Let's get hotpot! 6 November, 2014 - Shanghai, China

[fivetimechamp]

 Probably he should be more bothered by what Yakov said –

(I feel sick when I see you playing pretend-coach)

 

– but it's difficult to worry too much about a cranky old Russian coach when he's in Shanghai, and it's competition season, and Yuri has two of the best programs he's ever choreographed up his sleeve to wow the judges with. He has no interest in discussing with Yakov whether or not he plans to return to competitive skating, or if he ever wants to come back to St. Petersburg, or his own skills as a coach.

(All right. That last is a bit of a lie: Yakov is the best coach he knows, and there have been more times than he'd anticipated when he'd wished he could ask the old man's advice.

But he's not pretending. He never was, and he isn't now.)

And, anyway, his focus is on Yuri.

As it should be, as a coach. Over the last eight months, he's gotten attuned to the shifts of Yuri's moods, his nervous tics, the tells when he's feeling stressed or uncertain, and right now, Yuri is distracted. He's been lost in thought since their arrival interview, and quiet during their walk through the Shanghai streets, although not uncharacterisically so.

Sometimes Yuri speaks loudest when he uses no words at all. It's another thing Victor's learned about him, noted, kept in the back of his mind for afternoons like this. Yuri gets nervous near competition, and there's already mounting pressure to succeed after the failure of the last season. There's a nervous energy Victor can feel humming under the arm he's got slung around Yuri's shoulders, distraction in the short, one-word or belated answers to Victor's comments. He's not even sure Yuri notices when Victor's steered them into a hot pot place (almost universally agreed upon as the best one by the fans he'd asked for recommendations on social media), or when they're seated in a private booth, or when Victor orders.

It's all right, Victor decides, smiling gently across the table at him. Yuri's been able to overcome his nerves on the ice, and they both have absolute faith in the programs they've built together, practiced together, perfected together. Tomorrow, Yuri will seduce the whole of China, and everyone else watching: Victor has every certainty in his ability to win.

He could hardly be more confident if he were skating them himself. "Look, Yuri!"

(But he still needs to find a way to distract Yuri tonight.) "Shanghai crab! Drunken shrimp! Duck blood!"

Everything looks so colorful and delicious, he almost doesn't know where to start: hands up, an expression of pure bliss settling over his face.

"Doesn't it all look great?"

Comments

[theglassheart]

Nothing -- nothing -- is good, when Victor is saying that quietly into Yuri's ear like that.

All warm and thoughtless, like he's done everything right, like there's nothing strange about this, nothing jangling hard enough to wind him in Yuri's blood stream when he swears Victor's mouth is brushing against his hair, the cut of air, of pointed scalding heat rising on the thin skin there, like they had almost brushed his ear, too, and nothing -- nothing -- is sticking together in his head. Nothing at all.

Nothing but the warmth of Victor's face catching on his skin, his must now be burning ear, the smell of the miju Victor has been drinking since they arrived. Fermented rice and something sweet. Something he nearly tilts his head toward, but it's right as Victor asks another unrelated question in this new game of tripping up Yuri's brain and he's leaning away, letting go. Suddenly not against Yuri's head. Suddenly not wrapped around his arm.

Leaving Yuri sure that the ground is no longer flat and his chair is no longer steady, and one of his arms collapses across his own lap, catching on his opposite hip, like he's seat belting himself to the world. Or the chair. Or the existence of his own skin. Air still uncertain it wants to come anywhere near his lungs. Stupid and startled and everything at edges, shivering like cold slammed him, not the hot Victor had asked about, while Victor cheerful offers food to Phichit like that was nothing.

(Because it was.)

(Nothing.)

Because Victor is drunk and gregarious.
Because that's not even a new thing, if in a new country.


(With people Yuri knows differently.)



Phichit, on the other hand, seems to be taking the long way around to getting his eyebrows down, back anywhere on his face, and not so comically far up they are basically floating above his head and his only-just-not dropped wide mouth. Camera in his hands like something he both has forgotten and is clutching too tight, in some kind of inner battle.

Before he's nodding, too. Too fast. Excitedly fast.
Hands not leaving his phone to pick up a plate to help. "Yes. That sounds good. Please."

His eyes shooting to Yuri with something vital Yuri can't make out, because Yuri is only finally beginning to parse his own blood in his own head.

[fivetimechamp]

Victor hands over the plate, and reaches for the bottle, waggling it to judge how much is left.

Not much. Surprisingly. They haven't had that much, have they?

But he refills Celestino's glass, and tops off his own with what's left, without noticing that Celestino is turning faintly green around the gills. He does notice, though, that it's definitely hotter in here than it was when they came in: even without his jacket, he feels flushed and feverish.

Maybe it's because he's used to having a hot bath every day, now. His body is used to, expects a temperature change.

Or maybe it's just really hot in here.

Even Yuri looks a little pink in the face, even though he never answered Victor's question –

(And he never did, did he:

Don't you want to come with me?)

Except that wasn't the question he just asked. He thinks. He's pretty sure. He hasn't asked that question in almost two years. In the end, he was the one to come to Yuri, and not the other way around.

Not that he minds. Not that there's anything about this last half a year that he minds, except for that one part that's missing.

The one big part. Huge. That he can't seem to forget or stop wanting, no matter how hard he tries. Even if everything else is amazing, a whole world he never knew existed. Time with Maccachin. Every day with Yuri. His family. Time to himself, to go sight-seeing around Hasetsu, to spend days at the beach or in the rolling hills nearby. A hot bath every day, big enough to swim in, almost.

Like the hot pot on the table. Only. With people. And less actually getting cooked.

Across the table, Celestino is slumping, giggling about something or other into his nearly empty glass (Victor notices with a start that his own is empty again, too – when did that happen?). He looks tired, but Victor doesn't feel tired. It hasn't been that long of a night yet. "That hot pot..."

Laughed, in Yuri's general direction, while the world swings. "Doesn't it make you think of the hot springs, Yuri? Your parents shouldn't cook people, that's cruel."

[theglassheart]

Phichit has to relinquish the death grip of his fingertips on his phone to take the plate from Victor, which he must end up doing, because Yuri sees it out of the side of his vision while the waiter from before is finally making his way quickly toward them. The stack of plates in his hands, and Yuri can't tell if he's relieved to be able to turn away for a handful of seconds -- or worried that something, he doesn't even know what, might happen if he does.

But someone has to take the plates, and Phichit has a platter, and Victor and Celestino are out, so his hands are already out, too. Taking them with a conflicted, unthinking, "Arigato," amazed his voice even works, in time to cringe with a wrinkle of his nose. "I mean," He fumbled, making his brain work. He even knew this one without the help of a translator or a book, still he forgot. "Xièxiè."

The man's expression went from something politely passive to remotely pleased.

Even though, he responded in his same broken English. "No problem. Anything else, you tell me."

There are still plates in his hands, getting set, carefully, on this end of the table, only by himself and Phichit, Victor laughing at something -- that Celestino seems to be laughing at, too, that he didn't catch, making his nerves slip into snakes, the already evoked questioning if it was about him, about his slip seconds ago -- as Victor said something that sounded like hot springs, and then Yuri's name, demanding he look toward Victor to catch a sentence that makes no sense.

Except that Victor really is, maybe, probably, very likely, very drunk.


He wants to ask. It's on his tongue to, flitting against his teeth and the press of his lips, but Victor is an adult, older than him, and Victor went out while in Hasetsu even. Not with him. Until dawn. Always a little later, a little more rumpled those mornings, in a way magazines would have been dying to photograph him, and Yuri couldn't help being both envious of and ... troubled by. (Even if, all these months later, that's still the wrong word, and he doesn't know the right one still.)

It's not really his place to ask, or tell Victor what to do like this, right? Maybe this is normal for him. Maybe this is what did before and during and after competitions, when he met up with other skaters and their coaches. Maybe Yuri never knew, like he never knew what any of them did when they weren't on the ice or on the podium. Never willing to ask. Not a one of them. Definitely not Victor.

It's uncertain, but more normal sounding, when he says, a little off balance to need to correct something even a child would know, for a drunken Victor, which he's still trying to wrap his mind around there being: "They don't cook people. The water isn't hot enough for that."

[fivetimechamp]

Of course they don't. Yuri would never let them, because Yuri is kind and responsible, even if he can be cruel, too. All the crueler because Victor doesn't know why, when Yuri fought for him to stay, but pushed him away at the same time, when Yuri wanted him to just stay Victor, without being anything else.

When it had seemed so clear at the banquet. Clear in a way it hasn't seemed since, until now, when he's looking at Yuri, and it feels like his heart will burst, or break. Thinking he's been fooling himself over the last eight months, even if he never thought that was he was trying to do.

He's been trying, hasn't he? He put himself aside and focused just on Yuri. Even if he relived that banquet, almost every day, while watching and working on Eros, with the choreography he remembers all too clearly from that night, he'd never even once alluded to it. Had done what Yuri asked, and just been himself: working hard, focused on the art, on the performance, on perfection.

But just being himself is being in love with Yuri. That's part of being Victor, too. A part Yuri doesn't seem to want, even with his theme this season, even with his new understanding of love, the way it supports him and lifts him and inspires him and buoys him. The love of his family, Minako, the Nishigoris, even that small fan of his from the qualifying competition.

And his love for, and from, Victor. That Victor cherishes, even if it isn't what he'd hoped for.

He knows Yuri loves him. It's not a question. But there's some missing piece here he still doesn't understand, and has done his best to simply not need, but when he's looking at Yuri like this, and it's so warm and hazy in the room, he can't think of a single good reason to have not kissed him when Victor had the chance.

There's a slight scuffle across the table, and he thinks he'd stopped paying attention for too long, because Phichit had been saying something, to someone – Yuri, maybe – but Celestino's glass has tipped over and Victor's trying to focus, but it's impossible, with it being so hot.

Fanning the collar of his shirt, and saying: "I feel like I'm getting cooked," but that just makes him think of the hot springs again, and how much he enjoys them, and shouldn't they find one, here, to go to? There must be something like it.

Reaching for the hem of his shirt and tugging it off over his head to a blissful burst of cool air against his skin, shaking his hair out of his eyes and sighing. "Oh, that's better."

[theglassheart]

Victor should be saying something back, but Victor is staring at him.

Those blue-green eyes, so different from everything in his life, so completely a color that is just Victor's, only Victors, that comparisons only pale beside or bring him back to the color and depth of, are just staring at him. Or maybe through him, a sly, unhelpful thought whispers. But he doesn't think he is. He's collected a lot of the way Victor has looked at him, most of them translatable. Most of them familiar.

(Save one.
That happened so often.

Too often to still now know it.)

It's uncomfortably clunky uncertainty when he's about to ask Victor the question he almost asked a second ago -- How much have you had?, except this time with something almost patiently amused, that feeling flickering in his stomach, trying to toy with the edge of his own mouth -- because this time Victor, who never forgets what he's saying, seems to have forgotten he started this conversation. With actual words, and not just staring at him.

But before that smile can break like a wave on him or any of the playful tone that he's not sure where is pushing up from, suddenly there's a scuffle for things on the table, that makes his hands jump to hold their side of the table. Celestino's glass has lost its grip and sounds like it's fallen, hitting the ground, but Yuri can only barely hear that because Celestino takes a dive for the table right the next second, like the cup was his last standing support, and Pcichit is yelping something, asking if Celestino is okay, leaning in, waving a hand. Both. Frantically.

Yuri's eyes wide, against the shock, about to look to Victor and suggest that this dinner is o--

Except his eyes track to one side -- to reach Victor -- and Victor's shirt is flying over Victor's head and the shock he felt a second ago is nothing like the one smacking into him now, as the shirt goes flying and Victor (all far too familiar, pale skin stretched taut over muscles) looks so relievedly pleased with himself. Like this isn't a restaurant. Like they don't have company. And none of those make words, nothing holds for the slam of it, it just comes out -- "V-v-victor?"

Panicked floating question, shocked demand, embarrassed recrimination, broken notes and all.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's smiling at him.

Well. Almost. But Victor has gotten to know all the shades of Yuri's expressions, and he knows, okay. That lightness in his eyes, that's half amused and half affectionate, and the way it's twitching at the corners of his mouth, like he's laughing at Victor.

Except not. Because that would be mean, and Yuri isn't mean. Even if –

(How cruel.)

– he isn't always kind, either.

But it doesn't look like he's being laughed at. It looks like Yuri's exasperated, but affectionately so, and it's running through Victor's mind even as he shucking his shirt over his head, and blinking at the stumbled, stuttered use of his name. "Huh?"

Looking up, and. Oh.

Yuri's right there.

Yuri's right there, and he's so close, and he looks scandalized in the way where his cheeks have gone brilliantly red, but Victor's not paying attention to that. He's not paying attention to anything but how close Yuri is, and how good he feels, and how much he wants to hug Yuri, because Yuri is so cute and Yuri cares so much and Yuri is right there, so he does.

Leans over, arms loose and languid, to wrap them around Yuri's neck, and pull himself closer, and he can't remember why he stopped doing this. Nose burying in Yuri's hair, mouth against Yuri's ear, chest against Yuri's shoulder, unable to stop smiling and pretty sure he maybe doesn't ever want to let go again, because Yuri smells good and Yuri feels good and Victor is just so overwhelmed with everything he feels and wants and all the months and days of almost two years.

He should have gone to Hasetsu earlier. Should have gone right when Yuri asked him to. That night. He never should have waited, not even a single day.

Hasetsu, Hasetsu. Where's he's been so happy, and more relaxed than he'd ever thought possible. "Yuuuuuuuuuuuri."

Drawn out and warm. "Do you think there's a hot spring here? I miss it. I think we should go to one."

Or. Something. Somewhere with Yuri. And maybe fewer clothes.

[theglassheart]

The world becomes a crescendo with shocked sudden screaming in his ears, when Victor suddenly leans over and drapes himself, arms everywhere, bare skin and lean tall weight on him suddenly, and he's so shocked that he swears he can't breathe in or shout out. It's like his throat closed up shop, refusing to make more than this catching, almost click of a noise.

As not a half second later, Victor's face follows, burying into his skin, suddenly.

Into his hair, against his cheek, his neck, intently.

Like he intends to burrow into Yuri's skin, or use him as a blanket. His whole body shooting hot confusion, spangled shock, cheeks burning, while Victor's nose grazes under his scalp ( spiking heat and focus there), and Victor's mouth is crooning his name against his ear (snap, it explodes there, too) again, smooth and longer than any characters could supply.

Yuri can't tell if what his body does is tremble or shudder or shake or freeze. He feels half fallen out of it and trapped inside it (inside Victor's arms). The whole world a distorted shock wash, and he doesn't know how his hand ended up on Victor's forearm. Possibly trying to keep him getting there, to begin with, or from succeeding in fully launching himself on Yuri which he was mid-doing.

"Victor-" His voice isn't anywhere near firm enough. The wind could knock it over. There's a shake to it, even as he presses on it. "-we need to-"

But then a throat is cleared not far behind them, and he jerks that way. Toward the sound. Utterly meant to be heard. Expecting the man with the plate. The man or woman who owns this restaurant. Any other customer who was scandalized by suddenly catching sight of what's happening.

But.

It's.

So.

Much.

Worse.


Because Guang-hong Ji and Leo de la Iglesia are standing at the opening to their table cubby now.

One of them in something that looks like shock and the other already turning a soft pink in his surprise, both of their phones already up. Celestino on the table, and Phichit flailing at him, (even though Yuri swears, somewhere, disjointed, he hears the snap and catch of a phone camera from over there, too), and Victor's half-naked and now trying to hang on him like a coat.

Not that Victor's helping the feeling that suddenly everything is over his head. So very high over his head. There's a strange, helpless, weak little laugh trying to come up his throat, getting burned up by his cheeks roasting against his bones like they will just melt off, when Victor's not letting him go even when he turns, still just as plastered to him, moving with him, covering him more. Swallowing for something that falls out, trying to sound sensible, an apology. "Oh, sorry."

This isn't a dinner. Can't be. They can't stay now. Can't. Can't. Can't. "Victor's had way too much to drink."
As though that's not the most obvious thing. As though his voice might not be a shade from cracking.
He just needs everyone to go, to vanish, so he can convince Victor to put his shirt on and leave.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's turning away, but his hand is on Victor's arm, and Victor just cuddles a little closer, pulling himself forward as much as he's pulling Yuri back, and toeing off his shoes. Like he would at Yu-topia. Because it's polite. And they're in the way.

Perfectly content to wrap his arms around Yuri, and sway them both back and forth, while Yuri is talking to someone, and that's fine. The more the merrier. "We should all go to a hot spring."

There's room for everyone, right? He's fine with that. He like these people, even the two standing there that he doesn't know, phones up and faces pink. Cute. But not as cute as Yuri. No one is as cute as Yuri. With his glasses. And his caring. And his shaky self-confidence. And his family's hot spring, that he told Victor to come visit, so Victor did, and he's so glad, he's happy he did, because it's such a great place. "Hot springs..."

It's connecting in blurry lines that fade in and out, as he's letting Yuri go to fiddle with the button and fly of his pants. You can't wear pants in a hot spring, and not briefs, either.

"Hasetsu..." Yuri's yelling something at him, but Victor just waves him off, except there's a weight in his hand, and he blinks at it. Pants. Briefs. Oh, right. He wants a bath, and he's sick of these clothes. Besides, he doesn't know why Yuri's getting so upset: it's not like he hasn't seen Victor totally naked plenty of times in the past. In the hot spring. Which is one of Victor's all time favorite places. "Hasetsu hot springs...great place."

Waving his hand again, and letting go, forgetting where the pants and briefs go once they're past his fingertips, and beaming at Yuri. He's just helping, Yuri.

More people should go to Hasetsu. Everyone should.

[theglassheart]

"Victor." It's soft, almost a grumble, when the two at the end of the table aren't really listening. "What are you saying?"

Not when they seem to still be taking in the fact every quadrant of this table has turned upside in the last five minutes, more than seems possible. Because they were just called? It's only been five mintues, right? No. But. But it wasn't even this crazy five minutes ago, was it? It wasn't. But it is. And there's no way he's letting Victor leave to anywhere now, with anyone. Especially as he's still softly, singing, slurred words about Yu-topia.

He's turning back to tell Victor they can't go anywhere because they need to go to the hotel now -- but that never happens. He never finishes the thought to get to the words even. His head turns, and his mouth opens, but Victor is looking down at his lap, all entirely distracted away from Yuri now, and that makes Yuri's eyes drop, and he doesn't even have the second to be relieve of being fallen from focus because everything is too clear.

His eyes drop, and Victor's lower body is aerobically twisting in his chair, the flash of the tensed muscles in his stomach, and the dip of a very bare slender hip and ... and .... a n d ... all of which are more familiar to Yuri than he'll ever admit. Except in a second like this when it is what it is what it is, and what it is is Victor getting naked at the table in this restaurant, that is not a bath house, or a bathroom, or anything of the like, making him snap suddenly, shattering glass too loud,

"Hey! Don't strip!"

Except he's saying it too late. Victor's pants and his briefs are already in his hands, and he's smiling like he just completed a perfect program on his chair, eyes all hazy and full of nothing but delight. And they aren't going to stay, Yuri can see that, even as Victor's just bringing them up, the coil in his bare arm muscles, and it's already too late, when Yuri's following his first snap with another desperate pleading order, but not loud, meant for Victor, only Victor, "Don't."

Except he does. Because Victor always does what Victor wants.

The pants and the underwear go flying past Yuri's head, and the table.

Because Victor has no shame. He's never heard of it even. He's beaming at Yuri, naked, in his seat, all liquid pale, snow white, even though his reddened cheeks are betraying his warmth, and sheer warning is blaring and exploding in Yuri's head. Between needing to look to where Victor's clothes landed, and being almost terrified of looking away from him, lest Victor jump the table or do something even crazier without being watched every second now. "Hey! Someone help!"

[fivetimechamp]

Yes. Someone help! Isn't that what Victor's been saying this whole time? Isn't that what he's here for, to help Yuri?

"Goryachaya vanna," he clarifies, because Yuri was asking him what he's saying, before pausing, and trying to nail down the slippery thought that isn't quite right. "Dzhakuzi?"

Still no. The hot springs aren't a Jacuzzi, even if he sometimes thinks they're similar. "Goryachiy ... istochnik."

That's better. More like it, even if not exactly. Not that it's something he had in St. Petersburg. In Russia, people bathe in ice water in the morning, for energy and alertness and to improve circulation: they don't steep themselves in natural hot springs after dinner, although they should. Everyone should.

Specifically, Yuri. And him.

Except Yuri still has all his clothes on, which doesn't seem right if they're going to go in the bath, and, worse, he's being handed Victor's clothes back, by two fish-mouthed boys Victor doesn't recognize, although they look sort of familiar.

But Yuri shouldn't be trying to put his clothes back on. If anything, Yuri should be helping him keep them off, just like Victor was so sure was going to happen at the banquet. It was written on his face, even if it never became words.

(Don't you want to come with me?)

He had. Did. Victor was sure of it.

Except the face he's staring at now, trying to find that expression again, is just going red and annoyed, and he's not sure why. Making his eyes narrow, in consideration. How he could find it again. Make it come back. Get that answer he's been due for almost two years.

Even as clothes are getting shoved back in his hands, and he's putting on briefs, more by reflex than anything else. But he's pretty sure this is the opposite of what's supposed to happen.

[theglassheart]

Yuri is going to die right here. Not yet. But soon. He can feel it coming.

Somewhere between the shock that won't stay frozen and the fear, it's only going to get worse, and then, because Victor can't remain predictable in even the smallest part -- he starts talking in Russian. Simple words, and singular. First looking like Yuri understands him, finally. Before, he pauses, looking up, trying to figure something out.

All of it words Yuri doesn't know in the slightest,

except that he can recognize certain pieces of syllables ... or more aptly how Victor says them.

He usually likes the sound of it, foreign and smooth, mysterious like smoke, with sudden surprising hard edges and then unexpected perfect fluidity, reminding him of exactly how Victor skated, even as it crawled down his skin, prickling it like a late winter breeze. Usually. Right now, he just doesn't have any room for it. It's just another sign that Victor is so far gone not only is he naked, he's indecipherable, and still has the gal to look happy about being both.

Until he doesn't.

Until someone is pushing the clothes back on them, with so much haste you'd think they were scared they might get caught up in the middle of this, too, if their hands weren't away as soon as the clothes dropped. (And, he's pretty sure, none of the phones have stopped. This is it, too. This is how his appearance at the Grand Prix starts. Not with just shooting his mouth off, but with Victor naked and drunk at the hot pot.)

He's holding on to Victor's pants while Victor pulls his briefs back on, looking, for all the world like a confused chastised child, a puppy that got left outside, even when he's all -- Yuri can't even drop his gaze below the work of the muscles in Victor's shoulders and the way his expression is almost ... blearily crestfallen? How he can be the most unfair person on the planet is beyond Yuri, but he manages it.

Every day, in new ways. Unfair. Absolutely unfair. And Yuri's heart stumbles about even more. He can't even swallow, and he needs to focus on the one thing he needs Victor to focus on, so he forces his voice to work. "Good. Good." Numb words, "Thank you."

When he's waiting for the first to get done, and judging it by posture, and when Victor is back to more upright, because he doesn't want to look directly down, he doesn't. Even the thought just makes his cheeks and the muscles across his ribs sore. His face might never stop straining, or being stained at this point. He just holds out the pants. "These now."

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's pushing pants at him, but Victor's still just considering him, through slitted eyes. Thinking. Even if it's treacly and slow.

A golden night. The taste of champagne. The music. The dance floor. Yuri's hand against his cheek.

"You never answered my question."

it comes out a little too thick, a little to Russian. Like the joke of an accent in old spy movies, and not the one he's cultivated through years of traveling through Europe, learning languages and perfecting his English and French. It sounds a little more Boris and Natasha, and he can feel it trying to escape in Russian, instead:

(Ты не ответил на мой вопрос)

But he hauls it down, forces the English instead, even if it's without the smattering of Japanese that he's been using for the last four or five months.

It's important that Yuri understand him. That Yuri know he's still waiting. That in two years, and in eight months, he still hasn't answered a simple question. A yes or a no. After Victor had let him do what no one ever did. Touch him. Reach for him. Shatter him.

Yuri's holding out the pants, and Victor's gaze drops to them for a moment, before his hand shoots out: not for the pants, but for Yuri's wrist, to tug him sharply close, even as his fingers let go so his arms can come up around Yuri's neck again. One hand sinking into black, silky hair, the other flat against a shoulderblade, and he should have. Should have. Should have.

Should have demanded an answer.

Should have pulled him out the door when Chris wasn't looking.

Should have dragged him away before Celestino could.

Should have flown to Japan the next day.

He should have kissed Katsuki Yuri when he had the chance.

But he's not going to miss it again.

[theglassheart]

Yuri has no idea which question Victor could even be trying to reference, why or how, or even when. Victor badgers him for the answer to questions from the moment he wakes up until he sleeps, and he almost always gives up whatever the answer is, even if he's ashamed of it. He hasn't avoided anything serious since at least before dinner, and he tries not to let it dig fingers in.

Even if it does. Even if he's still hearing that absolutely unfamiliar thick Russian on the words in his ears, when he shakes the pants. It's better than words it's more important than anything he could come up with to say. There was no question, and he needs to get dressed, and they need to leave.

There's the blink of a moment's relief -- when Victor's hand shoots out -- before everything explodes.

Fingers curling his wrist, slim and strong and so hot, to jerk him forward. Hard into Victor's body.

The pants slipping from his hand, then hands, because his eyes shoot up and widen with something akin to horror. When he can't stop himself from pushing back, except there is no back, because the chair back is gone, and Victor's arms are sliding around his neck, Victor's finger are in his hair, just as capable, just as steady and strong, and demanding as ever, somehow.

There's a noise that's almost entirely unintelligible, bordering and then bursting through shock flares (Victor is so drunk Victor is trying to kiss him) slams, like hitting that wall without expecting, but it's not like possibly breaking his nose, it's like tearing off the first level on his bones. It only tosses him into freezing, panicked, desperation. The word no is everywhere in his head, in his skin, but not his mouth. He doesn't want this -- even if something sour and sharp, shackled to his shoe, and the ice and dark night, says that's wrong.

(That he doesn't want it






like this.)

His glasses are shoving up his cheeks and into his forehead (Victor's hair against his skin, silvering his red vision, the way it tickled and now .. the way feels like getting hit), and his heart has become faster than seems possible, painful at the bottom his throat, worse than choking, and the smell of the miju is back, so sweet he swears he can taste it on his tongue already and the one name about to be screamed from his mouth, before the world actually dies, changes in a single second, in the only moment he's trying to find someone --anyone -- to help him -- it becomes

"PHICHIT!" And it's worse. It's all of that shock and horror and something more like impossible betrayal added to it.





(Because his friend is turned around backward,

lining up a selfie, through his camera, on what's happening over here.)

[fivetimechamp]

There's the rustle of fabric, and the thudding of his own heart, and Yuri's eyes going wide, and the room around them spinning, and then –

– And then Yuri's yelling something, and his eyes are off Victor's face, making Victor glance that way, too, eyes narrowing. He doesn't care about pictures. He doesn't care about the people who might see them. Everything he cares about, he has, right here. The ice, and the music, and the choreography, and everything he's been searching for, everything he's ignored for so long.

And Yuri.

Who is.

(He'd been leaning in again, but he stops, lips a bare breath from Yuri's skin, blinking. Feeling a little like someone's doused him with water, or like he's suddenly surfaced from an icy pool and gasped air for the first time in minutes. Because Yuri, he's –)

Terrified. Horrified? Insulted? Leaning away. Eyes wide and face pale. Hands up, held away from Victor's bare skin, like he can't even bear to touch Victor long enough to shove him away.

But drawing as far away as he can. Because. Because.

Because he told Victor. All those months ago. Be my coach. Just be Victor. And all the things he shouldn't be. All the no's that landed like darts, and that he's remembered every day since, until now, and why did he think, he didn't think, he was so sure.

That it wasn't just him. Blurred lines and too-long looks. Careful, and then casual, touches. Everything they are. Were. Have been. Could be.

Stabbing him in the chest with an icicle that doesn't melt, only freezes its way through his veins, as he lets go, pushing himself back as violently as he'd moved forward, eyes wide.

He feels sick. And it isn't from the wine, or the shrimp.

Sick. At the way Yuri looks. Sounds. Betrayed.

What was he thinking?

"I'm – "

Hands up, words feeling too clumsy. Too English. Too ... nothing's right. It was, and then it wasn't. Yuri's looking at him like that. Sounding like that. " – sorry."

Which doesn't cover it. The horror at himself. How he needs to go stick his head in that hot pot and let it boil away. How badly he behaved. How selfish.

He's been trying. He has. He has to be the best coach possible for Yuri. Coach. That's what Yuri wants. None of this is supposed to be about him. Not even if Yuri's been re-enacting that moment at the banquet every day now for months. Even if, somewhere, Yurio is skating the angel to Yuri's demon. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't want to accidentally touch Yuri, but he leans down to find those pants, feeling, for the first time, how drunk he actually is. How the world spins and dips, confusing him. Even as he's taking his wallet out and leaving cash that he thinks is enough for the meal, and more. Looking up too often, sneaking glances towards Yuri's face, to see if he's angry. Hurt.

Scared.

Thinking there isn't a hard enough to kick himself. He knew. And he did it anyway.

Even the pants, now on, buttoned and zipped, can't hide the flush of regret now climbing up his chest towards his throat.

[theglassheart]

As fast as Victor had suddenly pulled him forward and up, he's let go. Finding the bottom of his chair, uncertain when he'd come off it, that he had, and the back of his chair with his back, and none of his body wants to work. It should feel like a relief. But it feels like going from one sense of drowned screaming to another one.

When suddenly Victor is looking at him. He knows it's Victor. Somewhere too far away, where the air isn't coming into his lungs, where his arms are weightless without the weight and force of Victor's. He knows it. Somewhere. In there. Where the air isn't. The way Victor's eyes are suddenly wide and startled open. Like he hadn't known. What he was doing.

Because he hadn't. He's drunk.

(Why does that hurt, too?

His cheeks still red and his eyes suddenly painfully dry.)

As Victor apologizes. That first sound like he couldn't even make words work, and Yuri can feel his heart hitting the bottom rungs of his ribs. He can hear the sudden silence pressing on him after Victor finishes the second, that isn't just Victor, but three or four different pairs of eyes, when he nods. Because he knows. He does. Even when his cheeks aren't getting any paler and he feels like an idiot. For. He can't. Because. He does. He always does.

Why did there have to be so many people?

(Who in this world pushed Victor Nikiforov, even drunk, away?
There's a crinkle in his expression for the slip.


But not for the truth of it.)

But then Victor says it. Again. Even though no one's said anything. Even though he nodded. He said it again while leaning down and if Yuri tenses a little, even not meaning to, Victor doesn't touch him. Victor just picks up his pants, and Yuri can't help feeling both that he should say something and that nothing in the world exists that can be said. Not right. Not in English. Not in Japanese. Not with his own mouth.

It's all. He swallows, watching Victor pull out money and put it down, making it clear they are done now, and Yuri has to say something. He can't just not say anything. Not after two apologies and a whole table of people staring at them, like no one has any clue if the earlier part of this or now is the part to be more engrossed in.

"It's okay." Except it's not. It's not on his tongue. But it is. Has to be. Because Victor looks stricken, and he's an idiot -- even a drunk idiot, this is who he is, too, even if it's not something he's ever done near or with Yuri around -- but he didn't do anything. Not actually. Didn't end up doing anything.

The younger of the two at the end of the table catching Yuri's attention, holding out the shirt that Yuri never had figured out where went. He tried to offer something that looked like a grateful smile, but it felt more like the muscles in his face distorted themselves. Worn and sore under a constant state of heat.

He held the shirt out to Victor, picking up Victor's jacket from the back of his chair, it all still feeling unfinished. Like he couldn't stop yet. Hadn't said enough. Still. Somehow. Even when nothing was sticking and air was only starting to find him. So maybe something else, something more ... true, real, honest? "We should go back to the hotel."

[fivetimechamp]

усраться.

A vicious snakebite of a thought. Fuck up. And more. The worst things he can throw at himself, as he's accepting the shirt Yuri's handing to him, while careful not to make contact with Yuri, himself. To soil oneself. That seems right.

Yuri's saying it's okay, but it isn't. He's. Все испортить. Spoiled everything. Maybe. Probably. Possibly.

Everything they'd moved towards, grown towards, everything he'd coaxed out in eight months. Ruined because he couldn't restrain himself, because he was feeling too good to stop, because he'd had much too much to drink.

Sending the floor tipping out from under him when he stands, even if it looks like Celestino has it worse. Phichit is hauling his coach up with a laugh that's only a little strained, and one of the boys from the end of the table is helping, which is good, probably. Victor can at least walk, he thinks, even if it won't be in a very straight line.

Even if he feels like a kicked dog, and just wants to slink under the table to curl into a ball and try to forget what he just did.

Shoes back on, somehow, and when he looks, Yuri has the jacket Victor had left on the back of that chair, which is good, because Victor forgot it was there. Like he forgot where they were.

(Where are they?)

Trying to parse what Yuri's saying, but it feels like the words are landing somewhere just out of reach, and he has to keep his distance, even if it's wobbly. "Okay."

Nodding along with whatever it is, because he'll jut do whatever Yuri says to do right now, okay. As long as Yuri talks to him. Is still here.

And even now, he doesn't know how to not be swamped by it: this need to reach out, and just be closer. How he feels when he sees that face. The faces he'd wanted to see, and not the one he got. That he still remembers, crystal clear, even when everything else is a haze. He remembers. He didn't forget. Yuri told him not to and he didn't, he didn't.

But Yuri's moving, and watching Victor like Victor's supposed to be doing something, too, so Victor follows, bumping his hip into the table and steadying himself, for a second, on the wall, until he's free from the booth, and Phichit, with Celestino's arm thrown over his shoulder, and the other over the shoulder of the taller boy that Victor doesn't know, is smiling at them like this was the best night he's ever had.

So Victor smiles back, and waves, even if it's a little loose and a little pale, before – where's Yuri? Is he still here?

Looking around, until he catches sight of him, and relaxing, even when he shouldn't.

It's okay. It's not okay. But he'll make it better. He has to.

[theglassheart]

He's not certain he's ever seen Victor look suddenly so small or so still.

He doesn't get any shorter, nor does his coloring stand out any less than it always does -- always will. But he looks ... smaller. In a way that Yuri can't make fit into that word or another word, even when he's racking his brain for it. While Victor puts on his shirt and shoes, and the boys are helping Phichit with Celestino.

Yuri wants to be a little annoyed when Victor smiles and waves at the others leaving, like he's the star somehow still and he's saying goodbye to his people, but it's like a landing that just won't stick. It tumbles over itself, on edges that are melting beneath his grasp, because Victor can't even seem to manage to be upright for longer than two steps without bumping into something.

A chair. The table. Things on the table rattling. Reaching out for the wall to steady him before he's looking suddenly for something -- and only stops, only looks less suddenly worried, when he stops on Yuri's face. When Yuri doesn't know what to make of that, not while, also, coming to the realization, obvious though it might have been before this second to the rest of the world, that there are limited walls for support between here and the hotel.

Victor might be able to stand better than Celestino, but his ability to walk is only just barely above. With help.
Help he won't have as soon as they step outside of the building, and ... Yuri's not really even that mean, is he?

Even if mean is the wrong word, too. (And scared is, too, even when he feels like every single nerve in his body is at the highest alert its been in months.) The wrong feeling, the wrong feeling, none of them the right words, the right feelings, nameable, labelable, when he's walking back closer. There's a tension in his stomach about that, but it's on the same line as the one that was forming just standing over there instead.

It's different, but it strikes the same cord.

His voice low, when he shifting Victor's jacket in his hands. So that the right arm hole on this side is ready for him to just reach out and slip an arm into, just on this side. So he doesn't have to figure out anything for himself. "You're going to need this." It's Shanghai in winter, out there. The two who came never even took off their coats.



Even if it's not the same thing he's thinking when he says it;

He's going to need Yuri,

and there's nowhere else Yuri could even process to be, to run ... not with that truth.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's there, and then, when Victor looks again, he's gone, sending a spark of panic deep into his roiling stomach, freezing his chest and breath, until –

"You're going to need this."

From behind him, and to one side. Making Victor look at the thing he's holding – the jacket, open and ready – before glancing back up at the face above it, while everything to the side swims. The spotlight on Yuri. Where it always is.

So maybe Yuri's not afraid of him. Maybe Yuri isn't going to recoil from him every time.

Maybe, maybe. While he slips his arm into the jacket, and then the other, and Yuri is helping him shrug it on, before Victor turns to face him, and say, he doesn't know. Something. Anything. Apologize again. Say he'd never purposely do anything to hurt or scare Yuri, because Yuri is the only thing he's ever wanted that wasn't at the top of a podium, or behind the flash of cameras, or the sound of his blades on ice.

Leaving him staring down, wordless, and reaching before he even knows it. Towards Yuri's cheek, fingers careful and wary, like Yuri might bolt at any second, a rabbit sprinting for its hole. Wanting to run his thumb along the line of his jaw. Some sort of promise, or apology, or comfort.


(But he can't risk it. Even if he's not leaning in. Even if it's just a touch, the kind they've shared dozens, hundreds of times, once Yuri grew more comfortable with him.


It's for him. It shouldn't be. It has to be for Yuri.)


His fingers curl back before they touch skin, and he pulls his hand away, feeling chagrined and stupid and like the floor might buck him off any second. "Are we going?"

Except that's not quite right. It's not what he wants to ask, what he needs to know.

Like that question. The one Yuri never answered.

Except not that one, either. He gave up that right. The one where Yuri should come with him. Or would want to.

He tries again, searching. Maybe a little more wistful than he has any right to be right now. "Can I come with you?"

[theglassheart]

He makes his hands focus. Pulled up. There's a hesitation, but his fingers flatten the back of the jacket and settle the collar, and he knows he's -- maybe he was wrong. Maybe the word is afraid. Maybe it's one of thousands. Just another drop in the sea that falls into and then out of him, to prove to him he's wrong, always wrong, always been wrong.

When his hands don't stay and don't shake, and Victor's turning to face him. His hands left in the air, with no purchase and no purpose, even when they hadn't been solid a second ago. Like his bravery, if it was even bravery to take three steps and help someone, without the ability to help themselves, put a jacket on in freezing weather is bravery, is gone.

Because Victor is staring down at him like. Like. He doesn't know words for this. Not in any language there. It's an unfocused and turbulent blue-green, familiar and lost all at once, and before he can even think to swallow, Victor is reaching out to him, again. To his face. And he freezes. Without that breath, but without running away or pulling away. His eyes shifting between the hand almost touching his cheek and the face above him.

Except Victor seems to be looking at his fingers, too. And everything is frozen like that.

Yuri's heart thudding in his heart. Ears. Uncertain. Painful. Trying to hold still. Maybe with a tremor. His eyes staying on Victor's face, even when Victor is and isn't looking at him back. Is looking at, Yuri doesn't even know what. In his face. Or on his own hand. Everything is just stuck. Frozen. Time counting seconds only in his labored heartbeats.

Too much. Too little. Almost something that would have been normal. Maybe felt real.

But then Victor drops his hand and everything in Yuri's heart goes right down with it.
It shouldn't be possible to feel this much, so quickly, without having taken a drink.


He isn't done, though. Victor. Victor who goes about asking one question, and then another. Basically, the same question for all intents and purposes and Yuri has to reach up to rub at his glasses, the way he's pretending he doesn't want to push them into his hair and scrub hard at his eyes. Not here. Not after everything else that's already happened here.

He pushed them back up on his nose and makes himself breathe in -- out -- take in this wistful, hopeful, sad expression above him and put out something the feels far more certain than he does about anything other than the fact two seconds ago his lungs proved they do still, in fact, work.

"I can't let you go anywhere else." It tries for something casual, but Yuri isn't sure it works.
Isn't sure he's truly, honestly, known what casual was a day in his life.
(But maybe he'd thought he was getting there. Before.)

Still, he makes his shoulders settle, like he does before starting, even if there isn't any music, willing himself to be more, be better, because Victor needs him still, and he slides an arm through Victor's closest arm, and takes a step toward the exit the others had gone toward, tugging him that way. "We should get you water, too."

[fivetimechamp]

He doesn't know what this face is, on Yuri's face.

(He might have thought he knew before, but that was before. Before five minutes ago. Before it turned out he couldn't read Yuri as well as he thought.)

It doesn't go away when he drops his hand, and he's not sure if that was the right thing to do, or not. He's all turned around, and he had way too much to drink: it's all hitting him now, like a freight train. He'd felt so good before, but now he just feels woozy and tired, and like he wants his bed.

(And.

Yuri.
To stay.)

But Yuri isn't pulling away, at least, and better, he isn't going anywhere. Which shouldn't be relieving, but it is, even when sounds more like you can't be trusted by yourself, and that's probably true. He's not sure what would happen, if he were left to his own devices tonight: call Chris, maybe. Gp to another bar and drink until he's insensible. But that would be selfish, too, wouldn't it? Yuri's first program is tomorrow.

And Yuri's arm is slipping into his, anyway, and Victor looks down at his dark head with the beginnings of a surprised and hopeful smile. "Okay."

Walking where Yuri directs him, as if Yuri hasn't dictated everywhere he's gone and everything he's done for almost two years. "I don't need water."

Testing the waters, to see if things are really okay, and. Alright. It's true, too. Trusting and simple. "I just need you."

[theglassheart]

He doesn't know why he isn't expecting it, when nothing is remotely stationary, except the ground, in the last ten, or twenty, or however long it's been or hasn't been. When he's both certain he heard that wrong -- and even before his gaze swings up, he's already certain he didn't, and that somehow that doesn't make it better.

Because he did. And it is. And Victor ... is smiling down at him now.
Flighty hope and starting light, where that space had been empty.

And Victor is drunk.

Which makes Yuri's gaze go back down the next second. Because that's what it is. What all of this is. Even if Yuri almost wants to roll his eyes at it, and the familiarity of it. Almost near to a hundred other things he'd say, somewhere that isn't here, isn't part of all of this, so close it makes the hairs on the back of his neck itch a little.

He's -- he doesn't know. Why it matters now. Why it hits harder at this second. That normal, every day, in and out, mischievous, teasing intensity of Victor's that keeps him on his toes, keeps him chasing the wind, every spin, every jump, every start, every ending, every second in-between. (But ... he does. ... doesn't he. It's too close. Everything is still so close. Victor is; and he can't let go of him.) Maybe it's what puts the extra of touch of willfulness in his voice, and makes his steps out of this place just a little faster.

"You're still going to drink the water."

[fivetimechamp]

"любит командовать," grumbled. Lyubit komandovat '. Bossy.

And he is. Has been. Is rebellious towards Victor's orders and ignores Victor's suggestions and defines Victor's days, weeks, months. "You don't get to order me around. I'm the coach, not you."

Even if his arm tightens, and his free hand comes across his own body find Yuri's forearm, as if to keep him there. Here. Next to him. Walking with him, even if it's a little faster than Victor, or Victor's head, would like. Even if Victor's feet, trained through decades on the ice, manage to keep up just fine.

The hostess waves as they head to the door, and Victor nods to her, but doesn't let go of Yuri. (He's got no idea what might happen if he did, how fast Yuri might disappear, how much more difficult to walk to their hotel, even if it's close by.

Is it? He can't remember.)

Outside, the air bites, but he barely feels it: even after a summer in Hasetsu, he's still used to the cold. Loves it. The way it pricks at his cheeks with an icy kiss, how it cools his flushed face and forehead.

Making him take a deep breath, that doesn't help with the spinning world around him, even if having Yuri's arm through his does.

Helps. He's forgiven enough to be able to touch him, at least: that's a good sign.

[theglassheart]

He doesn't know what the Russian is, and makes his head tip, almost to taking the bait. Not certain whether he wants to know if he just went from being called the only thing to the one being insulted in Russian, in less than a second. Which only backs up his earlier point to himself. The next words just cementing it, when Victor balks at the one thing Yuri is absolutely sure of.

That Victor is drunk, and Victor will need water.
He's seen it, often as Yu-topia. With Minako, his father, others.

He's had at least one day of history with it, too. Not that it was anything like this or those.

And instead it's petulance that's tossed at him, and something just shoots outward from inside of him. He can feel the words about to come out of his throat, about how he won't be if he's still drunk come morning, and it. He only means it one of the those two ways and not the other, but it never makes it out of his mouth, because Victor shifts again.

Right on the heels of his complaint to suddenly gripping Yuri's forearm with his other hand. Like he'd decided Yuri might suddenly push him off or away, or step away, or something? Just because of his words? And that just bricks everything back. Thorns and stones in his throat, taking away his voice. And what would be the point? If Victor is drunk and Victor can't keep anything straight from one sentence to the next.

If this was where this all went, why didn't he just have one drink?

(Why didn't he just let -- no.

No. No, he knows why he's here.
Tomorrow is bigger than all of this. )

Yuri's shoulders dip a little back, and he slows back down. He doesn't pay attention to the hostess, or the nice man who had helped them, or even the front door as they leave, but he stops for a second when they do step outside. When everything shifts from warmth and low warm yellow light to the breath of ice and the nightlights of Shanghai.

When the first thing he's found to say again is so completely innocuous, but he can't help wanting to say something and not being able to stop himself anymore, not knowing how long ago he stopped stopping himself, stopped needing a reason to justify it most of the time, "See. You needed your jacket."

And the rest of his clothes, and shoes. And the water. Yuri would just have to think for both of them, and try not to fall off the flat of the earth every two seconds when everything Victor said or did came from every angle he wasn't expecting it to. He looked up, a little beleaguered by the idea, but bolstered by the cool air finally taking fingertips and brushing away the lingering heat from the tops of his cheeks and neck.

"You can go back to being in charge once you're in the hotel room."

[fivetimechamp]

He didn't need his jacket, anymore than he needs anything past the weight of Yuri's arm in his, or Yuri's warm shoulder bumping into his, or the way Yuri looks up into his face, questioning enough that Victor has to thing back to make sure he's been using English.

(He can't remember.)

Scoffed: "Since when does cold bother Russians?"

(Sounding more like Yurio than he might know.)

It doesn't. Bother him. After the warmth inside the restaurant, it feels nice, even, and he's about to suggest that maybe he and Yuri walk around for a little bit, until Victor's head has stopped spinning and his feet have stopped floating and his stomach has agreed to settle back into its usual spot, when he says that.

And. Victor can't help but look down at him, blinking a drunken fog out of his eyes. Did he hear that right? Because it sounded like...

Like last winter. The winter before, even. The banquet. The Katsuki Yuri who took no prisoners and held his ground and implied everything, even if he never showed up.

(Even though Victor waited. Longer than he should have. Longer than anyone smarter than him would have. Waiting there in Sochi, until it became abundantly clear that Yuri wasn't going to show up at his door and make good on his promises.)

Unable to keep any of his thoughts from flooding across his face, he's sure, because he can barely feel his face, and Yuri just. That. He said that. And Victor knows that's not what he meant, but he can't help it, picturing it. Listening for the sound of Yuri's back hitting the door. Pushing, directing Yuri the way Yuri is pushing and directing him.

Not what Yuri meant. But it kicks the cover off the raw and pulsing want that has had nearly two years to expand and take on a life of its own, and he can feel it as a distant warmth in his cheeks. The way he did in those first few days at Yu-topia, when he couldn't take his eyes off Yuri.

Like now, except they're walking, and not looking where he's going is only going to make him stumble, no matter how many years he's trained to be light on his feet.

Annoyed with himself, when he catches his balance, because he knows better. Or did, before tonight.

And, yes. Maybe a little annoyed with Yuri, too. With the wait. With the hours that night, and how foolish he felt the next day.

With the whole year after, when he couldn't ever get it off his mind or out of his program. "Don't make promises you aren't willing to keep."

[theglassheart]

There really isn't any winning, is there? Wasn't he just telling himself that?

Just three or four seconds ago, before he was having to try and help Victor stay on his feet, which Victor scoffed at even the lightest thing he could think to say, scoffed at his needing to say something, inability to not try and help, as though he couldn't need help, and certainly not Yuri's help, and then started, and went about muttering a retort under his breath, like Yuri had been the one to insult the pride and honor he had for himself, or his country, or who knows what.

His having skills. Or a hoard of gold medals.

Or any fully present inability to keep anything straight. Which was, of course, Yuri's fault.

At least it's all in English this time? He doesn't even know it that's a plus or a minus. Like maybe Victor wants him to be able to hear it this time when he contradicts Yuri once again. There's something a little sterner as well as a little more than just stung in his tone, when he stops walking to ask, as obvious for being heard as it is having heard, "Do I need to make it a promise?"

"Do you need to be able to make me run the stairs or do a hundred sit-ups?"

Or -- but Yuri can't bring his throat or his mouth to form the rest bubbling up his head.

Even just to promise he can and that if Victor commands it there, he'll stop talking altogether and just leave him alone. Stop trying to help. Would it matter? Should it matter? If he can just say anything that would get Victor to agree to just walk a little further, drink some water, go to the hotel. Because he'd do it. The wind is blowing the ends of his hair, chill air starting to steal the edges of his ears, the tip of his nose, and he knows, he knows more than he should, that he would.

If it would help, somehow, someway, anywhere, even Victor's pride, but especially Victor's state, he'd do it.

He'd run the length of every floor on the building, before even considering going to sleep.