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fivetimechamp) wrote2017-03-05 04:45 pm
fivetimechamp) wrote2017-03-05 04:45 pm
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Let's get hotpot! 6 November, 2014 - Shanghai, China
Probably he should be more bothered by what Yakov said –
– 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?"
(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?"
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And then meaning it. During and even after the Hot Springs.
Meaning it so much Yuri was worked from morning to night most days of the week.
Meaning it so much that even drunk he'd said he was excited, that he believed Yuri would surprise everyone.
Victor pulled him in closer, arms tightening, body pressing tighter, cheek bone and jaw, smoothing firmer against his hair, his head, with no warning, and Yuri tried not to wobble into Victor, or curve his shoulders inward, for not seeing that coming in the slightest, and might have failed at both, but he kept them moving at least.
He lost the focus of his thoughts but eyes on the prize. He wasn't rushing them, given Victor's disorientation and use of him, pretty completely, for all of the standing and walking. But it would be nice to sit down, lay down after it. Listen to his music. Maybe take a shower. He was used to running himself ragged, but he wasn't used to carrying someone his own weight or a little more for those distances.
"If he dislikes you for anything, it'll probably only be for the headache he has tomorrow."
The one he could only hope Victor wouldn't be nursing too badly himself.
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Or, more accurately, he hears Yuri, but the words go in one ear and straight out the other, like water spilling through loose fingers that only barely, belatedly, try to catch at it.
The things Celestino dislikes him for. His red face, and shaking voice, and his hand fisted in Yuri's shirt, and then at Yuri's chest, blocking him from Victor. Hauling Yuri away, out of the ballroom, while Yuri called out. "You should have come back."
After Celestino took him away.
They're going to a hotel room. It's Sochi, and all Victor can taste is champagne and all he can see is diffused golden light. It's Shanghai, and all he can taste is rice wine, and all he can feel is an icy breeze kissing his cheeks and tugging his hair, and he has to look down to make sure Yuri's still there, because he can't feel him there under Victor's arm, anymore, and he doesn't understand. It's been two years, and it's been eight months, and he still doesn't understand, and it's frustrating, because being frustrated is better than being hurt. Even if that's there, too.
Alone in the hotel room. Humiliating himself with the wait. Every petty, sore feeling that he put into the story of Eros, riding right alongside the seduction and the passion: the fickleness of the playboy, how easily he casts his conquest aside.
He doesn't understand it. It isn't Yuri. But it is. Was. It happened, even if Yuri's been pretending it didn't. "I waited for you."
It's still sore. He hadn't thought it was. Had thought he'd gotten over it: the disappointment, the embarrassment, the longing, the frustrated inability to understand.
Thoughts running like water, connecting and breaking apart again, and he doesn't remember how he got started on this, or what he's said already, but it just keeps spilling. "I didn't change my mind."
Which is a little desperate, because it's the only thing he can think of. The only reason Yuri didn't. He didn't call, and he didn't come right away, but he didn't change his mind, and Yuri should know.
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Looking down with that confused question in his face that breaks on finding Yuri's only looking right back up, still where he's been since he decided to slip under Victor's arm. Unable to do anything but smile. A little helplessly. He's never seen Victor look like this, and he's not sure he'll forget it entirely, even when it melts back into Victor being himself, and his coach, tomorrow for The Cup.
His face wrinkled at Victor's first words, and he didn't answer.
That was better, right? Not answering, and not trying to jump to conclussions about it. About not understanding. About not taking it personally. He could take it with some patience. He didn't understand, and Victor might not even have any clue what he was talking about anyway. Five seconds ago it was Celestino stealing him, and now, without any comment on the topic again, it was about how Yuri should have come back to him, that he'd been waiting for Yuri, when he's not waiting anywhere.
When Victor hasn't had to wait anywhere, except during his interviews, all today.
But something about his tone when he speaks again -- sounds desperate? Panicked? Like he's afraid Yuri isn't listening? Like maybe Victor had forgot for a moment and remembered, and had to remind Yuri, so Yuri hadn't forgotten, too. In the last four or five minutes.
It shouldn't make something warm in his chest strangely.
It shouldn't be annoying, shouldn't it? But it isn't.
It's not even truly exasperation this time.
Yuri just glances to the side Victor is all but laying on him, toward his face, "That's okay." He's still not going anywhere, and he thinks maybe he has a slightly better grip on this. Maybe. "We're almost there now, and then you can lay down."
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Maybe too late?
But then why would Yuri skate that piece. Why would he be here. How could the last eight months have happened.
The closer they grow, the more confused he gets.
And now Yuri's brushing him off, like he's rambling, like he's not making sense, like he's just being Victor, the way Yuri sometimes does get when Victor is enthusing at some new thing or another, or changing his mind, mercurial, or when he's forgotten something. When he's being Victor, the easily distracted, the forgetful.
But he didn't. "I didn't forget," he protests, even as Yuri's directing him towards ... something, he isn't paying attention, looking more at Yuri than at the sidewalk or where they're headed, because this is important. Maybe the most important. "I didn't. Forget."
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"Okay." He's trying to rebalance them. They really are so close. When he's tightening his fingers in the jacket in case Victor decides to suddenly move in any other direction right after, even as his other hand is catching the front of Victor. Not quite sure what he'd aimed for, but ending up somewhere below his shoulder and not quite the center of his shirt, and to keep them moving.
Trying to make his voice placating, even when he's uncertain what will help.
"Okay. You didn't forget." Whatever he didn't forget. Whatever it is that seems suddenly so important to Victor that it's replaced any other focus he'd had about complaining about the hotel being too far, or wanting Yuri to stay. About, he doesn't know.
He tries, maybe for distracting, while tugging Victor forward still, adding quietly and more gently chidingly, "That's definitely not something you would do."
Except for how it absolutely kind of is. Which they all know.
His showmanship and his showing up not exactly on the same lines.
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But. "It was supposed to be the story."
A new one, for him: old hat for everyone else. All those things he'd acted out, on the ice, without knowing how they actually felt, relying on music and choreography and the few flings he'd had here and there, that had never measured up to the way he loved to skate or his need to surprise.
(He can still surprise people.)
"The story ... любовь с первого взгляда."
Like Cinderella. Except he's blinking in sudden light, now, and there's a glass door, not slipper, in the way, that he has to let go of Yuri's hand to push at, even though his fingers and palm feel numb when they press against the door. "We're here."
The hotel. The room. Almost. But Yuri said they're going together, so that's fine.
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There's only a single word Yuri understands -- любовь.
In anything other than the year he's currently living, it would probably be far more awkward to try and explain how the first things he learned in Russian, at least to recognize by ear, were words in the categories of love and seduction. It doesn't help him with the rest of the sentence, or the Russian itself, which is complicated for what research he has done into in rare spare moments.
Complicated seems a good word for the whole Russian language. Yuri doesn't know whether Victor is talking about a love story, or something he loves about a story. Or whether it's wholly unrelated to the beginning of that sentence, when he shifted languages, maybe shifting topic just as fast as he had only minutes ago. The uncertainty, laced with the thickness of Victor's speech, makes it even easier to doubt himself.
But it isn't that that stumps him. Not the Russian, and not that one possibly right-heard word.
No, it's not either of those. It's the way Victor's voice suddenly sounds almost ...
That even to get to that word, that idea, it takes a second of basically trying to trace through every interaction he's ever had with Victor. Because Victor is sunlight, and snow, and absolute magic ice, and yes, exuberance, exasperation, belabored lists of what he's done wrong, so much tact bluntness Yuri still blushes at the brashness of it sometimes, even used to it. He's even heartstoppingly hard to look at sometimes, especially because he knows it just as much as the rest of the world does, likes to play with and off of it.
But Yuri doesn't think he's ever seen Victor sad. Heard this tone of his. In any language. Ever.
It leaves him blinking at the next statement, and the realization they are at the door, because that had stolen his focus finally. From the building and his feet and the room, and it's still tangled around his feet, like his laces came undone in the middle of his skate. Trying to place whatever that had been in Victor's voice with the unhelpful nothing all that different in his face. Wanting to know, suddenly, how that sentence ended.
Even as he's catching up to the next two words, shouldering in through the door Victor opens, "I did tell you."
He pushed them across the lobby and headed toward right hallway, and elevator, asking, "Keycard?"
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Beneath the blurriness, his expression has gone wistful, and he makes no move to pat his pockets or find his wallet, only obediently walks with Yuri through the door and into the hotel lobby, their shoes making soft sounds on the hard floor.
"A fairy tale."
Said to no one in particular, as he's directed into the elevator. As soon as he speaks, he forgets, in favor of leaning against the elevator wall with a sigh, shoulders slumped and eyes drifting closed. He's tired, and it's a relief to lean on something.
Even if he'd just been leaning on Yuri. Making him crack an eye open, to try and remember how he got here: the door opened, they went through the lobby, Yuri hit the button, and then deposited him here.
He thinks.
It takes him a second, but he finally finds Yuri still there in the elevator with him, and relaxes, eyes drifting closed again.
(If he'd heard the question earlier, it's a good bet he's already forgotten it.)
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It's not that it will change the need for it or that he doesn't have anything else to say, even if that might have been true most of a year ago, when he had a million thought but none of them added up to words. Now he has words that collect and try to escape. Thoughts that get tangled up in his breathing, and in the way Victor is leaning against the wall in the hallway and then the wall in the elevator.
The soft fringe of hair over his eye, brushing his cheek, and his closed eyes.
There'd been two words, but they are the least surprising of words. Even if the context is maddeningly lost on those closed eyes, those liquid shoulders, and however many bottles of miju Victor drank and drowned his own brain with. It's hard not to stare, and as much as he's over that -- not so much what or who he's staring at, or what that does to him sometimes, but more the staring itself, and how he doesn't have to stare at his shoes and walls all the time when he catches himself -- it's still not past feeling too much.
Victor has been skating perfect fairytales, always new and different, since before Yuri even knew the English words for the idea.
It never seems to bother him that he isn't now, even if Yuri is still afraid to ask about that. To shatter the thinnest of blown bubbles, that impossible comparison between himself and Victor, between the promise of any season Victor was in and his own about to start. It's filling his throat, chest, mouth for a moment. But it's not a question his stomach is ready for even now, especially not now.
Not with the Cup tomorrow, and not with Victor's face (the shiver to it, when he opens his eyes and Yuri holds still, as those eyes find him and then, soft as silence, close right back up, again) seeming paler than normal, Victor probably incapable of answering it anyway. The elevator ding is quiet, but it sounds too loud against his thoughts.
Still Yuri clears his throat, and shifts over by him, to slide a hand and his arm between Victor and the elevator wall, "Just one last hallway."
One hallway and one locked door, but somewhere on Victor would be the card. But maybe he'd try that, again, at the actual room door, when there weren't still steps between where they were and there that Victor still had to make it through.
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no no no no no NO
Yuri had made it clear he didn't want that.
Like tonight. He'd forgotten, and now he remembers, and it makes him wince, eyebrows furrowing together while he lifts a hand to rub at his temples, trying to either stop the pounding there, or cease the replay his brain has decided to screen for him, in perfect color, if fuzzy detail: Yuri, horrified, face gone pale and red at the same time, eyes wide, pushing away as hard as he could.
He's such a fool.
But there's a hand behind him, levering him carefully off the wall, and he blinks his eyes open, fuzzily surprised that the elevator door has opened when he's pretty sure he hasn't stopped moving, yet. At least, the floor seems pretty unreliable, like shifting sand, but Yuri's coaxing him out, and he goes. He always tries to do what Yuri wants.
It's ironic, when he's the coach.
But the hallway, at least, doesn't move, even if it does double in front of him, so he has to squint one eye closed to tell where he's going, and it's either shorter than he remembered, or time is blipping, because it seems like only seconds before he's against another wall, this time next to a door, and Yuri's saying something that Victor can't quite pay attention to.
To distracted just watching him. Eyes caught, even bleary and tired and glassy, heart snagging.
He's so cute.
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The one Victor isn't giving up, because Victor seems to have given up even confusing responses for none.
Except without looking away from Yuri, like somehow he's become a spotlight Victor's eyes keep following.
He should have remembered his own card. He should have, but he'd been so focused on getting to the rink and knowing the other skaters and coaches might be there, and interviews were likely for him, too, once he made an appearance, and he'd never thought about it, not even when changing for dinner. Assumed Victor had to have it, along with the arrangements to get everything up here before them.
He'd never thought this was where he'd be on the opposite side of the day. Saying Victor's name to no response, after asking more than once and explaining that it was necessary to get inside. To the bed, and water, and ... everything else.
Leaving him looking nervously, and maybe even almost a little annoyed, at the empty long stretch of hallways both ways, and he could go back down to the lobby and request another, but that would involve either dragging Victor, the now-not-talking, back down with him, or leaving him here, which seemed an even worse idea given his state ... and he had to have it on him, right?
Even if he couldn't be helpful about where. Leaving him looking at Victor in front of him.
"Okay, so we're just going to have to--" Yuri had to do this before that thought of doing it caught up with his stomach any harder than it already had, with a scriggle of a hand through his hair, only mussing it up, before taking a step in, hands raised a little wardingly at first, like a sign that he didn't mean any harm, even as he had to drop them, setting closer into Victor's space, to try his jacket pockets.
Which has exactly .... nothing in them. Well. Not nothing. But nothing helpful.
There's nothing about chapstick that's going to help him get them inside.
He really doesn't want to think about what that means, but he's stumped by it all the same for a moment. Eyes going from the top of Victor's jacket to the bottom of it, and he's positive his neck is already too warm. He really should have planned better. He was never going to go anywhere without a room card now. Maybe he'd even sleep with his tonight now. There's nothing to do but go for it though.
He tries really hard not to think about it (but he's failing). His fingers aren't entirely steady, but he gets the jacket open, and there's a shift and the something that tries very hard not to be a squeak of, "Gomen, gomen," before he's trying to pat Victor's pockets, in the most unhelpful fashion, that basically almost avoids touching (Victor, Victor's pants, those pockets on him) almost at all at first. Which is. He knows. Idiotic. He just. He's. Victor's.
There's a gulp, before forcing himself to curl his fingers around the edges and into those pants pockets (his ears must be blistering).
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How cute he is. How close he is. A faint smile touching his mouth, at the way Yuri's hair falls every which way after fingers scrub through it, and he's about to reach up to run his own into that silky dark mess, when there's weight in his pockets, that makes him pause, and look down.
To where Yuri's hands are in his jacket pockets, and Victor blinks at them, before looking up, and ––
Yuri is so much closer now. Suddenly. Face only inches away, even if there's a look there like he's trying to ease a stick out of a trap without having it shut its jaws on his hand, gritting his teeth like this, whatever he's doing, requires surgical precision and caution, and Victor looks down again, trying to determine what's happening, and only coming up with:
Yuri's hands are in his pockets. And that means Yuri is close enough –– almost –– to be pressed up against him, squeaking apologies that only make Victor's smile flash, brilliant and affectionate.
It's charming. He's charming. And Victor just keeps being charmed by him, day in and day out, on the ice, in the bath, all day, every night. By his bashfulness. His grit and determination. His skill. His shy sense of humor. The times when he laughs, unexpected and absolutely pure.
He's so naive. It's difficult to parse Yuri's purity with the demonic force of pure eros that yanked Victor's beating heart out of his chest and refused to give it back, but somehow, they both exist. And when Yuri's this close, reminding him, he can't remember why he's been trying to hard to hold back.
Disappointed when the weight leaves his jacket pockets, and he almost says something, but then Yuri's even closer, closer enough Victor can feel nervous puffs of breath against his mouth, when he tips his head down, and find's Yuri's forehead with his own, one hand going to Yuri's neck, the thumb tracking slow along his jaw, and then there are fingers beginning to work their way into his pockets and he snorts a faint, sly laugh.
Yuri's hands all over him. (But not. Not the way he wants. Not the way they should.) Victor's lips curling into a smile, eyes gone half-lidded and heavy, as much from that touch as from the alcohol.
"Don't apologize."
It's a little blurry, but it's fine. It's fine. Yuri doesn't need to apologize for touching him. He never needs to apologize for touching him. Touching Victor shouldn't be a thing he should need to be sorry about.
His free arm coming up to Yuri's shoulders to go around them, and keep him here. Close. If not as close as he wants. When it would be so easy ––
But all he does is shift to make it easier for Yuri's hands to slide into those pockets, and watch him.
Unable to even think of doing anything else.
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Not because of that finger (but because of it, too), but because looking up in first startled surprise of Victor moving at all.
Reacting in a way that wasn't brushing his hands away or suddenly startling and realizing what Yuri was doing. Had him looking up into Victor's eyes. So close. Too close. And they are. Gone glassy. He wants to say blown dark, but it's wrong. Unless there's a way for something to be blown dark only by getting brighter. More luminous. Inescapably beautiful, piercing, light in those colors. Even unfocused. There's no poster, no picture, that captured this.
The way it feels like just looking up is capturing him. Again, all over again.
Like every poster. Every picture. But real. Breath on his lips, near brush of his nose.
(Even if there's every chance Victor is not looking at him, looking through him)
Telling him not to apologize as those eyes half close again. Still smiling. About what Yuri can't even guess.
He has to focus. He has to. The keycard. The hotel room. Getting Victor in bed. Into his own bed.
It muddles, hard to swallow still, almost so desperate for a word he nearly apologizes about apologizing and instead bite's his lip, looking down instead as Victor other arm completes the bars of some new Victor-shaped cage around him. Not the same as walking. (He pushes his hands into Victor's front pockets.) Not the same as Victor leaning on him. (Trying not to think about all the places his fingers or the backs of his hands are brushing Victor.) Not the same as him leaning on the wall, or elevator, or wall. (Failing. Failing entirely.)
(It doesn't even matter that he's seen all of Victor.
Countless times. Tonight most recently even.
It's not a thing Victor thinks about.
Never touched him then.
Not more than rarely.
Well above the belt.
Almost only at no choice but to.
Not like Victor who pulled Yuri bodily out of a bath,
And moved all of Yuri's bare body with his hands,
At his own convenience. Carelessly.)
There's nothing. (Except Victor's laughing breath on his cheek, and Victor's arm on his shoulders, head on his forehead, hand around his neck.) He has to take a breath in, even if it won't go far, because there is only one other place then. (When he's getting his hands back there, he finally stumbles on just what this would look like if someone were to walk into the hallway. What it would look like they were ... doing.)
Which maybe means when his fingers land on both of Victor's back pockets (and Victor's...), and one of them is the obvious rise of his wallet (and one of them ... definitely isn't), his hands move a little faster suddenly. Startlingly fast. Maybe like he burned himself. To pull it back to him. Cheeks a pained flame, shoulders curling, even when collapsing inward would do him no good, because Victor would just sink down on top of him then.
His head is ducked and he's opening it, in the bare space left between their bodies (Invasive, but so much less than he's already--), saying, "You better have it in here somewhere," while starting to flick through things with nimble (but either numb or burnt fingers) dexterity, even as his mind supplies all too helpfully the possibility it got dropped on the floor of the hot pot restaurant. He'd seen the wallet then, but never looked for the card.
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(even if Victor can barely feel it)
and leaves him looking like a cat about to lick cream from its whiskers. "It's alright."
Except the English is clunky and feels wrong in his mouth, nothing like how he feels, nothing like what he means or wants. “Можешь потрогать меня, где захочешь.”
Said low, only a bare breath away from Yuri's nose and mouth, because even leaning like this, Victor is taller than him, and Yuri is not taking the kind of time Victor would prefer. Hands slipping in and out of pockets like he thinks something in there might bite him, with his cheeks and ears flushed fiery red and his expression ...
Victor's not sure what it is. If he's seen it before. It's fascinating him, and even once Yuri has his wallet and is flipping through it, grumbling about what Victor does or doesn't have in there (he can't remember the question), he can't look away.
Not letting him go, because Yuri hasn't pulled away. Eyes hooded and soft, and. Expectant. Waiting. Sometime soon, Yuri has to understand, right? Even if Victor has to tell him, point blank.
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In a shock that makes his body start.
He's apologizing before he can stop himself, too many times, scattershot, and he's never ever going to stop blushing, even as he's bending down, to get the cards and Victor's wallet. One between Victor's feet and the other off in the middle of the hall at their side. Trying to check the floor to see if anything went rolling somewhere else. Frantic. Nerves frazzled like he grazed a wire.
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Too drunk for, too dizzy for, when Yuri looks up, and his eyes widen, and their lips nearly brush ––
But he misses it, and in the next blink, Yuri's ducked out from his arms to search around the floor, apologizing (again) as if he has anything to be sorry about (again), as if this isn't all Victor.
Victor, and his inability to let go of one glimmering night.
Victor, and how he'd pined through fifteen months like a lovesick teenager, latching on to any small piece of news, even after Yuri disappeared from skating.
Victor, and how he'd given up everything for a second chance, because he'd thought that video meant something more than it did.
Victor, and Victor's foolish heart, that even now won't stop aching, even as his hands fall to his sides and his head keeps spinning in a cheap facsimile of the way Yuri turned his world upside-down at the banquet in Sochi.
(He'd tried. He had.
Even if maybe he should have tried harder. Cut these feelings out of himself entirely.
He'd thought he was doing so well. They've grown so close. He's loved coaching Yuri.
But this was still sitting there,
Softly: "Мне жаль."
No, wait. It takes a second to catch up, because it feels so much more natural, but it wasn't right. "Sorry."
Again.
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Yuri pushed himself back up, pushing the things that had come half out of the wallet back in it. The card in his hand, still slightly trembling, making himself step toward the door, and say, "It's okay."
It is okay. It is. They're here. He has the key. He's just an idiot, an absolute idiot, and Victor is drunk. Not that it changes the fact Victor happens to be .. is .. Victor. That he can't finish that thought without his cheeks just staying hot, just proves it more. He's an idiot. A child. Twenty-three, and a child, and an absolute idiot.
(Victor is the still-current reigning champion of the skating world. A Living Legend. A universally agreed upon International Sex Symbol. Even as his coach, who exists in Yuri's personal space more than anyone ever has. Even drunk, deciding none of the space left was Yuri's anymore either, or maybe forgetting it existed at all, because he's drunk.)
At least the door chimes, the light turning green, and the door opens under his fingers, on an ink-black room. He'd like to just find the darkest corner of it and curl up there, but he can't yet. He slides the card back into Victor's wallet, keeping the one in one hand, one foot pressed against the open door at the bottom, and he reached out for Victor's arm again. "Come on. We made it."
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(No. It's not Sochi. It's Shanghai.
And Yuri came with him, this time.
Even if it's not how it was supposed to be.)
Sighing as he shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, and let's it drop onto something that's probably a chair. "It's not even that late."
At least, he doesn't think it is, even if he feels a little like he's been run over by a truck.
(One full of vodka.)
But he's tired, even if it's not actually that late, and maybe that's a good thing, he thinks, as he sets a hand against a wall to balance himself as he toes off his shoes and lets them roll wherever, as his hazy mind tries to make the connection he'd had before. "At least you can get some sleep before tomorrow."
Because that's what a coach would say. And he's Yuri's coach. Only Yuri's coach. That's the only thing he's supposed to be.
(But Yuri told him to just stay Victor, and to be Victor is to be in love with Yuri, so that doesn't help.)
More pressingly, though, is the other result of drinking all through dinner, and he detaches himself from the wall to wander away, towards the bathroom, to take care of it, blinking smarting eyes when he flips the lightswitch on and the room floods, giving him a look at himself once he's finished and the water is running so he can wash his hands and splash his face and sip cold tap water from a cupped palm.
(He looks tired. Rumpled. A little flushed at the cheeks. A little glassy-eyed.
A little too desperate. That's a look he hates.)
Happier once he can hit the switch again and head back to the main room, already shucking his shirt up off his shoulders and tossing it somewhere near his jacket, and hands already headed for his pant buttons.
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But no crashes or curses sound from the bathroom.
The first noise that does, is normal. For a bathroom, at least.
He sits down on the end of Victor's bed to wait for him. Regardless of what Victor said, Yuri was fine with the night ending. With just being done with this. Even if thinking that made his stomach jolt. Made him remember what should have been impossible to forget. That thinking that had reminded him. The Short Program. The China Cup starts tomorrow morning. How had that skipped his mind for even a second?
That was, even more, reason to just lay down and pull his pillow over his head and hold it there until he stopped breathing or fell asleep. He's still rubbing at his eyes, maybe his brain through his eyes, when the door opens, and by the time he manages to look up, pushing his glasses back down, Victor is already shirtless and aimed for naked again.
Maybe that makes sense in some other world even, as a step for getting into bed, but all it does, unlike being part of any logic at all, is make words explode from Yuri's mouth in a new paroxysm of panic, while he looks valiantly toward the wall since it would be harder to turn around on the bed, which is Victor's bed. "Did you have some water?"
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Did he?
His mouth feels a little fresher, so he thinks he did, but it doesn't really matter, anyway, because there's the bed, and there's Yuri, and Victor just sits on the mattress, aiming to search for a pillow to clutch underneath his pounding head, eyes closing, but it wouldn't quite feel right.
(Even if it would, soft and perfect and clean and crisp against his cheek, the air already cooling the flushed bare skin of his arms and back and chest and stomach.)
Before his eyes slit open, like the suspicious glare of a sleeping dragon, because Yuri had said, earlier. About the water. Being bossy. In a tone that makes Victor suspect he might try to get up, and get a glass, and force Victor to drink it, and that is such a terribly vexing idea that he leans over to just loop an arm around Yuri's waist, and haul him up the mattress with him, huffing out a huge sigh, like Maccachin flopping to the floor after a run, when he finds the top of the bed and the pillows there with his cheek and his other arm.
Because he really does want that pillow, but he wants Yuri there with him, more.
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Yuri is terribly torn between raising a hand to shield the side of his face and keep him from looking, and from looking, because there should be an answer. But that can't have been enough for Victor to lose his pants and find sleep pants, and Victor might be naked, again, like it's one of his natural states, and Victor might be fine with that, but Yuri just isn't. Still. Not for a second time tonight. Not for the millionth time this year.
He's about to try and turn his head, keeping his gaze averted, to try and find at least Victor's face, even in the dark, when suddenly a long arm snags around his center and he's jerked from his seat. To the bed itself, still bouncing beneath him, them, bouncing his body, while it's still smacking right into Victor's very likely, entirely undressed, body, AGAIN, while Victor is huffing and moving still.
The whole shock and desperate realization making his arms and legs shoot out, wildly,
as he shouts Victor's name and tries to break free so he can scramble right back off the bed.
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Not for water.
Not for another bed.
(Not for fifteen months, with no sign or signal.)
Yuri is back to wiry strength, and he's faster than Victor is right now, but Victor is still bigger and stronger and he can just tighten that arm around Yuri's middle and drag him in flush against his own chest and stomach and mold around him, a leg slipping over Yuri's to pin him here, in place, while he snuffles a low contented rumble of hmmmmmm into the mess of Yuri's hair.
Relaxing, boneless, even as Yuri struggles to get away, as if he and this bed are nothing but quicksand, drawing Yuri in closer the more he scrambles to get out. Voice gone low and rusty and too warm and too satisfied and too everything that has made Yuri keep trying to get away from him, tonight, but he can't help it. He's drunk and tired and all he wants he has right in the circle of his arms, and he just needs Yuri to:
"Stay."
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When everything is trying to explode in his head, desperate panic, and some pleading, except it's a well of words that are all tumbling, shooting, sparking unhelpfully. "What are you-?!" The arm around his waist, which won't pry up at his fingers, drags him back only hard, tighter, more flush to Victor. "Victor? Victor!" Who is not listening. Again. As a leg wraps around him, too, and Victor's face, he's pretty sure, is in his hair.
As a sudden blast of all too warm air hits his skin and makes it prickle everywhere, as Victor finally finds his mouth ... for something that is not any more help that any other part of him right now. When his own voice sounds a little too desperate in his ears, "You were supposed to be going to bed."
Before he decided to change it to this. Whatever this is. Whyever. He can't think straight about that. About anything. Because Victor is taller than him, stronger than him -- if he ever had a true question about it before this moment, it's gone. When he can't pry up that arm, or push down that leg, and he can't even quell the shock for relief at the fact his hand had found that Victor did still have clothing over the skin on leg.
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With the straightforward logic of the very drunk, because he is. Yuri never said anything about Victor not bringing him to bed, too.
(Even if it's not ...
Even like this, he knows he should let Yuri go. That he should be responsible, and less selfish, and release Yuri to go do whatever it is Yuri wants to go do, but his eyelids are growing heavy, and when he bends his head, he finds the back of Yuri's neck, soft tender skin and warmth, and a faint pulse that's thudding at a much higher pace than Victor's own. "I just want you."
English is getting harder and harder, making him have to amend more and more. Even if it's true, it's not ––
Yuri doesn't have to worry. He knows. What isn't wanted. "Here."
Where are all of his words? He's known English for as long as he's known the ice, and almost as well, but none of it seems to mean what he wants it to mean. What he wants to say. What Yuri needs to understand.
That Victor wants him, here, in the circle of his arms, in this bed.
And Victor never wants to leave him, or the ice they share.
And Victor doesn't know how to say what Yuri means, or why, when all of his words are landing like lead on his tongue and the only refuge he can find is speaking them low into the nape of Yuri's neck. Trying to pick out the meanings, like the princess in the old fairy tales trying to pluck beans and peas from a pile of ashes. "Just you."
Only Yuri. Yuri is ... singular. Yuri is ... Yuri. Yuri is ...
"You're ..."
Everything Victor can't have. Everything he wants. The one who called him out here to begin with. The one who put the idea of coaching into his head in the first place. The one who demanded his attention and wouldn't let go.
"The only one."
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Victor is shifting and Yuri for the life of him, still stuck in fight-or-flight, even though he's been denied, he's lost but not given up, is trying figure out if Victor's arm or leg will loosen, and is not expecting Victor's entire face to press into the back of his neck suddenly. Everything popping with dramatic, painful clarity. The smoothness of his skin, breaking for a forehead head, a nose there. Cheekbones. The chill of either winter, or water from the bathroom on them. The suddenly, startling, scalding, heat of his breath.
Making Yuri's heart and his stomach do something explosive he can't describe, can only try to hold on for dear life through. Fingers digging into the sheet and blanket, and his own other shoulder, while it feels like everything in him goes impossibly hot, too big, too small, and too stuck. Unable to even process, behind startling pain and startling heat, because that is only one beat, and in the next one, Victor's lips are brushing his skin and Yuri must nearly bite through his lip when he shakes.
And.
And.
And.
He's gone insane. He has. Or Victor has. It's probably him. Victor is just drunk. He's the one who's gone insane. He always was mentally weak, and now. Now. Now. He's just snapped. The darkness of the room pressing into his suddenly wide open eyes, blurred brightness of twinkling Shanghai from when Victor last through the curtains open so much earlier, while Victor's mouth brushes his skin on occasional words and he's speaking directly into Yuri's bones.
Yuri's skin catching on fire, heating everywhere, while his bones try to melt.
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