'It looked interesting.' Which is not a yes and not a no, because Yuri isn't stupid enough to either go for the obvious flattery or pretend to turn up his nose at it entirely. 'Like you were playing tag with yourself, or something. Though I wasn't sure where you were going with it the whole time -- whether you were trying to get away, or to be caught so you could be it next.' He almost leaves it at that, but then adds, 'Anyway, I wanted to see who might win.'

The winner is a foregone conclusion, of course. When you play tag with yourself, there are no second places. The game ends when you say it does.

You can't ever lose.

As if he'd been anticipating the chance, Yakov takes the opportunity to pounce. 'If you put half as much thought into working on your own sequences as you do into describing his,' he says, his pointed glare that rakes Yuri from top to toe, 'you might look less like a newborn calf staggering around on the ice in the middle of your free skate.'

It's a weak shot, and Yuri treats it with the bland disinterest he feels it deserves. 'He asked me if I liked it,' he says to Yakov, not giving an inch more than demanded of him. 'I told him what I thought.' Intent green eyes turn back to Viktor. 'Was I right?'