fivetimechamp: by me (struck with inspiration)
Виктор Никифоров ([personal profile] fivetimechamp) wrote2017-03-23 12:28 pm

November 14-15, 2014 - Between Moscow and Tokyo

 It's a much longer plane ride, this way.

(It's actually an hour less to go east from Moscow to Tokyo than the other way around, but if anyone told Victor right now that he's on the shorter flight, he'd call them a liar, and to their face, no less.)

In the end, it was faster to get a direct flight to Tokyo and take a commuter flight from there to KMJ than to Kumamoto directly: he couldn't stand one lay-over, let alone two. If nine and a half hours (and then a wait, and another two, and then the time it will take to get to Hasetsu from Kumamoto) seems unbearable, fifteen would have driven him to madness.

Not that it doesn't seem like he'll be heading that way soon enough, as it is.

It didn't take longer than getting into the taxi outside the hotel to regret leaving, the first moment he'd had a chance to breathe and think since Yuri cornered him in the hall after the interviews ––

(you have to go!)

–– and pushed him out the door.

Or, just stood there, as he left, looking more alone than Victor can bear. Stricken and pale, and stubborn.

(He should never have left. His duty is there. He's a coach, and he'd abandoned his skater. A lover, who'd selfishly left. Yanked Yuri's support out from under him. 

Even if Yuri was the one to tell him to go.)

Yakov will take care of him, Victor knows, but Yakov doesn't know Yuri, and he isn't overly fond of Victor these days, either, and Victor's fingers have been drumming such an anxious tarentella on his thigh that the nice old lady sitting next to him pats his hand gently and tells him there's no need to be afraid of flying.

(Nine hours to go. Plus two. Plus...)

His phone is in his hand, and he keeps checking it, until he remembers he has to actually connect to the inflight wifi in order to get (or send) anything, and once he does, he flounders, thumb hovering over the text box in the thread in his messages with Yuri's name at the top.

(To text anything now would be unbearably selfish. Wouldn't it? Him reaching out for comfort, when what he should be doing is helping Yuri get ready for tomorrow's free skate.

He won't even see it, unless he can find a way to be near a television. It might be over before he even reaches Hasetsu.

He should be there. 
He should be there.
Maybe he really is too inexperienced as a coach.)

Either way, he scrolls through pictures he doesn't really see, and updates he never reads, until a brush against his shoulder makes him jump, and he looks to find the flight attendant offering him a selection of canned sodas, with a smile, but water is all he wants, and when he looks at his watch, it's beginning to turn towards night in Moscow. Close enough that Yuri should be going to bed, and getting some sleep.

Which reminds him, collecting his scattered and shattered thoughts like pieces of a broken toy on the floor, that when he does get in, it will be too early to call Yuri. That if he hears anything during the flight (no texts from Mari yet), it will be the middle of the night in Moscow, and Yuri needs sleep more than he needs to hear from Victor. Tomorrow is important.

(He should be there.)

But he can do this: hit that text box, and write out a few sentences.
Good flight so far
Remember not to eat anything heavy tonight
get some sleep
I'll let you know how things look in the morning
this seat is less co he deletes, along with I'm sor and I know you'll and in the end, he just closes the app with a sigh, to lean his head against the window.

Six hours to go.
theglassheart: By Existentially (I can't connect to)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 06:09 pm (UTC)(link)
Tomorrow will start so early, and he should sleep.

Point One. All the world is darkness here already, has been since late afternoon.
Point Two. He is exhausted. Body from performance, mind from ... everything.
Point Three. Yurio even ordered him to go to bed. To be there on time.

But he lays there. In that unhelpful dark, on his unhelpful bed, with his unhelpful pillow and unhelpful blanket, staring at the perfectly made bed, with its perfectly untouched pillow, across from his. A little closer than it had been when they first arrived. Not too close, but close enough, if he scooted to the edge, and stretched his arm, his hand could lay on the other edge.

He tries, and fails at, not remembering Victor grinning, rebellious and perfect, shameless and innocent in one about it.

No Victor. Victor is on a plane. Because Maccachin is somewhere and Maccahin isn't okay. Victor isn't here, because Victor is where he should be. Is supposed to be. (Where Yuri never could have gone as a competitor when Vicchan passed.) He closes his eyes and breathes in. Out. (He'll be fine.) In. Out. (They've done this for months.) In. Out. (He'll be fine, has to be fine.)

His eyes still half-open, black darkness, the fringe of his black lashes, and he stares there, until his vision is as unfocused from not blinking as it is from not having his glasses on. He doesn't know how long that goes on. Isn't entirely certain if he did or didn't fall asleep (or slip into something that wasn't awake, but wasn't asleep, but wasn't here either, just unfocused and too too heavy).

But he blinks at something disrupting it. A sound, and looks over his shoulder, to see the light from the screen of his phone. Right as it fades off, and he turns himself over finally. Letting his blankets pool around him, as one hair misses his hair and the other gropes for his glasses, before going to pull it off the charger. It's strange that at the same time he sees Victor's name, and something inflates in him suddenly, he's still noting his phone is only half charged.

Yuri still flicks it open, lips pressing, as he takes it back to the bed. Reading them. Once. Twice. Again.
Simple things. Updates. Sensible things. Victor would tell him, if he was here, before tomorrow.

He could put it down, could say nothing. Just keep trying to sleep. Even Victor said to, too. It's a thought. Nebulous and less solid than a breeze. It's not true. But any of the words he might say -- any of his too used okay and yes and I'll try -- slide from him as fast as they register. No face in front of him to demand them into sound. Just the simplified black English text.

He should still say something. So Victor doesn't worry about him on the flight, too. So Victor knows he got it.

It takes another minute. Then.

You should sleep, too.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Why am I here?)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 06:25 pm (UTC)(link)
The sound that cuts the air surprises him, slicing down his spine, before he realizes he laughed at Victor's overdramatic emoticon. He can almost see the face that would come with that. The tone it would come in. Like someone had denied him air, or food, and should placate him instantly.

You can ask them for extras.
theglassheart: By MeBy Me (I will always wish I was worth)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 06:42 pm (UTC)(link)

Well. That's.


He's almost glad Victor isn't here to see it when his face warms instantly.
Just as instantly as he knows he's wrong, and it hurts. So suddenly. Strickenly.

He's not glad. He's not glad Victor isn't here. Even to say things that embaress him.
Things that kept tacky and sticky inside his chest, suddenly gumming up everything.
It doesn't hurt then.

He looks up at Victor's earlier, and his. Not having entirely realized. But it doesn't matter.

Victor isn't here to see him, but he still tucks his head slightly, even curled to the pillow, when he finally finds something to say.
(Something that isn't I miss you, already or-and too. It has only been a few hours. He should do better. Be stronger. Can.)

You do already have two.

He sends but then keeps typing
(though the dots go on a while, as Yuri tries to pick his last word);

But don't tell Yurio he has more competition tonight.
He's already moody.
theglassheart: By Me (We hide our emotions)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 06:55 pm (UTC)(link)
He's not just nervous. He's angry with himself ... that he was hurt. That it showed.

Yuri understands those. Enough that he doesn't consider writing it more than one second.
It's still small. Muddled in the evening. The words. That face. The things Yurio'd said before the end.

I had tea?

Yurio took me.
theglassheart: By Existentially (We discovered gold)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)
They really are. He wrinkles his nose at the caps.
Not a real wince. Not really. But still.

He starts I'm not and stops. Deletes it. Stares at the text box.
He could say he'd order something up, but he doesn't want people. Or food.

He ends up staring too long, cursor line flashing, but without actually typing.
theglassheart: By Me (my soul will rest in your embrace)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-23 07:48 pm (UTC)(link)
Eat something. Go to sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Each of them feels like an order. A very sudden ending.

Everything sinking in his chest, hardening in his center.
He should be hungry. That would be normal. But he isn't. Wasn't.
Doesn't want food. Doesn't want people. He just wants --

But it wipes out. Obliterates. Drowns. Under Victor's next words.

The sudden catch in his chest that forces everything else out.
That only has Victor. Telling him to dream of him.
To close his eyes and believe he's right there.

And he does. Just for a moment. Squeeze his eyes closed.
Squeeze his hand around his phone. The way his heart does.

Opening his eyes the next second. Needing to be able to see it.
For it the be real. The words, if not Victor. Drawing a breath in and starting

Typing I'll tr before pressing back and back and back. Deleting. Then.

I will

Not even realizing until after he presses send, it could go for all of them.
Will. Eventually. But it isn't for them. Nothing else grabs him like that one.
Edited 2017-03-23 19:50 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Until we die)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 01:09 am (UTC)(link)
He does try to sleep, and maybe he's surprised that he sleeps more than he expects to.

There are still dreams that plague him into startling awake. He doesn't make it back to Yuri and Yakov in time, and they left without him. His sister calls to tell him that Maccachin didn't make it, and Victor won't get on the phone or pick his own. He's at the rink, and it's his turn, but he can't go out there, has forgotten everything, from his routine, his training, even how to use his ice skates. He's at the rink, and does remember how to skate, remembers all Victor taught him, and still messes up everything.

That isn't the part that pierces everything with even more exhausted confusion.

Every ime, without fail, without remembering, he turns to find Victor on waking. Same as the night before and the weekend before that. Across the room, and more times than he wants to count, nearby. Next to him. Searching the blanket before remembering and curling up tighter, with a confused sound muffled in his throat and his pillow. That shouldn't be a habit. It's not really. (Yet?) And his tired head, tattered and torn and tearing, nails into anything he manages to hold on to. Finds comfort, pain, confusion, anxiety-laced into.

It's only been days. Not even a week since China. Nothing about that is long enough to be a habit for anything. (Anyone.)
It's not like either of them have ever had to time to think about it. They came right from China to Moscow, from The Cup to Cup.
If he's being even more honest, they haven't been apart, until tonight, for more months than Yuri thought to count.

And it's something else to hold it. Like this. Alone. In the dark. In an empty bed. Before an empty day.

(If he still doesn't know -- the why and how that led to Victor training him -- he's accepted that it's happening, has been, isn't stopping yet. Sometimes long term. Sometimes on a case by case, day by day, competition by competition, basis, depending on his head.

But this?)

He doesn't know where this started. Because it didn't suddenly change six days ago.
He still feels the same way about things. Even if there's a more attached to it.

To Victor and the days, to this slide between constant training and practice, and Victor redefining even closer and more often what Victor being everywhere, all the time means. And he is. Always trying to make Yuri laugh, or smile, or try new things, or to get him talking about everything and anything that can come into Victor's mind.

(And if he's worked very hard at Victor being Victor, the man with an abashed love for his dog, a grueling taskmaster, a forgetful promise-maker, an odd genius, as blindly blunt as he is carelessly physical, and on and on ... it wasn't ever this. This thing. This new-new thing. Where his mind can't stop for a few seconds now and then.

Because this is Victor Nikiforov.

Victor Nikiforov.

Victor Nikiforov.

It's not even the screaming confusion of that name in his ears, drowning his thoughts from months ago. It's this alien thing. Hushed in the whisper of him, as a small child, watching Victor skate the first time. It's that version of him in his beginning teens, all steely dedication, that had him practicing every single routine the senior ever knocked out. It's that voice of him, just making the choice to compete, to train across the world, with a burning fire to get the same stage as his idol.

Victor Nikiforov. Who is his coach. His friend. The first person he's afraid to lose.

Victor Nikiforov. Who touches him. Pulls him in. Curls around him. Kisses him.)

Maybe he'll change his mind. Maybe he'll change his mind about everything. He couldn't stop questioning whether Victor wanted to leave him and coaching entirely only that same number of days ago, knowing he was wrong, but unable to stop thinking it, stop looking for it, and it's the first time Victor's been away from him, in all these days, and all these months, too. Had time to think about things without Yuri or anything Yuri needed to distract him.

It aches. Confused. Wanting. Doubtful. Yearning. It comes and goes. Seconds.
Flickers. Awake, groaning at catching himself, again, and sliding under again.

Somewhere around three he ends up with his phone again. To find the words he couldn't write earlier. He doesn't want to say it in English, and Victor's Japanese is coming along, but it's not his language, and Russian, at least the most important words he's been picking up both from Victor and for getting around this weekend ... and it's Victor's language. He wants to say it that way. His way.

Skipping all of the updates and every feed. Just his translator to find it, and it's easy enough. (Я скучаю по тебе.) Until he reaches the second option (Мне тебя не хватает) with the second meaning, and he can feel the coals rising under his cheekbones. He presses it several times, listening. He says it to himself. To the empty room. To his pillow and phone.

His accent is probably still horrendous and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to say it to Victor, but it might be a number of days, half a week, before he sees him, again. Victor who won't come back to Moscow. Maybe that many days longer won't make it feel foolish, fool hearted, too fast, too big, too much, too soon.

"Мне тебя не хватает," he still whispers,
(hoping for Maccachin, for Victor, eyes closing again)

I missed you.

"Мне тебя не хватает," he whispers,
(hoping for himself, for Yuri, for Yuri's grandfather,
before falling asleep again.)

I need you with me.

For a night that feels like it just won't pass, and won't end -- when the first alarm goes off, phone still in his hand, accidentally smacking it into his forehead trying to flail away from the blaring siren -- it, also, feels like he only just tried to close his eyes the first time, and every first time ever that, and those. He still feels worn, heavy, tired. Strings on his hands, ankles, thoughts. There's nothing new waiting on his phone. Not from Victor. Or Mari. Or his parents.

He pushes himself up. Stopping for a too long moment looking at the still untouched bed. In the dark. Then with the room light on. He huffs out a breath, too loud, louder than he would if Victor were here. Victor would jump on it instantly, even from dead asleep. He rubs his eyes, up across his forehead and then into his hair. He can do this. He can handle all of this. He has to. It's a morning, like every other. He knows the routine. (He can do this.)

Still when the phone rings, not too long later, hair still dripping and towel just being wrapped,
he's out of the bathroom in seconds and back to where he left it on the charger.

He could say he's hoping for any of the four of them, and he is, but he'd be lying, too. Everything in him gives that away when he sees the name flashing next to the green and red buttons to pick up or hang up. Picking it up and ruffling the window curtain, Yuri tried for something calmer that the sudden fight of staccato and rush over his heart.

"It's still dark out." As well as still snowing. Maybe lighter, but any sun was probably still another hour away from them. Or longer. It might just stay bright grey and snowing. But it wasn't even there yet. The dark was still out there, clinging to Moscow the way the night was still clinging to Yuri. The way Yuri's fingers weren't a little too tight on the curtain, clinging for the last second before he'd hear Victor's voice again.
Edited 2017-03-24 01:10 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Me (About Me)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 04:49 am (UTC)(link)
Yuri's eyes almost close for a second. It's not right. It's too far. But it feels like, just for a second, there's nothing more to him than his ear, and the press of the phone against it, and the sound of Victor's voice. Nothing else. No legs. No lungs. No window, or world. Nothing but Victor.

Those new words press against the back of his tongue, caught in his teeth, forgotten until this second, when it feels suddenly truer than in the dark. Victor's voice in his ear. But the empty room, he can feel around him .. the dark frosted window, in front of him... the curtain falling from his fingers, only making it somehow sharper.

How can he miss Victor even more right now? How does that make any sense?

"いえいえ --" Yuri turned back to his bed, shaking his head, even though he didn't need to. "I got up a little while ago."
He could get dressed while talking, but he can wait, too. A few minutes. A while. He does at least find his glasses.

"I wanted to make sure I had enough time to find the buffet downstairs, or somewhere nearby, if it's not good, without being late to meet Yakov, and Yuri, and the others. Someone--" He tries for levity, in a gentle accusation and acknowledgment, pinioned on that word, but he feels like it sticks sore in his throat, not funny in the slightest in his chest or in his mouth. "--told me to eat breakfast."

Maybe it's the reason he tacks on, without pause. "Are you there yet?"
He almost said home, but he swallows that down, too.
theglassheart: By Me (pic#11087890)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 01:42 pm (UTC)(link)
"Yes." Is automatic, and a lie. He feels tired. "Some." No, no, no. That's not good enough.
His shoulders curl, elbow on the towel over his thigh, trying to keep it from his voice.
His worry. How tired he is. Victor shouldn't be worrying about him. "Enough."

Enough to skate. Enough to be fine. He'll be fine. He has to be fine. Even if it's already started, which is just as much a lie to think. In someways it feels like it's never stopped. Not since last weekend. There've been distractions. Victor is too good at distracting sometimes. (Victor isn't here.) But that hasn't stopped the bag of bricks in his stomach from existing any. From dropping them, often, in front of his toes.

From flubbing his jumps. Taking his focus in practice. From pushing himself hours beyond when Victor first suggests they stop.

He'll be fine. He'll be fine. (He won the silver last weekend. He wants to win. Even if that thought is nauseating, too.) He'll be fine. Even alone today. (Again.) Has to be. Fine. Even if he wants to hide in the closet more than pull his outfit out of it. Even if he can't stop thinking about how bad it was only a week ago. When nothing would hold. When he burst into tears and yelled at Victor even. But that's not new, right? That's part of this. That might always be part of this.

Every morning before competition. Every day until he does retire at the end of the season.
Edited 2017-03-24 13:49 (UTC)
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (And I will call upon Your name)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)
"Two hours." Long enough to give him a buffer. To try and find a way to breathe through all this now.
Listen to Yakov, Victor says, and what Yuri remembers suddenly is Yuri saying the opposite.
Saying he did not have to talk to Yakov or Lilia, or the skaters with him, at all just to be polite.

He might have trained Victor, been his coach through even single win, but ... he isn't Victor.

Doesn't seem anything like him at all. Yuri's not sure he's ever seen the man more than stand somewhere with his arms crossed.

He doesn't want someone else to tell him what to do. He'd even take Victor frowning, his face all lines and eyes gone sharp, bluntly and exactly detailing every single second Yuri had done something wrong, something they'd already perfected. Hadn't been in the right headspace. Was thinking harder than he was skating. He'd rather take all of the worst seconds ... than someone else.

But. Victor wants him to. Victor is telling him to. Had to give him to the one person Victor could, or would. Had to.

(His coach. Even if they haven't been seen much near each other.
Or the first convenient one he could lay his eyes on? Both?)

He hates this. It's suddenly, strangelingy, clear. As his eyes sting at the edges.
He can't change it -- it's not more important; weak -- and he hates this.
theglassheart: By Jewelry (Gonna teach 'em all a lesson)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 03:26 pm (UTC)(link)
That hurts more than it should seem possible. Victor saying that. Victor saying it won't be different (for him?; for him), when it feels like Yuri can't breathe at all suddenly. In the worst way. Like his chest is seizing in denial, sharp spikes of ice exploding into it and out of it, against the lightness of Victor's voice saying those words. Ringing in his ears. Digging into his head. Throat closing.

When he's not ready for that. Even to think about it. Victor not there, when he looks over.
(Victor's fine with it. Victor doesn't. He can't finish. He feels so alone. In this room. This day.)

He can't lose everything this early. Today is only minutes into started.
(He can't start crying. Not again. He can't. He can't, he can't, he can't.)

He needs. Has to. The day is only.

It's everything in him, fingers hard on his phone,
clutching the towel end at his knees,

to say, "I should get dressed." Beat. "Go eat."
theglassheart: By Existentially (All the time we'll be stagging)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-24 04:32 pm (UTC)(link)
"オーケー." It's soft. Only just there. His head latches on to the wrong words, and dissolves others, even unable to not be trying to reach for every word, every sound of his voice. He wants to be distracted. He knows it's wrong. Knows he shouldn't. Knows he's going to have to focus. That it's going to be so much harder today. That it would have been even with Victor.

(But without Victor ... Victor who says it's the same.) Words aren't going to work much longer.

"I'll check after my skate." He doesn't know if he'll make it that long, with all of this. The tumble. Jumble. The seizing feeling. The endless number of hours between. The need to know. If Maccachin is okay. The want to hear Victor voice (even if he, if he--) Even if he doesn't. Tries to avoid seeing commentary that will mess him up even more. It's bad enough. In his head. Bad enough with the tv's, watching the others, with reporters trying to find them everywhere, with all their questions.

When he never made it more than portions of the night. Even knowing there would be nothing.
The nothing that felt so overwhelming already. Teaming. Circling. Slamming.

He needs to change. Needs to eat. To change. To eat.

"До свидания."

(But those aren't the words in his head suddenly.
Not the polite words he's been working on this week.
Hello. Goodbye. Thank you. How much. Numbers.
Back and forth, with Victor there, like a ball.

It's nettles and ice shards, and still true;

Мне тебя не хватает.)

Even after hanging up, he just stays there, phone to his head, staring at the carpet.
theglassheart: Tumblr Resize (And I will call upon Your name)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 06:10 pm (UTC)(link)

He made it, narrowly.

The relief just as daunting as the disappointment.

One of six. One of six. Still one. (Still going. To the Grand Prix.)

It wasn't supposed to be that close. He wasn't supposed to come in last. Barely. Even as minutes continue to pass, it all feels disjointed. It's over for today. For this Cup. (He won't even have to perform in Exhibition.) It slips and slides, like ice that won't form quite right. Like he left his head in his bed this morning, and he left his heart on the ice, and no one told his feet, because they keep moving anyway.

Nothing feels quite right.

(He's going to The Grand Prix.
He still wants ... to win the Gold.

It's a hard word. Hard phrase in a straight line.
He thinks it anyway. Twice. To himself. He wants it.

He has the chance to reach what he wants. Even. Narrowly.)

It still doesn't feel right. Nothing does. It slip out as fast as it slips in.
The medal ceremony is a blur. The congratulations are a blur. The rest ... is a blur.
It shouldn't be like this. It's not usually. It all clears, even when it clings. This just hovers.

A fog. It doesn't feel right. Collects on his bones. Sticking to his skin. Leaving him reaching.

Surprised when his pocket vibrates and he nearly drops the phone getting it out fast enough.
He nearly drops it to the new swell of desperate relief and sudden slamming dread. Shame.

There hasn't been a real update in hours. The whole day. The whole time since Victor left. And nothing since that short text before. Nothing about Maccachin. Everything in the fog around him thickening suddenly and pushing into his mouth, while everything in his stomach ricochet's for his head at the same second, desperate with uncertainty whether to start apologizing instantly (desperate for news, desperate to just hear Victor's voice), or to defend that he made it, or demand something about Maccachin, and what tumbles out, is nothing he thinks through or thought of even -- "I hugged Yakov."

Actually, cheeks flaring hot at the realization of his voice, he hugged a lot of people.

More people than he thinks he's even touched in the space of the time since Victor showed up (who aren't Victor).
None of that ended up feeling right either, and he's already heading for the back of the open area. Away from those still warming up.
Edited 2017-03-25 18:17 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Our hearts are too ruthless to break)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 06:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri's hand finds a wall and his eyes almost close at that laugh. It's too far away, and the warmth that should be there he can't quite hear through the phone, and still it wraps around some part of his shoulders like an arm, like a blanket. It's almost as dizzying as when he hit the ice, arms and knees and forehead collapsing in one, feeling like he'd never be able to breathe right again.

Sticks, stay, phantom-like when he just lets his shoulder catch the wall next. His temple.

There is not an arm. (But he wishes there was so much suddenly.)

Even when Victor picks up where Yakov left off. The both of them. A lecture right after. (Even if hugging Victor wouldn't have left Victor rigid and surprised, looking at him like he was a strange, foreign creature all over again.) He hasn't seen a replay yet. But he knows what he did wrong, and so does Victor. So does the world. Yuri's eyes stare at a blank spot trying to find a word, and he's not expecting the compliment that comes right after it. A breath between them, and only one more, before Victor apologizes.

Victor who should have been here. Victor who couldn't be here.
(Victor who knows how hard it was. How hard it would be still even if he was.)

But there's no changing that now. (And he made it. Narrowly.) There was a reason. Every reason. Why Yuri insisted and Victor went. He thinks of that post Victor left this morning. Maccachin in the waves. (The words my favorites. How devestated he'd been over Vicchan right before the Prix the last time he made it this far.) "Maccachin? Is everything--?"
Edited 2017-03-25 18:43 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Jewelry (Got to leave it all on the floor)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 07:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Something. Something he can't name. Can't place. Can't point at. Shifts. Cracks. Finally. Finally. Drains out of him. Almost painfully. He can feel it in his heart beat. He can feel it in the breath he lets out. It's every bit of Victor's relieved tone, and Yuri is, too. Relieved. For Victor.

(And, maybe, selfishly,
Sour in his stomach, for it;
for himself, for Maccachin,

for himself; for the Prix.)

He pushes that away. Hard. Not real. Not important. Terrible. Maccachin is okay, which means Victor is okay. That's what is important. As Victor makes it a joke, and Yuri, who might have once not understood, leans into it. The sound of his newest laugh. The teasing-complaint of a tone that means Victor is happy, Victor is ... Victor. Won't have a reason to not be Victor. Not today. "Good."
theglassheart: By Existentially (But they're the ones)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 11:15 pm (UTC)(link)
The first word is easy. The silence is almost as companionable as it is crushing. He's still alone, but he's not entirely, too. Somewhere, at home, Victor is there, on the other end of an invisible line, and even an invisible line that might choke him, is better than having nothing at all. Especially after today.

The next eight are not. Or the ones after it. Victor's voice. Victor's word.

But Yuri can see it. The combination he messed up entirely. At least one landing he took wrong. Or maybe it was two. His exhausted, unfocused, start that fed right into going too fast, too soon, coming off jittery, slamming straight into nerves, into panic, into not having his jumps. Even if it didn't stay that way. Even if he knows --

He knows it's not like the last Grand Prix, where he lost control of everything.
He knows it's not like the Championship, where he couldn't do a single thing.

He earned those points. He knows that, too.
Even if one point less might have canned him.

He earned that one point, and every other on his board.
Because he managed to put it back together. Because it mattered.
Not even because he had to show them...or even show Russia ...

Because of Victor. Because at some point, somewhere in the middle, without meaning to or specifically choosing that path, all it was, was Victor. To Victor. About Victor. Every second since he'd shown up. Every terrible and beautiful thing to echo out from that moment, ripples around a rock thrown into the stagnant water, filling it with light and direction. (And love.)

Which almost feels worse. He should have done better then. Because of that. Earlier than that. It shouldn't have taken messing up his elements. He shouldn't have still almost fallen, and caught himself on his fingers near the end. Not once he was driven to keep going. Not once he was chasing it so hard and it was finally almost in his fingers. Keeping, holding on. To fight back. To touch every bit of that light he never deserved, but got, and had to show to everyone watching him. Fighting harder than he thought he could, through each hushed silence. What it felt like, in him, on the ice ...

... what it felt like to have Victor ...

... something that had no words to describe it.
It only existed out there. Something that deserved so much more.

He still can't stop the words, stop how much he means it, the choked whisper, "ごめんなさい."
Edited 2017-03-25 23:21 (UTC)
theglassheart: by Hunters-Chance (What if we ruin it all?)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 11:57 pm (UTC)(link)
He says us and Yuri isn't sure if he means everyone from the we he used earlier, or his country. Or. He just doesn't know. Even Victor started about the salchow at the beginning of this conversation. But other things got in the way. He already knows why.

He couldn't be in the Kiss-and-Cry, but Yuri's certain he will hear about it. This won't be the end.

Not with the practice they'll have to do for the Prix. Not with working on everything he flubbed this time.

Yuri isn't sure how to even touch the last word Victor said.

He wonders what it is in Russian.

Yuri would be glad to tell him today.)

It echoes in the halls of his head, like it's calling for something, but there's nothing there in those hallways to answer. The way there's nothing down the one that Yuri is staring at. Closed doors and empty chairs. The echo and whispers of voices in the distance behind him. He doesn't know how to hold it in his hands anymore than he'll be able to hold Victor's voice in his hands once they hang up.

He turns, putting his back against the wall. It hurts, but it lessens the pressure on his shoulder, evens the pressure ration of which parts of him where. He doesn't close his eyes and he tries so hard not to let a sigh out. "I won't skate tomorrow. I could--" He had no real reason to be here tomorrow. Nothing anyone needed of him. He wouldn't skate the Exhibition, wasn't needed at the Banquet. He could come h--


"But Yuri--" Yuri would. Be here. Be needed. Skate tomorrow morning, in the exhibitions.

Yuri who had hadn't seen since the medals. Yuri, who had ordered him to bed. Yuri, who he still had no clue if had his grandfather here today. Yuri, who took him to Milliways and gave him tea. Yuri, who tried to make it better. He could see that, suddenly, in retrospect, even as the idea of another day in these hallways made him want to curl down to where his feet were.

Yuri probably hadn't wanted him around last night, and he'd managed.
Better than managed. For him. (And he'd won, too.)

He wanted so badly, suddenly, to tell Victor. Maybe not everything, but some of it. About last night. About Yuri, and his grandfather. But not here. This felt ... so wrong. Over the phone. So far. And now, because he was the best person to sabotage his own light, and because someone else might need him, it might be longer.
Edited 2017-03-26 00:28 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (If you just want)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 01:18 am (UTC)(link)
Before today, Yuri would have said no. It's on his mouth to say no. That Yurio might not have stayed to watch if they'd been in each other's shoes (they aren't; he didn't win; he did; narrowly). But he's not certain still. He knows how hard Yuri would have taken it. Yuri, who snuck out of their first competition, with only a goodbye to Yuu-san.

But the Yurio who skated Allegro isn't the one who skated that first Agape;

The Yurio who shoved him through two doors and into a counter,
isn't the one who shoved him into the bar, into a booth, and stayed.

Yes, it had ended with snapping insults and anger.
Yes, Yuri hadn't so much as looked at him or talked to him today.

But that didn't make last night not real. That didn't make it so he didn't try. Didn't make him have to tell Yuri what had happened, why about his skate and his grandfather. He's not certain whether Yurio, fifteen and with no one near his age, in his first senior year, even if he did win, even if he wouldn't come in Yuri's shoes, is the right reason not to.

But Victor keeps talking, and some of the words wipe through all of his thought, simple as though he's wiping away fog off the glasses Yuri still isn't wearing, starting with if you, while he leans his head back, and changing to we, which almost makes his eyelids drift down, and ending on those words. Those simple two words. In that tone. And he can't breathe for the millionth time today.

But this is different. This one. It's is a quick breath in his mouth, before his mouth closes and his body freezes.

And he can't. For a moment he just can't. Word are irrelevant. Languages incomprehensible.

It just replays.

Come home.
(Away from this too big, too full,
yet so achingly empty, building.)

Come home.
(Away from that suffocating room,
it's suffocating beds.)

Come home.

( ... to him?)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Over here over here yeah)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 02:42 am (UTC)(link)
If he were here, Yuri might not have to say anything it at all.

(If he were here, Victor would have given him a lecture, and a hug, and already have what came next planned. He'd have already told Yuri where they were going, when, why, where. What the plan was. This morning. This afternoon. Now, again. Ready to get on to the next stage.)

If he could just appear now, Yuri thinks it would be easier.

It's not always easy. He knows he's not always easy.

But he thinks, he nearly sure, if Victor was here, he wouldn't even have to say a word.
He could just look at Victor and Victor would know. It happens more times than it should.

He squeezes his eyes tight and reaches up to rub them, nodding, head digging in the wall. No tears, but it's bigger than that. It feels bigger than his body, and his disappointment, a pang that answers from every single cell in his body to every single word after his name. Something amorphous and explosive, and if his voice is even or not he can't tell, when he manages, "はい."

The first one nothing but straight from the crescendo of response.
He doesn't think about which or why, only that it comes from his center.

(He's sorry, already. Sorry, if he should have stayed. Sorry, if Yurio needed him back, in the same way Yuri would have never said, or even thought that, he needed Yurio in the first place. But somehow Yurio figured it out anyway. Did it. Anyway. Without him knowing. And. He's sorry.

Because, in one breath, he needs Victor more.
More than any thought. Any debt. Anything.

It returns, from nowhere,
Мне тебя не хватает.

He makes himself swallow, open his eyes. Try. More words. "I'll need to look at flights."
Edited 2017-03-26 03:16 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (You aren't on unless you're on)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 04:07 am (UTC)(link)
Okay and okay, and he should have more to say, shouldn't he?

Where are the words to express this desperation that has swung from never wanting to release his grip on his phone, and the impermanence of Victor's voice, to wanting to hang up suddenly, so that he can figure it out. Get a ticket. Pack up everything left in the hotel. Go the airport. Pray madly, before he can even get to those steps, that all the flights he needs haven't already left for the day, from any place he might need them.

"I'll send it the moment I have it," is the most lackluster turnout for his effort to find even more words. How long has it been since it was hard to find so many words for even one conversation with Victor? Had he had more than this, this morning? He couldn't remember now. That blurred. And last night. He wants to look. To ask. Never to ask, never to imply he forgot. The whole day is blurring. That he wants to put his head in his lap.

That he just wants to close his eyes tight and open them and be home.

(But as experiences with that goes, he's been more desperate and devastated begging for that wish, and it never worked then.)

It takes some acrobatics, doing it on his phone instead of waiting to get back to the hotel and use a laptop, but not too long. He chooses the first thing available and reasonable. The middle of the night, even by Russia's protracted night standards, but it's better than waiting until morning, better than the hellish consideration of trying to sleep in that room again.

When he's forwarded Victor a copy of his email receipt, and screen shots of his mobile boarding pass, he finally stops.

Finally, breathes in, and out, in and out, feeling like it might be the very first time since Mari called.
Edited 2017-03-26 04:56 (UTC)