Yakov's scowl turns black. 'In my day, the Olympics used to mean something. Not merely another chance to show off how many rotations we could do. Even the Americans tried to put in some sort of effort back then, and that was a surprise in itself.'

But with his sour complaint, he hasn't missed the change in tone, or the unexpected shift in mood, as Viktor glides over. 'So what is it, then?' he says, and this time there's less scolding and more concern in his voice. 'Forget Sochi, forget Worlds for now. You've been talking like you have something in your teeth and you don't know what to do with it. What's going on with you, Vitya?'

It's at that moment that another sound carries across the ice, a faint clittering noise of something hitting the surface of the rink. It's followed by an irritated hiss, a low thud, and a grunt -- the sound of Yuri hauling himself bodily over the top of the wall, feet kicked up well over his head and right arm outstretched in a near-handstand, as he teeters on the fulcrum of his waist to retrieve the pencil that he'd dropped onto the ice.

For a moment, his balancing act doesn't look like it'll succeed, but a second later he's managed to grab the pencil, and with another kick of his legs he tips himself back into place on the right side of the wall, landing lightly on his toes.

And then he picks up his book again as if that completely didn't just happen.