Moscow: Rostelecom Cup, GPF Qualifer Short Program (1.08)

[yuri_plisetsky]

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.

Comments

[theglassheart]

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.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Katsudon is standing in the middle of the lobby like he's been turned to stone -- or ice, more likely, because he doesn't seem to notice or care that he's right in front of the doors, and if anyone goes in or out he'll be blasted in the face with the cruel cold of a Moscow winter night. And it doesn't take Yuri more than a second to figure out that if Katsudon is here in the lobby by himself, that means that Viktor is gone. Left. On his way back to Japan, to be there for his dog.

Which means that Katsudon is on his own.

But it's the expression on his face that makes Yuri freeze where he stands, because...because it's wrong. That's the only word he can think of to describe how strongly every gut instinct he has rebels against it, that desolate emptiness that's too sharp for grief and too numb for loss. It's wrong in a way that strikes through and erases and rewrites something deep inside of Yuri's core, and suddenly every other priority he has at this moment pales in comparison to the overwhelming need to do something, anything, that will take that look off Yuuri Katsuki's face.

In his pockets, his hands clench into fists. Or rather, one hand clenches into a fist, and the other hand tightens around the thin piece of plastic he'd been toying with not a moment ago: his room keycard.

At first, it's another thought to rebel against. He can't drag Katsudon back to his own room. There's nothing for them there but a window and three walls and a bed; nothing that could make that (wrong) look go away. And there's really nothing for them outside the hotel, either, out in the cold and the snow that would only solidify that frost in their hearts. There's no possible escape, inside or outside, because they're still --

(we're still in Shanghai)

-- and that's when everything slams into place, as impossibly possible as a quad axel. He knows where they can go. All he needs is a door to get them there, and he has the key to that door right in his hand.

It'll work. It has to work. He'll make it work. He's kicked his way through plenty of doors before; this one won't be any different. And he'll kick Katsudon through this one, too, if he has to. Because he has to.

Yuri's left hand is still clenched around his keycard, but he takes his right hand out of his pocket and uses it to flip his hood back and away from his face as he stalks across the lobby with his gaze locked on his prey. He doesn't call out or try to get Katsudon's attention from a distance, because there's no point in wasting his breath or his strength. Instead, he steps right up and plants himself in front of Katsudon, glaring up at him with an near-feverish intensity in his eyes.

'Katsudon.' It's not Yakov's commanding bark, but it has an authority of its own. If he has to be the one making decisions for both of them, to get them where they need to be, he can't falter in this. 'You're coming with me. Right now.'

[theglassheart]

It's a washing, sloshing sea of everything, in between the snow and the darkness, when that familiar teenage snarl and Yurio's face appear between Yuri and the door. Enough of a confused surprise, and an onslaught attack he'd expected earlier, in a completely different hall, that Yuri startles and sways slightly in both catching himself and his equilibrium in the seconds after it.

Yurio's stereotypical teenage glower makes everything else focus down, and the why could be any reason.

The why for the reason Yurio is here, or talking to him, or looking at him the same way he has all day, but Yuri feels it mostly through too much. Doesn't really feel it at all. A jangle close and distance at once. Not beyond that first blush of shocked startlement. He doesn't argue -- though his gaze darts back to the door and the dark, when the cab and Victor aren't, before back again -- and it could be Yakov or Lilia wants something. Victor said to listen. Victor trusts Yakov.

(Victor's gone.)

He's not sure how connected and even if his shoulder can droop, but Yuri turns from the door.

[yuri_plisetsky]

It's like watching someone try to walk underwater. Slow and heavy, barely coordinated. No real understanding in his face of anything that's going on, like he can't even manage enough of a reaction to be surprised. The Star Hotel could be on fire and actively burning down around them, and he probably wouldn't even blink.

Fuck it. Whatever. If Yuri has to think for both of them, too, he can do that.

Admittedly, he knows he should be more patient, more considerate, in how he handles this next part of his plan, but he's hyperaware of everyone in the lobby -- the front desk clerks, the scattered other guests, people who can identify their team jackets and might be able to figure out who they are if they don't know already. Another skater, another coach, another reporter could walk by any minute. Already they're starting to attract attention, heads turning to look at them, remnants of interest that could develop into something Yuri can't fully trust himself to deal with in a way that doesn't involve creative combinations of Russian and English expletives. So he doesn't try to take Katsudon by the wrist or arm and drag him along; instead, he gets a hand behind him to steer him from the back, like a life-size puppet with a pork cutlet brain, and propel him across the lobby.

'We're getting out of here,' he says, low and tight, as they move. 'Just keep your mouth shut and walk.'

(He probably doesn't need to say that much -- right now Katsudon doesn't look like he knows what words are, let alone how to make them come out of his mouth -- but the last thing he needs is to try to come up with explanations for where they're going.)

The ride up seems to take a lot less time than the ride down. Yuri has his card out and ready, his face set with concentration, as he pushes Katsudon down the corridor. By the time they reach the door to his room, he's pulled up a picture in his mind's eye...of opening the door to his bedroom in St. Petersburg and finding something more than his bed and his cat on the opposite side. As he reaches around to slide the card into the reader, and the little LED light flashes red-red-red and then green, his mind is a single point of focus: Please. Please be there.

And when he opens the door, it is.