Yakov's expression is the settling, deepening lines of weathered granite, as if he is the foundation beneath Saint Isaac's, creaking and groaning under the weight of the cathedral, but, like that foundation, he remains firm. His back may be older now, but it is no less ramrod straight, and strong enough for his skaters to lean on, if they need it.

A weakness which Yakov's expression suggests is evident here, but Victor doesn't feel weak, or tired, even if he'd been exhausted only a quarter of an hour and two run-throughs of his step sequence before. He feels jittery and restless, like he'd indulged in too many sweet treats and tea, even if he's been on the same bland, boring, nutritious diet for what feels like centuries. "Fine."

Everything feels a little off. He's distracted, and it's showing. Yakov is unsettled, sharp eyes piercing through him, seeking the source of all their troubles, but he doesn't feel like giving a detailed account of something Yakov would only find sentimental and absurd, and Yakov has Yuri there to focus on for the next few hours.

All of which sends him pushing off from the ice to take his cooldown, strokes long and smooth, breathing in deep to feel the bite of cold rink air, arms extending as he traces wide loops and figures around the ice.

(He wonders how loudly Yakov will yell if he uses this time to work out some of the smoother kinks in Agape.)