK Trophy
- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canada): 1st Place, Skate Canada
- Emil Nekola (Czech Republic): 3rd Place, Skate Canada
- Yuri Plisetsky (Russian Federation): 2nd Place, Skate Canada
As the competitors arrive in Moscow, two particular skaters are the focus of much press and fan speculation. Fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky is making his senior debut in his first major competitive event in his home country, after a strong showing at Skate Canada in Kelowna, British Columbia. At the same time, Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki has arrived in Moscow with his coach, the long-reigning world champion Viktor Nikiforov, and based on his remarkable performance at the Cup of China in Shanghai...
...but all of this is only to be expected from the official press coverage.
On the ground, the reality is a little more complicated than that.
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It's a reluctant mostly apology. "Not yet."
He hadn't looked over his things since they got back to the room, any more than he'd decided to actually take a shower. He hadn't looked at it all since the first cursory check that everything had made it through travel in the same shape and condition it was packed in, hanging it up, before Victor had drug him out into the streets of Moscow. As further reluctant, but rather prepared for some a too soon division from this, here, Victor and a refocus back on everything it has to be, already is, he adds, "I can do that now."
Check his costume and his skates meticulously. Lay out on the counter what he'll need for tomorrow morning. Check over the rolling bag he'll need for the locker room, transporting, his everything ready but those most important pieces that don't get added until the last minutes before leaving.
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As he approaches, he sees that Mila's talking to an older man with a blotchy red nose. Drink, possibly, but the room is getting a little too warm from the press of bodies and the old hotel's overzealous heating system, and Yuri wouldn't be surprised if he's a little red in the face himself by this point. The man looks vaguely familiar, probably someone from the initial round of introductions; they'd all gone by so quickly that there's no telling exactly where he's from, which means that it's Rostelecom until proven otherwise. Mila's talking, and the man is listening attentively, so it would be rude to just butt in. Still, Yakov had said to find her: Yuri does have an excuse for cutting in.
Mila notices him before he can speak, and her face lights up. 'Oh, Yuri!' she says, smiling. 'I was wondering where you were. Were you looking for me?'
In spite of her cheerful greeting, she's not reintroducing him to the man, which is as clear an indication as any to Yuri that she doesn't necessarily want this conversation to continue. Yet the man, by contrast, doesn't seem so inclined to back out gracefully. Instead, he smiles and nods a greeting to Yuri, as if to include him in their earlier discussion. 'I was just asking your lovely fellow skater about her program for this weekend, and her signature moves,' he says. 'Is there something special that we should be looking to see you perform here as well?'
It's better phrased than the other Rostelecom jerk's question, and doesn't mention Viktor at all, but Yuri notices that the man isn't really making eye contact with him when he says it. It would be easy to attribute that lack of eye contact to nerves or something, but the man's eyes aren't darting around. In fact, they seem to be fixed quite steadily on one place, slightly to Yuri's right. And unthinkingly, with a dancer's trained eye for assessing spotting techniques, Yuri flicks his own gaze quickly in that direction -- to discover that the man's line of sight ends right at Mila's breasts.
For the second time that day, a bolt of pure rage clears Yuri's head like a dash of cold water to the face. You absolute piece of shit! But this time he can't lash out, can't react on instinct alone to smack the creep away from them both. He can't do that to Mila; she doesn't need to end up in the middle of a huge scene just because of some filthy pervert who'd probably deny the whole thing anyway. But for fuck's sake, he has to do something --
'A quad axel,' he says suddenly, with a perfectly straight face. He hears Mila choke slightly next to him, but doesn't look over at her just yet. 'Mila's been helping me with the strength training for it. She can bench-press my entire body weight and then some.' Only then does he glance up at her, to see that she's trying not to burst from the effort of holding back her startled laughter. 'That hockey player you were dating found that out the hard way, didn't he? When you caught him cheating on you?'
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It's mostly agreement, but Victor doesn't move, or lift his hand. There's plenty for them both to do, between changing and brushing teeth and washing faces and checking costumes and outfits and badges and skates, but it feels like they've done nothing but rush around for the last two days, and it won't hurt to take a second to breathe, for both of them. Yuri, with his worries about tomorrow, and Victor, who is only just beginning to feel relaxed after that run-in with Yurio downstairs. "In a minute."
It could all be worse. Yuri's panic the morning after the Cup of China upon discovering the explosion of their faces all across social media has mostly been unfounded. There have been questions, of course, but Victor was trained by Yakov in more than just figure skating techniques and has left more than one reporter wondering why they felt so frustrated by his opacity when their question was fully answered. Social media has been another story altogether, but he's kept his promise to Yuri, and he hasn't said or posted anything else that might be construed as evidence of their relationship.
(He thinks. Probably.
To be perfectly honest, it's really quite hard.)
So the chips have been falling without any particular guidance, and even if the whole world saw what happened on the ice after that free skate, at least he hasn't tossed more fuel on the fire.
... Well, not a lot, anyway. Not nearly as much as he normally would.
It's all in the pursuit of the Rostelecom gold, anyway, and most nights they've been too tired to do much more than scroll through their various feeds, but that doesn't mean he hasn't had it all on his mind. On the ice, it's been all work, drilling technique and style, but off ––
He's really not sure how he made it through those days and nights before he couldn't just shift forward, like now, and press a gentle kiss to Yuri's mouth.
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There's that rumble of pressed agreement from Victor, and Yuri nearly frowns or sighs, not even settled on which, one or the other, because he knows he should have perhaps done more. Even if it only was a few minutes wasted. But Victor doesn't move, in fact, to let him shuffle himself off and the bed and across the room. Doesn't lift his hand from the side of Yuri's face, gentle at the edge of his hair still. Staring at him. Giving him, after another second, a reprieve from his one reaction. In a minute.
It's not the first time he's heard those words, and whether he think each time might be the last, the last one wasn't and Victor is saying it again. Not with his face pressed to something new and delightful, needing to know everything about it, while Yuri is trying to remind him when they need to get home, or that they were doing something, heading somewhere, had someone waiting. But he's not mesmerized about some in a window, across a room, on a plate, etc.
It's just Yuri he's staring at it, and Yuri can't help the way his mouth tremulously tries toward a smile.
Not that there is long for that smile to sit, shy and building, a trill of warmth behind his breastbone, before Victor leans in closer to him instead. Always just a little surprising, but something about where they are, there somewhere under that a little confusingly a small windfall of relieving, too. He doesn't think about whether to kiss Victor back. That part having sunk in like taking a breath. Almost effortless, both calming and nothing really, entirely, like calming.
This close though, Victor smells a little like winter they'd only just been walking around in not too long ago. Like he dragged it in with him, like it hadn't wanted to let go of him either. Snow and something else Yuri can't quite place here, that's completely different from the same season they just left in Shanghai, and back home. There's a soft hum of sound and Yuri can't help that he opens his eyes when it breaks. He's not sure he'll ever have enough time to get used to Victor this close, and how beautiful he really is.
That somehow, someway, for however long or short it lasts, it's still his another few more minutes.
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'You're not babysitting me here.' Yuri's sulky tone is genuine enough. 'Anyway, Coach Yakov wanted me to find you and Lilia. I saw her over that way a few minutes ago, so I came to get you first.'
'Fine, fine.' Mila finally has her own expression under control, and she slips her arm through Yuri's, as if she's taking him in hand like a responsible older sister figure should. Yuri huffs under his breath, but doesn't pull away from her. 'Will you excuse us, please?' she says to the man, giving him an apologetic smile that would never pass as sincere to anyone from the Sports Champions Club. 'It was very nice talking to you. I hope you'll enjoy the skating -- we appreciate your support.'
'Yes, er, certainly.' There's really nothing else that the man can say at this point. But there's a bit of a pause before he adds, his gaze darting between Mila and Yuri, 'Best of luck to you...ah, to both of you.'
As they turn to leave, Yuri manages to catch the man's eye, and gives him a look that leaves nothing to the imagination: She can kick the literal shit out of you, you sick fuck. Don't think that I wouldn't do the same if I could.
Once they've made it a respectable distance away from anyone who might have been in earshot of their previous conversation, Mila chortles softly and bumps Yuri's side with her hip. 'Yuri Plisetsky, you are the worst,' she says, bright and fond, with a real smile this time. 'Quad axel. Whatever made you come up with that one?'
'Just forget about it, Baba.' Now that it's over and they don't have to deal with that creep anymore, there's no point in talking about it, is there? Or such is Yuri's opinion on the matter. 'Yakov's with Georgi somewhere; Lilia's over this way.'
(And for once, Mila doesn't press him further. But her arm tightens in another little squeeze, as the two of them make their way over to Lilia and the women who are chatting with her.)
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It's just that it's difficult to remember why it's true when Yuri is making that small, soft sound against his mouth, and opening his eyes slow and relaxed to watch him with that expression on his face that Victor hasn't quite been able to pin down or interpret over the last five days. It's not quite the way Yuri watches him, intent and focused, when he's on the ice showing him how a certain part of the program goes, and it isn't really the same as the surprised uncertainty from those first few months in Hasetsu. It seems to be something else altogether, but similar to both.
He enjoys it, whatever it might be. Yuri's attention, and Yuri's faint smiles, and the way Yuri has stopped stiffening or flinching when Victor leans in close to him. The hesitation that had been in his kisses only days ago is already almost entirely gone.
It's hard to remember why he should be responsible, when Victor has never been so happy.
Well, it isn't as if they don't have some time tonight, before they have to sleep. Jet lag will get Yuri sooner rather than later, and tomorrow will be a non-stop rush as soon as their alarm goes off, but it would be a shame to pass up the chance to steal a few moments, here and there, in this last hectic weekend before they go back to Hasetsu. Even then, they'll have to focus on the Grand Prix Final, if Yuri's going to be able to peak at precisely the right time.
Who could blame him for wanting to take this chance?
(How could anyone question why he would give up his whole life, put his career on hold, for this? Isn't it obvious?)
Thumb moving lightly over Yuri's hair. Idle, gentle strokes back and forth, just to feel how smooth it is, how warm Yuri is beneath his hand. "What do you think of Moscow so far?"
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The way Victor's hair collects against the bridge of his nose on his side, sometimes, but not always staying back even when moved. The way Victor looks at him, out if those too summer sea-sun blue eyes, tingling all the way to his toes. The way Victor smiles, almost the same smile as when Yuri finally gets something right they've been working on forever. Pride, and pleasure, and something ... else. That happens only here. Something soft and yet strikingly intense.
Yuri's eyelids flicker almost closed, just for the beat of part of a second, when Victor's finger starts stroking his hair, sending a shiver down his neck, through his shoulders and part of his back. The question that happens at the same time did make him a little speculative at least. Thinking over the blur of everything he'd seen and done since the plane touched down in the airport he'd very obviously still get the name of wrong.
"The Luzhniki was nice." If the Small Sport Arena was nothing like its name, seeming nothing like small from the outside, with its grand columns, and wouldn't seem small at all tomorrow. Not when it was filled with more than eight thousand people, cheering and screaming and going so quiet it would feel like you couldn't miss the hiss of blades on ice even.
"I'm not sure I knew what to expect," might be dithering. He has looked, and some he hasn't, because he has Victor is home, or at least the next best thing to home. He hadn't expected the advertisement he'd caught a glimpse of, but he should have. Still his brow crinkled and he searched for something that wasn't those words. "The really tall buildings in the middle? It's almost like they seem out of place."
Wait. That probably sounded rude. Which wasn't his point. Just that the gleaming glass structures stuck out.
"Like-" Yuri pursed his lips. "-shining gods looking down on the rest of the city so much further down all around them."
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The two women she had been speaking to are sisters, one of whom is married to a Rostelecom marketing director and the other of whom is a doctor at a Moscow hospital. Both are avid fans of the ballet, and consequently are eager to see Lilia Baranovskaya's choreography on the ice. Even after the interruption for introductions, their conversation quickly falls back into ballet talk...which comes as a strange sort of relief to Yuri. After months of all but living in a dance studio, it's easy enough to discuss turnout and tours en l'air with them, or to listen quietly when Mila talks about her own programs and the extra focus she'd put on center work in the studio in preparation for her jump combinations this season. In this overheated, overcrowded room, it feels good to have something to think about that isn't his own performance, the one he's doing right now or the ones he'll have to do this weekend.
(Until other thoughts start to trickle in, sending his mind in other directions. Did his grandfather go home and do the stretches that he was supposed to do for his back? Did he need to take a painkiller? They don't go down well on an empty stomach, but maybe there was a pirozhok or two left over for him to eat with them. And if he can get a good night's sleep....)
The moment of faint respite doesn't last nearly long enough; conscious of how long the conversation has lasted, the women make as if to excuse themselves. One of them, the Rostelecom director's wife, almost shyly asks for Lilia's autograph, and her sister encourages Yuri and Mila to sign as well. It's better than being chased through Sheremetyevo for a selfie, at least, so Yuri tries to make his signature a little neater than usual when he signs the little notebook that the woman holds out to him.
'Not much longer now,' Lilia says to them, once they've all shaken hands with the women again and parted ways with well wishes and thanks. 'You'll need to stretch before bed.' She glances at Yuri. 'Did Yakov tell you where he would meet us?'
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Japan has its fair share of old cities and buildings, but the distinction between them never seems quite as abrupt as it does here. Perhaps they simply have better city planners –– although it's not a theory he'd want to mention in front of Yurio, whose Moscow roots are a source of pride.
Except thinking about Yurio makes him feel uncomfortable, so he pushes past the thought without mentioning it aloud. "I wish I knew it better, so I could make sure you see the best it has to offer when we're finished with the competition ... but we'll just have to make do."
He isn't the best tour guide available, but he can at least promise to be a dedicated one. That's a thought he doesn't mind, and it makes him smile as he leans forward to kiss Yuri again, before pulling back with purpose, letting go of Yuri's shoulder and pushing himself back and up towards sitting, aiming to get off the bed entirely. "But until then, we have to focus on your programs. Let's go through your things now, so you can get to bed and get a good night's sleep before morning. We'll be up early for breakfast and practice, so I want you to be ready to go."
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Which didn't stop the alternative from drilling up, in whispered refrain in his head. Even with Victor's hand coast to his shoulder, making him so aware of those fingers, and the curl of that hand, and Victor's expression. None of that stopped the parallel idea of the opposite side. Not that they ever had entirely, before now and Russia and less than a day until, but now it took root with a solid image to back it.
Yurio staring straight forward at the elevator doors, not even deigning to look at him, saying that he'd beat Yuri and he'd take Victor back once he had. The other side of two days, and the two promises waiting there, taking root, with definitive shape and words in well-known voices, each as certain as the other. Digging themselves into his bones, spine and ribs and everything there was of him there to grasp. Each newly focused upon and realized inch of him as Victor's fingers coasted over his shirt and shoulder.
Yuri medals, and they go skating.
Yuri doesn't, and Victor leaves with Yurio.
Cemented with another quick kiss, like a seal, before Victor is pushing himself up and into motion, and Yuri knows he has to go with it. Picking up his phone and pushing himself up to follow Victor. He scoots off the opposite side of the bed from Victor, his other hand rubbing at his face, trying to push his thoughts back, and goes to plug his phone in. It could charge while they went about what they have to do. "Okay."
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Lilia scans the sea of heads around her, then looks back at the two skaters. Yuri is clearly fading fast, remaining upright only through some combination of determination and spite, and even Mila has just had to stifle a yawn against the back of her hand. These events, however necessary they may be for ensuring that the sponsors feel that they are getting their money's worth, always go on for too long. After enough alcohol, any sensible and useful conversation devolves into the same gossip and jokes that make the rounds year after year. If they are to dispel the smiling, silver-haired ghost in the room, it would not do to leave too early...but Mila's yawn has just made Yuri fight back a yawn as well, and that decides it for her.
'Head over to the doors that lead to the hallway,' she tells them. 'I will find Yakov and let him know that the three of us will be leaving, with or without him and Georgi.'
Fucking finally, Yuri's expression says, though around Lilia he would never voice something like that aloud. He starts to turn to go, but when Mila doesn't follow immediately he pauses, and tugs on the end of her wrap. 'Are we doing this thing or what?' he says wearily, holding out his arm for her to take.
Mila presses her lips together to hide her surprise. Yuri must be exhausted for him to make an offer like that, with no outside motive or prompting. Still, he'd be mortified and withdraw it in an instant if she pointed it out to tease him about it, so she accepts his arm without comment. 'We'll wait for you just outside the door, Lilia, if that's all right -- it's a little too warm in here.'
Lilia pauses for a moment to watch them leave, her gaze lingering on Yuri's retreating back until she is confident that no one will hinder their departure. From what she has observed this evening (and will mention when she compares notes with her ex-husband later), the general opinion on Yuri is favourable -- a vague, cautious, guarded sort of favour, but favour nonetheless.
(Yuri Plisetsky's not approachable in the same way that Viktor Nikiforov is, of course. Not nearly so ready with a smile or a laugh, a cheerful word or an attentive ear, or that casual charm that any marketing team would kill to have as the face of their product. He apparently has a youthful, dedicated fan-following on the Internet, but he's by no means a proven attraction either on or off the ice. But for someone so young, the boy's clearly got plenty of fire in him -- by this point, most everyone in the room knows that he'd given Feltsman the slip and stalked Nikiforov to Japan of his own accord in a white-hot rage earlier in the year -- and among those who have heard about the confrontation in the lobby, in this crowd of old Muscovites there's more than a bit of pride at the thought of one of their own going toe-to-toe with someone from the St. Petersburg set and not backing down. Consensus seems to say that if Feltsman thinks that the kid's good enough to have a fighting chance on the senior circuit before he's even old enough to shave, there's no reason not to watch him tomorrow.)
The rest will be in Yuri's hands on the ice this weekend.
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While Yuri's checking his gear, then, he sorts through his luggage for his the small but stylish black case containing his toothbrush and accompanying accessories, and tugs out a soft black shirt and light pants to wear as pajamas. It feels strange to be self-conscious around Yuri –– only last week he would have thought nothing of stripping down where he stands to change, or even just sleeping in briefs, as usual –– but if anything, the shift in their relationship has left Yuri looking even more awkward about exposed skin. Victor's, specifically, followed closely by his own.
Which is not to say Victor feels any sort of shame in tugging his shirt over his head to replace it with the black one, or in toeing off his shoes, tugging off his socks, and shedding his casual trousers for the sleep pants, but it does niggle at him in a way he isn't used to. How he can still be himself, while making sure Yuri isn't uncomfortable. Why would he have to change how he does everything, or start thinking about what is or isn't appropriate, when the only thing that's changed is Yuri's knowledge?
It feels changed. He's not sure he likes it, but he also isn't used to changing in the bathroom like he might be ashamed of who sees him.
(They're just going to have to figure out the best options available, he supposes.)
At any rate, it doesn't take him long, and Yuri is busy with his gear, so he lays his clothes on top of his luggage to fold later, before disappearing into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, chatting along the way. "Traveling this much always leaves me feeling so strange! At least we're getting it done one right after another, we don't have to wait weeks and weeks between competitions. Maybe it's better to get them both out of the way together."
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His hands are careful and studied, even if there might have been a moment he got momentarily distracted. Eyes mostly on the slippery black eel of fabric in his lap. But. Also, Victor not far to his side changing, and the faint tightness deep at the bottom of his spine, and his stomach. That urge to just let his gaze slip to the side, even still fixed on his lap. Or. Even. To just look up and over. Even if maybe he shouldn't, or maybe because he could, because Victor has said that some many times about so many things, he just can, all of it gummed up warmer toward his ears.
At least his fingers move deftly trained, even without all of his thoughts behind them. Checking at the sturdiness of all the fastenings. Every sewn and situated piece. Every added gem. Testing every seam in cloth and mesh and skirt, for any loose string or give more than it should be in any place. Even his now -- or, perhaps, just, his for now -- he can't help but hold a reverence for it. Tomorrow he won't have time to think about it like this. There will be too much else.
It's another part of Victor's legacy passed on to him. His costume, and all of his training. Extended even further into the flip this week. He'll never be Victor, and maybe this winter is the first time he's thought of that, even occasionally, as though it weren't a cutting failure. He doesn't want to be. When he can think clearly, he knows he doesn't want to be. A copy. To be seen as anything or anyone else.
Pulling it back on a hanger. It's half of his own age, and it still makes him feel lucky just looking at it.
Makes him feel half his age again, fingers pressed to a grainy tv, in awe of its contrast against the ice.
But something completely else, too. Something that's a heated chase and all of him, and only him, in motion.
He doesn't have to be Victor, if he can continue to show Victor that it is worth his time, that he can continue to reach higher.
That he can show the world that he's was worth it. Being chosen. Trained. That's what he needs to make them see tomorrow.
Yuri blinked, at the words, and looked toward the wall, and the light coming from the bathroom where Victor had gone and water was running. He zipped the bag back up slowly, making sure not to catch anything. Then, stood back up to walk back toward the closet. He could change out the one for his skates next.
"I would have thought you'd be used to it." Victor, of all people. Used it. Possibly barely noticing it.
This had been his life. Every year, and every competition, of every season, for near long as Yuri could count.
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'Ready for your signature quad axel?' she asks, and smiles at the heavy-lidded glare that Yuri gives her in response. 'Really, you did just fine tonight. You'll do fine tomorrow, too.'
'Mmph.' Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, squinting up at the ceiling. He'd like people to stop telling him that he'll do fine. That's not what he's here for. He here's to win the gold medal, to utterly crush the pig and Viktor, and to humiliate that prick JJ, in that order. (The last two have been battling it out for second and third place in his personal list of priorities all week, but this afternoon officially downgraded that asshole Canadian to the bronze medal slot.) Everything else is just noise.
It isn't long before Lilia appears, without Georgi. Hardly a surprise; he's not skating tomorrow, and with the Russian Nationals coming up at the end of December it's important for him to remain visible to the skating federation and the sponsors until they're all put on parade again at Sochi. But Lilia seems content enough to leave both him and Yakov behind, and so Yuri follows her and Mila to the lifts, fighting the urge to yank off his necktie and loosen the top button of his shirt. (It's feeling a little tight in the shoulders...and that's not a good sign if it means that he's starting to outgrow it.) On their floor, Yuri's room is the first they pass by, and Mila gives him a little wink of goodnight wishes as Lilia pauses, and says, 'Five minutes.'
The room is blissfully dim and quiet, with only the reflected glitter of the Moscow night sky through the window providing any external light. Even before the door can shut all the way, Yuri is sprawled face-down diagonally on the bed with one foot hanging off the end and his face half-mashed into a pillow, muffling his loud groan of frustration and exhaustion. Tempting as it is to simply not move ever again, when Lilia says five minutes you can set your watch by it, so after perhaps another half-minute of his boneless flop he lets out a series of grunts as he wriggles enough to first kick off his shoes and then push himself back to his feet.
The suit and tie come off immediately, everything deposited in a heap on the room's desk chair, and Yuri heads for the bathroom. He doesn't even bother with a glass, but turns on the faucet and bends down to drink directly from the tap, the rush of cool water dripping down his face as it washes the last traces of sour cherry juice from his mouth. Rinse, swish, gargle, and spit, not once but twice, and then he splashes some more water on his face and gropes for a towel. By the time that Lilia knocks on his door with a folded exercise mat under her arm, Yuri has changed into sleep clothes, devoured one of his two remaining pirozhki in three massive bites, and pulled his costumes and skates out for inspection.
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There are times when he wonders how well he actually knows St. Petersburg, spending weeks and months in the Sports Champions Club training, only to jet off to Barcelona, Tokyo, Helsinki. The season was spent traveling, until he knew these old hotels better than his own apartment, Maccachin left behind to be walked by a sitter or penned up in a kennel. Living out of a suitcase had never seemed like an inconvenience to him: as long as he had his skates and his costumes and a rink to borrow or rent for a few hours, he was fine. Had it always left him feeling this grimy and tired, or is this something new?
Or is it just being in Moscow?
His reflection in the hotel mirror doesn't look all that different from the one he remembers from last year, but something has changed, whether he can see it or not. Even during the summer breaks, he used to travel: sometimes on his own, sometimes with friends, sometimes with traveling shows, sometimes just for fun. Maybe it's just that this is the first year in more than he can count that he feels like he has something to leave behind.
Still, his voice is cheerful, if muffled beneath the towel he's using to pat his face dry, before he sticks his head out from the door to wink at Yuri. "Maybe I'm just getting old."
From Yurio, it would be a sullen, growled aside, like a cat swiping at someone who was just walking by, and he would find it annoying. (And has.) Yuri would probably find it too rude a thing to suggest, and if it slipped out, he'd turn red and bow his head repeatedly until he was laughed off and forgiven.
Maybe it is true, mused as he turns back to the mirror to finish his toilet. His knees and back don't ache like Yakov's, but they're getting to be a little stiff on cold mornings. The shoulder he'd hurt years ago occasionally reminds him it isn't as flexible as it used to be.
And in the midst of traveling, he's already thinking about returning to Hasetsu.
Well, it probably has more to do with being in Moscow than anything else –– he's looking forward to being in Barcelona again. "How does everything look?"
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Yuri rolled his eyes. Maybe from anyone else it would sound like an actual complaint and concern. But anyone else wouldn't be sticking their head out the bathroom door, smiling and winking while making that suggestion. Sure, Victor is getting well into the years where skaters did stop, but Yuri's been on the ice with Victor more days of every week than not. There's nothing he seems to be even close to incapable of doing just as well as he was doing right before he arrived in Japan.
That's Victor, too. It always has been. Blowing away every expectation and human restriction for ice skating since he started. Victor not ending up back on the ice, breaking all of his records again as he went on surprising the world, seemed a nearly impossible thought to more than joke about like this. Yuri couldn't even begin to imagine it. It would be a great sadness and loss for the whole sport, and Victor. He couldn't really imagine Victor without it, either. Which tugs at the edge of his thoughts, twisting another new path to send him down.
He's caught up in that thought when Victor asks about his checks. "Everything is good. No tears, and no rust."
A reflection on both of things he'd already looked over, even as he was still completing the second one.
His blades were still sharp from the need for them to be as grippable on the ice as possible during all the flip training, but sometime next week he'd probably need them resharpened again. Either way, win or lose, he'll be home by that time and they'll go into the hands of people he can trust with the task and not someone he doesn't know and doesn't really want holding the chances of giving him more reasons to suffer in a performance. He was bad enough at that, for and against himself, already.
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'Your costumes?' Lilia says, once they're finished and the mat is set to one side. Without a word, Yuri goes to look them over as Lilia shakes out and folds his discarded suit -- and again, it's the routine that he knows he's learning, being responsible for examining seams and hems and decorative pieces, that's meant to enforce a calm discipline over his fragmented thoughts. Everything seems to be in order for both Agape and Allegro, so he turns to check his skates. He'd had them sharpened in St. Petersburg, tested the critical R.O.H. with a run-through of all his jumps for both programs; they should be in ideal shape for tomorrow. Both he and Mila have spare sets of pre-sharpened blades secured in one of Yakov's bags, just in case. But he examines the leather and the laces, one final review, and gives them a quick buff with a soft cloth before he wraps them up again for transport.
(Not so different from Lilia's own years of breaking in and maintaining pair after pair of pointe shoes, sewing on the ribbons and loosening the shanks and scoring the soles with a sharp knife. Even though Yuri would never dance en pointe, she had still walked him through the practice as an essential part of a prima's training -- and he'd followed it all with rapt attention, trying to absorb as much of it as he could.)
He packs his bag for the morning, warm-up clothes and water bottle and everything he'll need. Lilia slips the Agape costume into a waterproof garment bag to keep it clean, and as she hands it to Yuri it's time for the final instructions of the evening. 'No more than ten minutes on your phone tonight,' she says, though from the way Yuri's eyelids are drooping she suspects that he won't even bother with that much time. 'Listen to quiet music only -- and not your program pieces. Drink two glasses of water before you sleep, and have one more glass as soon as you wake up. Do you need anything else?'
Yuri shakes his head. The evening routine has helped clear his head somewhat, but the events of the day have left him feeling like a wrung-out washcloth. All he needs right now is the last of his grandfather's pirozhki and eight hours of not having to think about anything. 'Good night, Lilia,' he says, a tired but polite routine of its own. 'Thank you for your help.'
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There's no gear emergency they aren't prepared for – there's that sewing kit, and extra blades and laces – but it's nice to know there's nothing they have to fix tonight. Yuri can just relax: take a hot bath, if he likes, or do some stretching or yoga, or just go to bed. Whatever works best for him: Victor's learned he can usually trust Yuri to do what needs to be done without nagging at him too much, so long as Yuri isn't being swallowed up by his own thoughts and anxieties.
In those cases, he usually needs Victor to distract him, but when Victor studies him as he flicks the bathroom light off and heads back into the room, he looks alright. There's no tapping heel or bouncing knee, no distant stare, no pinched crease tucking between his eyebrows. Getting here early enough for Yuri to walk around and loosen up was probably a good move. "Go brush your teeth – I'll put these back."
Nodding to the costume and skates, and already reaching for them, resisting the urge to worry around Yuri like a mother hen, when Yuri's already told him that his bruised hip and sore muscles are fine. He'll need to stretch them out well in the morning, and maybe have a few knots worked out, but Victor isn't going to interrogate him the way Yakov would, an iron, unyielding stare that felt like it bore into his very soul.
He doesn't love settling back on his own bed, a bare foot of space away from Yuri's but feeling too far even at that distance, but that's for the best, too. What Yuri needs tonight, and tomorrow, is sleep, and Victor knows himself too well to believe that all his good intentions would survive longer than the first few minutes of crawling into that other bed.
So he doesn't.
(Even if he considers pushing them a little closer together.)
Besides, he's tired, too, and when Yuri's slipped into bed, and he's said his goodnights and hit the lights, there are only a few moments of gratitude for the quiet dark and the warm bed and the soft sound of Yuri breathing before he's slipped away from them all.
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It's not quite to sheepish. This backward admission that he knows it did look rather like he'd done nothing since arriving, when Victor had made it, and he had done close enough to that in truth. But he had managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before giving into the urge to just fall down and do nothing before Victor had shown back up. His bathroom bag still sitting there on the counter, probably not far from where Victor would have left his own.
Yuri went to his rolling bag, overlooking the rest. Making sure the two double copies of each of his music pieces were there, from being burned newly again two days ago. The backup cable for the sound system in case of further emergency from there. Double checked the pockets with compartmented pockets of extra laces, extra soakers, extra performance tights. The waterproof plastic document folder with copies of the papers covering all times for the next day for all those competing. His entry confirmation. His badge. Another section with water, juice, and snacks.
Checking the insides of his guards for any stray build up that might touch his blades while walking or after skating, and wiped down the space they slipped into even without anything apparent to the naked eye. It wouldn't be visible until it was too late. One vanity bag for make up for against blinding spotlights, one for the extra product for his hair. It's all there. Everything where it's all supposed to be. His hands restless when they become still with nothing else he needs to be extra sure is in the bag.
He doesn't opt for anything even partially strenuous, though he eyes his rolled up mat and considers pulling it out.
He's already worked his body for the last four days harder than any coach, short of Victor -- Victor Nikiforov, who never saw a record he couldn't smash yet, a surprise he couldn't give -- would have agreed to in any amount. Not the day after coming off a competition at this level, and not right up to the day before going right back into one. He shouldn't have, and yet they had. He wouldn't take it back. He knew and he'd chosen, and Victor had been right there with him in it. From the first second, when he accidentally blurted those words, in the Kiss and Cry in China.
He was proud of it and grateful. Even uncertain of capability. There wasn't any regret in the bundle of nerves around staring at the mat.
None of these four days should have been spent as hard, as many hours, over and over and over, on something harder than he was already capable of and well into performing. He wouldn't take them back, but he knows better than to push it even more. Not this far into already pushing too hard, not this close to pushing just as hard and even harder on the ice tomorrow. It's a fine line between doing too much, and not being able to come out strong enough tomorrow.
Even if it's starting to bite outward from his bones, and inward at his stomach. Less than twenty-four hours. He's either ready or isn't. He either tries for that flip again or he doesn't. He either makes it or he goes home for good. He either keeps Victor are his side, or he loses him entirely. There's a sigh out of his nose, leaving his mouth closed, loosening his shoulders and pushing them right back down before he zips everything up.
From there he grabs his headphones, from their compartment on the outside and turns back to Victor on his bed, watching him. Distant space and sometimes not entirely readable expression, though Yuri can see the faintest shape of concern and maybe else weighing on that face. There's the press of his mouth before he finds his phone and comes back to his bed, slipping into his covers. He doesn't open a browser or any app for social media, instead going to his music. There's a temptation to listen to his music, no matter how well he knows it, but he knows he shouldn't do that either.
Instead, he opens the playlist he'd been using earlier this year, for pieces he'd been picking from before Ketty had gotten back to him and Yuri on Ice had been made. He settles on a Dvorak piece in minor and puts in one earbud. The one on the other side from where Victor is laying. He closes his eyes as the symphony opened and then vanished to give way to violin of the Op. 53 start.
There was a reason it was still considered one of the, if not the very, best violin concerti of all time.
It's not sleeping, but he doesn't expect sleep this fast and he knows himself well enough to know he probably won't sleep well regardless of whether it takes him fast or slow. Though Victor so very many feet away does mean it'll probably be long before it was last time. There's a strange pang under that and maybe he looks at the other bed through the dark, with the strange urge to reach out, and make sure it's real. The bed. Or Victor.
Or to touch Victor. Not that he moves, and he possibly wants to put his head under his pillow for the thought.
Instead, he listens to the violin take over the whole piece again, sharp, clear draws, and starts counting backward. Cementing the timetable in his head, over and over, to the notes. This is when he starts skating. This is when he does his on-ice six minute warm up. This is when he needs to put his boots on to have the leather warm enough for his on-ice warm-up. This is when he'll start his off-ice warmup. This is when they go to the Luzhniki.
This is when he gets a shower and dressed. This is when they eat. This is when he'll do the lion share of his warm up without skaters, or coaches, or judgment announcements as a distraction. This is when he wakes up in the morning. This is where he wakes up two or three times, in a sweat, from his subconscious fears, biting into soft skin with no control, no way to press them back. Before that, somewhere, in the dark, this is when he falls asleep to start the list happening.
Though, he goes over it a number of times, before all of that does finally start with the falling asleep.
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(Before Skate Canada, he'd been so keyed up that he'd barely slept the night before the short program. The contrast between that night and tonight couldn't be more different.)
Two glasses of water before bed, Lilia had said, so he wanders back into the bathroom and fills a glass of water, then downs the whole thing right there at the sink. He refills the glass and carries it out of the bathroom and over to the desk, where the last pirozhok is waiting in its grease-spotted paper bag. He can deal with a few crumbs in the sheets, so he takes the bag and the glass and sits down on the bedcovers, his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him as he takes the first bite.
Tomorrow. Agape. Telling his story on the ice, the search for that unconditional love that supports and soothes and strengthens. That gives freely, wholeheartedly, and doesn't ask for anything in return. That washes away doubts and fears. That makes people want to be better than they are. He'd tried to show it as best he could at Skate Canada, but it hadn't been quite enough then. This time, it will all be different.
I hope you're sleeping well tonight, Dedka. Yuri takes another bite, chewing slowly to make the moment last as long as possible. I'll show my love for everything you've done for me, everything you mean to me. You'll see how strong I've become...and this is only the beginning, I promise you. So please --
Suddenly, inexplicably, his eyes are burning again, and he lets out an irritated noise as he scrubs at them with the back of the hand that isn't holding the pirozhok. He really should just go to bed already, or his head will start throbbing with the effort of staying awake.
The glass of water helps wash down the last two bites, and Yuri heads back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and refill the water glass for a third and final time. Once he's done and back in bed, he checks his alarms and plugs in his phone to charge overnight -- and after a beat of hesitation, he shuts down his music player and taps open his white noise app. Three pre-selected sound settings pop up: a waterfall, an ocean at night, and a rainstorm.
In the darkness of his hotel room, the last thing he hears as he sinks into sleep is the cold, clear rush of falling water.