Виктор Никифоров (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fivetimechamp) wrote2017-11-26 09:31 pm
fivetimechamp) wrote2017-11-26 09:31 pm
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It's a perfect night for some fireworks!
When he'd said "rest day," he'd meant rest day. He's not really sure Yurio and Yuri had wholly understood him when he'd told them that taking a break is part of training, too, and they'd more or less spent the afternoon trying to escape back to the rink and their short programs and their training.
Which means they're still over-thinking it.
Which means they still aren't relaxing. Not at the spring festival, not at the hot spring, not at any of their evening meals or early morning runs. He knows he can't actually force them to relax, but it just about has him befuddled.
(Yurio, at least, he shouldn't be surprised by. He's only been working with Yakov for a short while, rinkmates with Victor for only the last few years, and he's never seen Victor do anything other than throw himself, body and soul, into his training, has he?
Especially this last winter.
Especially the winter before that.)
Still, for better or worse, he's the coach right now, and as their coach, he's certain they both need a break, or else they'll snap well before their debut at Onsen on Ice in only a few days' time. The day at the festival hadn't been the magic bullet, but he can admit it was more his style than either of theirs: both Yuris dislike large crowds and neither of them are very keen on interacting with people. It's an alien notion to Victor, but he'd have to be blind not to see that they both look a little more ragged and edgy than they had before -- and whatever Yakov might say, he's not so self-involved that he can't tell they need a change of pace.
Which has brought them here, to the seaside, as the sun settles deep into the water, and Victor sits back on his haunches, hands dangling between his knees, watching with pleasure as the little fire he'd built begins to seek out and consume the twigs he'd piled for tinder, before catching on some larger branches. It's still warm, but the night air is likely to cool down soon, and he wants both Yuris to stay healthy.
Besides, is there anything more relaxing than a cheerful bonfire on an otherwise empty beach?
He'd wheedled Yuri's mother into a basket of goodies to share for dinner, and it's full of simpler fare than they had at the festival, but no less toothsome (his stomach is already rumbling), and there's no one but Maccachin and some gulls to share it with. Despite the warm weather, it's still too early for most beach goers.
Which means the three of them are here alone.
Which means that finally, finally, they might begin to relax a little. "Wow! Look at that."
That being the sky over the sunset waters, glinting a fiery path. "What a beautiful spot. I wish the water weren't still so cold."
Which means they're still over-thinking it.
Which means they still aren't relaxing. Not at the spring festival, not at the hot spring, not at any of their evening meals or early morning runs. He knows he can't actually force them to relax, but it just about has him befuddled.
(Yurio, at least, he shouldn't be surprised by. He's only been working with Yakov for a short while, rinkmates with Victor for only the last few years, and he's never seen Victor do anything other than throw himself, body and soul, into his training, has he?
Especially this last winter.
Especially the winter before that.)
Still, for better or worse, he's the coach right now, and as their coach, he's certain they both need a break, or else they'll snap well before their debut at Onsen on Ice in only a few days' time. The day at the festival hadn't been the magic bullet, but he can admit it was more his style than either of theirs: both Yuris dislike large crowds and neither of them are very keen on interacting with people. It's an alien notion to Victor, but he'd have to be blind not to see that they both look a little more ragged and edgy than they had before -- and whatever Yakov might say, he's not so self-involved that he can't tell they need a change of pace.
Which has brought them here, to the seaside, as the sun settles deep into the water, and Victor sits back on his haunches, hands dangling between his knees, watching with pleasure as the little fire he'd built begins to seek out and consume the twigs he'd piled for tinder, before catching on some larger branches. It's still warm, but the night air is likely to cool down soon, and he wants both Yuris to stay healthy.
Besides, is there anything more relaxing than a cheerful bonfire on an otherwise empty beach?
He'd wheedled Yuri's mother into a basket of goodies to share for dinner, and it's full of simpler fare than they had at the festival, but no less toothsome (his stomach is already rumbling), and there's no one but Maccachin and some gulls to share it with. Despite the warm weather, it's still too early for most beach goers.
Which means the three of them are here alone.
Which means that finally, finally, they might begin to relax a little. "Wow! Look at that."
That being the sky over the sunset waters, glinting a fiery path. "What a beautiful spot. I wish the water weren't still so cold."
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Yuri is still not entirely certain why they are on the beach. He, hypothetically, gets why he should have to take rest days -- to not overexert and injure themselves while practicing -- even if nothing about today has felt restful. In fact the whole of it has felt like the only thing he wanted to do was get his skates and go. Or run. Or, or, or. Sitting still is a lot harder. There's too much time to think when he's sitting still.
About the fact the Victor Nikiforov is here. Training him. For a competition, where he either wins or loses Victor Nikiforov, as his coach for this year's Grand Prix circuit. Yuri tells himself when he wakes up in the morning, at some point that won't sound crazy, and he won't be still a little surprised they both truly exist at the breakfast table each morning, and it'll probably be the right after he loses, and both Russian's are gone.
But today is not that day. Again.
Even if today has been maddeningly restless, and Victor has seemed at carelessly frustrated at neither of them wanting to listen and it had lead to another his I have an idea moments. Even if this one wasn't about getting in touch with one of the programs. Which, far be it for Yuri to think anything more than everything was strange already, but that not-skating I have an idea and I need to try this or that or go here or there seemed to happen a lot around the skating, too, since Victor arrived.
More than anyone save Phichit ever foisted at him, and Phichit was always a little more ... lowkey in comparison?
Which Yuri wasn't sure he would have ever been able to say before these weeks since Victor suddenly showed up.
Case in point, being out on the chilly spring beach, where Victor has made a beach bonfire, because Victor knows how to make a beach bonfire, and has a picnic basket, as well as a tone in his words about the whole thing that sounds far too authentically pleased. Not only that, now he's over there, perched happily, while the firelight catches in his hair and his eyelashes, and makes him look undeniably as photo ready as every picture Yuri's ever collected, even in the flickering light of a small bonfire, on a beach he's known every inch of since he was a kid.
Yuri shoves that somewhere to the background, too, looking out at the Victor's mention, and then the sky, too.
"They'll be a lot of stars once it gets dark, too." It was one of those things home had that Detroit hadn't had a lot of.
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If he'd paid more attention in geography lessons, he might know more about whatever's out there across the water -- some Korea or other, probably, if there's nothing else in the way. Right now, there's not much more to see than the outline of some boats near the horizon. He could turn his head to the right, and Hasetsu Castle would be somewhere in that direction (because it's not like you can miss seeing a huge fuck-off castle right on the edge of the shore). He could turn his head to the left, and there's the basket of food and the fire, and Viktor and Katsudon and Viktor's dog.
And that's it. That's everything to see.
(What the hell are they doing here?)
'So are we supposed to be cooking over that thing or what?' Yuri says, jerking his chin towards the little fire. He tucks up his legs almost to his chin, trying to shift to find a more comfortable position for his ass on the flat, slightly pebbly sand. It's still a bit warm from the sun, thankfully. 'I'm pretty sure you didn't haul us out here to grill shashlyk or whatever you've got in there.'
Even as he says it, his mouth waters a little. There's been enough time between the morning's squid adventure and now for more grilled things on sticks to sound pretty damn good to his ears.
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At Yurio's question, Victor frowns over at the basket. He'd neglected to get clear instructions from Yuri's mother on how, exactly, to best enjoy the food he'd wheedled out of her, but he doesn't think there's anything raw in there. "I'm not sure."
(It isn't necessary. The Katsukis may not be wholly up on what's happening in the world of skating, or who Victor or Yurio even are, but they've certainly cottoned onto the fact that Yuri's interesting new coach is unlikely to know how to roast fish or raw meat over a bonfire, and, thusly, packed snacks just as safe and tasty cold as they would be warm, a hodge-podge of bento box staples: onigiri, leftover karaage chicken, a thermos of clear dashi-based soup, chicken meatball, vegetables, omelette, and so on.) "I don't think anything has to actually be cooked."
Some items in the basket probably would taste better grilled on a stick over the fire -- the chicken, the fruit and sweets for dessert, for instance -- but as far as Victor knows, only one thing they've brought will require the fire, and it's not for eating.
He stretches one long leg out, crosses the other over it, and leans back on his elbows, watching Maccachin dig at a hole in the sand that no longer houses a crab. "Why don't you check through and see what's in it?"
They could probably all use something to eat. He's never had a problem putting food away, and he's sure Yuri and Yurio would both prefer to eat something other than broccoli, bean sprouts, and rice.
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Yuri couldn't really see the thought of his mother sending things that had to be cooked with Victor, without knowing if he knew how. Which only made Yuri question if he did know how to cook things over a beach fire, given Yuri hadn't thought about Victor knowing how to make a fire on a beach even. It was a disjointing thing. Obviously, Victor knew things, but all of the ones Yuri associated with him before these weeks had only been on the ice, or sound bites and text bites of general details about hobbies or his life off the ice.
More and more he was aware of things he didn't know. About there being more of a whole person attached to his idea of Victor. Which sounded stupid when you said it like that, which was why he was never going to say anything like that, but there it was. Still. It was likely easier to assume they've been given use of what was likely already on hand and cooked. Pieces leftover from the onsen's restaurant through the day, and possibly day before, and from their own meals during this day, which could sometimes be some of the same things and other times be completely different.
Scooting closer to the fire to warm his hands on the blaze that was steadily growing between the three of them, didn't stop Yuri from looking on, with some interest when Victor encouraged Yurio to investigate the basket. Leading a glance at Victor, to where the basket was, and then over to Yurio, wondering if he would.
He'd gone back to being used to eating little more than what was his prescribed diet all days of the week, from morning to night, but the idea of the foods his mother could prepare and what they might have gotten made his stomach tighten itself in some small curiously hopeful hunger still not entirely stamped out by the new regime. A general wonder percolating up about what Victor might or might not allow as part of his new plan.
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In spite of his apparent disdain for the whole idea of sitting out here and eating dinner on the beach, he's very careful about how he goes through the basket itself. Instead of digging deep into it and scattering the contents around him haphazardly, he takes out the little boxes and containers one by one, pausing to open each one just enough to see what's inside -- and take a quick sniff, in case he can't identify it at first glance -- before closing it again and either returning it to the basket or stacking it close by.
(You don't waste food. You especially don't waste food that someone's taken the trouble to make for you. And whatever his opinion of Katsudon might be, Katsudon's mother made this for them.)
'So...that's soup, I guess, and there's cups for it here.' The thermos goes beside the basket, and he presses down to dig a little hollow for it so it won't tip over; the cups stay inside the basket for now, to keep the sand out of them. 'And that's...okay, that's kotlety -- I mean, meatballs, with some green stuff. Vegetables or something. And this is...potatoes? Something fried.' The three potato croquettes, mashed potatoes mixed with minced vegetables and fried in the same crispy panko-and-egg breading used for katsudon, are still warm and topped with a little drizzle of sweet tonkatsu sauce -- a few extra made alongside an order for one of the onsen's evening guests. They're cut in half for easier eating, and it's a challenge to not take one out and devour it on the spot, but Yuri harnesses a supreme effort of willpower to close the box and return it to the basket. There are more boxes to be picked up and examined, after all. 'Some rice balls here, and something else fried...chicken, maybe? And this...oh, it's some juice boxes. Apple juice.' He can thank the pictures on the front for that. 'And some other things, but they're all the way at the bottom.'
He sits back on his heels, a little unsure of what to do now, or where to begin. Even with all the unusual things they've had today, this looks like a lot of food. Viktor might be able to eat whatever he wants these days, the lucky bastard, but how much of this will he and Katsudon actually be able to have?
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Maccachin, attracted by the scent of food, leaves his hopeless hunt in favor of trotting over, stumpy tail all a-wag, to sniff at the basket curiously, black nose bumping into the little boxes Yurio is replacing until Victor calls him away with a laugh. "Maccachin, that's not for you!"
All affectionate scolding, as the poodle leaves the basket to headbutt into Victor's stomach, while Victor laughs and runs his palms over short curly fur. "Your mother certainly isn't going to let us starve, Yuri."
Quite the opposite. This may just be the most recent example, but she has been helpfully shoveling food onto Victor's appreciative plate for several weeks, now, and she's just as happy to fatten up both his skaters, costumes and jumping ability be damned.
Which reminds him. "Why don't you two eat something? I'm sure you're hungry again." They'd snacked, on and off, throughout the day, but Yuri and Yurio are both in training, and their bodies are no doubt crying out for actual calories: anything to help fuel their energy and stamina. Yurio, especially: though it's hard to believe, he's growing rapidly. Only a teenager, his metabolism is a steam locomotive that can't have enough coal shoveled in to be devoured. Yuri might gain weight easily -- and shouldn't have too many treats tonight -- but Yurio could probably eat this entire basket's worth of food and still be shadow-thin the next day.
But they're waiting for permission, it seems, and Victor waves a hand at them. "We shouldn't waste this hospitality. Just don't eat everything -- you still need to be able to fit into your costumes."
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Yuri watched with interest as familiar containers were pulled out and put into piles one by one, as Yurio tried to name them all. A feat that at once made Yuri realize how hungry he was about the idea of there even being so much in the box -- rather like the five thousand scents of different, appealing, unattainable dishes that wafted through the Onsen at all times -- and about it helping Yurio which his English, as he worked at describing what he couldn't recognize or remember the names of.
Yuri's stomach grumbled with unaccountable rudeness like it was a snapping creature inside his skin, but it wasn't very noisy given he'd been getting used to the part in his home more than not for weeks now. Still, even his stomach seemed to be aware it wasn't only that teasing temptation that was going on. That something in this, if not all of this, never all of it, because they'd never be allowed to eat all of this, was possibly something they would get to eat.
Which Victor clarifies as the only truth it could have been, since he couldn't eat it alone either,
telling them that they shouldn't waste it and to get something. "She was probably glad to do all of it."
Yuri scooted himself closer to the other two. He gave it all a look for a moment, temptation a rampant thing before making himself settle first on something far calmer than the votes clamoring in his stomach. Yuri reached for the thermos and pulled out one of the cups first, looking to first Yuri nearest and then Victor both, asking, "Do you want some soup?"
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'Yeah, I'll have a little,' he mutters. It's that fried potato thing he's after, first and foremost, not caring whether he's living up to every single stereotype about Russians and potatoes in the process. The box in question is right on top, and he wastes no time in opening it up and taking out one of the warm croquette halves. Crispy outside, fluffy inside, savoury with just a hint of vinegary sweetness from the drizzle of sauce, it smells like a little slice of heaven (or home) and he has to swallow thickly so he doesn't outright drool before he can bite down on it. But when he does --
Oh, fuck, that's good. His face looks near-blissful as he chews, still holding the box with the five remaining halves in his free hand. No, he's not going to hoard them all, but this first taste deserves to be enjoyed.
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"Yes, please."
He folds his long legs back underneath him and sits up, holding out his palms for whatever Yuri might hand his way. "Hot soup will almost be as nice as a hot bath right now!"
The sun has just about disappeared, and the sky is rapidly sliding from lavender to deep, starry blue, but it's still not quite dark enough. "Thank you for showing us around today, Yuri."
Even if he had been all but forced to, Yuri had taken on the challenge of directing two deeply-out-of-their-depth Russians around his little city with admirable aplomb -- even when one of them was markedly more enthusiastic than the other. "That festival was great to see, and so was the shrine."
(His fortune still there, left to multiply the good things supposedly coming his way.)
Yurio's silence isn't always to be trusted, but a glance his way confirms that he isn't plotting anything or muttering to himself, only caught up in the taste of something he'd snagged from the picnic basket. His face is such a wash of contentment that Victor has to laugh, wondering what Yakov would make of their angry little fairy if he could see him now. "That looks good, Yurio."
Whatever it is. The day. The festival. The beach. The food.
They deserve a little good before this week asks everything of them that they have to give. "Maybe you should think of food during your performance, too."
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Yuri poured soup into the first bowl he'd pulled out, and handed that one off to Victor, while give a slightly sheepish nod about his commentary for the day. It wasn't, a few hours away from it, so terrible. He didn't exactly want to be back in the throng of people mumbling his name and looking at him, somehow ending up with things he couldn't do anything with, but it wasn't terrible. There were far more terrible things.
"I'm glad you liked it," might have been a tiny bit more than just polite, but it was probably a little hard to tell, when it was said while grabbing the next cup. Without more than glancing toward the direction of Victor and back at the second cup to start pouring again.
It's simple enough, and quiet enough, and Victor is bouncing on with more words, the way he always does. Never seems to run out of them. Which never seems truly real, even as it never stops. Where was that in all the things that had ever been said about Victor. He's just gotten the second cup poured, when Victor is intoning that joke at the end, to Yurio, about thinking about food too, and even not being more than compared, Yuri can't help the flush rising in his face.
"Here." He held out the second cup toward Yurio.
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'Maybe I don't need to think like a pig in order to skate,' he snaps out, venom thick in his voice. 'You can pull that shit with other people, old man, but not with me. So go to hell,' he concludes, in Russian, because some things are best phrased in one's native tongue.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cup of soup held out to him, but he doesn't need to look at the pig holding it in order to lean forward and swipe it out of his hand without a word. Still seething, he drops the box of croquettes back into the basket, plunks the sloshing cup beside it, and sits down heavily, pulling his knees up to his chest. Rather than cram the rest of his somewhat squished croquette into his mouth, though, he takes only a small bite of the piece that remains in his hand, as if he could let it dissolve on his tongue like bitter medicine. If that's the way it's going to be, then fuck it. He'll eat exactly what they do, no more and no less, and maybe he'll have the satisfaction of watching both of them choke on something before they're done here.
(If he'd ever thought of telling Viktor anything about what he's been trying to capture when he thinks about skating Agape...well, that's officially been annihilated as a possibility. Nuked from orbit. Dead on arrival.)
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Victor blinks at him, cup of soup steaming but forgotten, held carefully in the curve of his palms. "I'm just kidding, Yurio."
Who must be under more strain than he thought, to take such an obviously idle joke at face value. Yakov isn't much for teasing, but his skaters aren't beholden to any such spartan rules, and sometimes the stress in the rink at St. Petersburg would reach shattering levels if they couldn't rib each other a little.
All right, mostly it's Mila, who has no respect for anyone, and perhaps that's reserved for rinkmates skating together, and not a coach and skater, who should potentially keep a much more professional and distant relationship, but do Yuri and Yurio really want that?
He's not much older than Yuri, so walking the line between coach and friend might be harder with him --
(and because of -- that)
-- but Yurio should be used to him by now, with all the time they've spent together in the rink.
So he must still be worried about what he is using for his inspiration. Perhaps that means this is the moment he should say something to inspire them?
What would Yakov do? He certainly wouldn't be sitting here on a beach with them, trying to get them to relax a little. But he would know to give encouragement where and when it's needed. "Both of you have gotten better and better, in a short amount of time. Whatever you're each holding onto for inspiration -- no matter how unorthodox --"
That comes with a smile at Yuri, because he'd been taken aback by Yuri's choice, but it's a coach's place to support his skaters, right? "-- remember it's about what's important to you...not what other people think. It'll become special to the audience because it's special to you."
He's not sure it's right, but the moment passes, and Yurio's fury rolls off his shoulders like water sliding off a waxed coat. "Careful not to burn yourself on the soup, though, Yurio." If he feels the need to express his anger by slamming an innocent cup down again, he should at least be mindful of the fact that: "It's still very hot."
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Yuri freezes in the act of reaching for the third cup when Yurio makes it clear just how disgusting and belittling it is to be compared to Yuri -- to what Yuri's chosen to take on for the focus of his piece. A haplessly, helpless response in the midst of an over exhausted day, while still shifting from eating everything to nearly nothing, while watching his company eat his favorite dish, and now it's one he'll never be able to outrun or live down.
Not when Victor can make it joke, and Yuri can turn it into the worst insult imaginable.
Tacking on that Victor can-- what? Pull what on other people? Self-conscious doubt, never sleeping around any of this already, like a snake striking itself into an almost tremble in Yuri's hands as he feels the obvious statement of that comment being at him, too. The first about him. The second about why Victor really might be here? What he's really doing here? With Yurio, and The Onson, and Yuri, himself?
What he's not expecting to come next is the soft, confused -- is that maybe even hurt?, Yuri glances over Victor's way, under eyelashes, still holding the cup and thermos -- as Victor speaks to Yurio. He really isn't expected that Victor's words suddenly get a lot ... he doesn't know the right word. Softer and gentler seem wrong. Backtracking is right, but entirely wrong, too. Comforting? Explaining?
Yuri can't actually miss the small smile Victor gives him, when he calls the reference to katsudon unorthodox. Especially when it's this quiet, only the fire and the waves and them, and there's no more of a laugh in it now. That's all that comes with it. A glance in his direction and a smile, before Victor's still talking on about the whole idea of inspirations. About making whatever they choose special and unique to them, if it works for them.
It's uneasy in his chest. A want to believe tugging confusedly in his own still-grumbling stomach. The frission of frozen wariness still in every muscle after the last few seconds fo conversation over his head. It doesn't really need a response from him, though, since it's Yurio and Victor talking that started this, and so Yuri looks down and tries to focus on pouring his own soup into the cup more carefully because of Victor's last words there, too.
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(If something's important to you, you have to fight for it. This isn't any different.)
'I'll drink it when I want to,' he says instead, the warning about the soup taken and disregarded with a casual flick, as if he's tossing his head to get a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. 'And right now, I don't want to. I can wait until it cools.'
He turns his gaze to the depths of the bonfire then, to its blackening heart where the dry twigs and driftwood and grasses are being consumed, and takes one more smaller bite of the croquette. There's barely enough left of his first half that he could eat the rest of it easily -- but right now, of course, he doesn't want to.
It's not nearly as good as a pirozhok, anyway.
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If he were Yakov, he might say you'll never find agape by acting like a spoiled brat, or remind Yurio that the personal attention of his coach, however onerous it might seem, is a rare privilege, or even that he could do them all a favor and go back to Russia if he hates being here so much.
What on earth would be the point of bringing Victor back to coach him, if Yurio won't listen to him or even attempt to tolerate him?
How will that help Yurio learn the short program he choreographed?
Why did he even follow Victor here to begin with, if all he plans to do is glare balefully out to sea and resent everyone around him, including the person he came here for, who he begged for a program, who he wants to bring back as his coach?
"You always do what you want, Yurio," is all he says, instead, before sipping at his own soup and wondering at the wisdom of this entire exercise.
Perhaps he should just dismiss them back to the onsen and the rest of the few remaining days before the performance.
Yuri, though --
Yuri who was insulted to his face (again), and who is sitting there looking like any word offered his way might shatter him into pieces. Yuri who is quietly listening to Yurio disrespecting his coach (again), and who looks as unsure about all this as Victor's feeling.
(He'd only wanted to give them a nice day.)
He has never not managed to find a smile when he needs one, and he finds it now for Yuri, even if it feels a little strained. "It's really good." The soup.
He'll just have to keep trying with the rest of it.
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The tension is so thick it feels confusing to be able to still breathe in air just as easily as it had been before. Before Victor's joke relating food and skating and Yuri, himself, and Yurio's overreaction, which turned into ... Yuri wasn't entirely certain, as Yurio was now hunched up in a small ball of even-worded hardness, that reminded Yuri of something children half his age didn't do (in Japan?, and Victor seemed to be at an utter loss, saying only that one sentence to Yurio's newest rejection of Victor advice.
Leaving Yuri at once confused about whether he shouldn't be here, should find himself some way to excuse himself, from the ... beach, or the fire, or life, life was good, too ... or if this is really what it is like between them. In Russia. If what he saw at the Ice Castle and the Onson the last few weeks, the fire for the forgotten promise kept and turned into an international challenged was just something blown over it.
It's almost too much silence and too much a pinpoint on his own existence existing beside whatever is happening between the other two, when Victor looks to him and lays that simple compliment. Yuri nodded, far smaller and shorter than normal, looking down at the cup in his own hands. "I can tell her when we get back. She'll be glad to know."
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His gaze drifts over to the basket, and the cup of soup that he'd set beside it. The soup isn't steaming any longer, owing to its full exposure to the evening air, but when he leans forward a little to pick it up the liquid within is still warm enough for the outside of the cup to feel good against his skin. He hadn't been entirely flippant when he'd mentioned wanting to wait until it had cooled, after all. So he takes it in both hands, holding the last morsel of croquette between in his fingers, and has one small sip, and then another, and it's not quite the same as that mi-so soup they all have in the mornings here but it's similar enough to remind him of it.
'It's different,' he murmurs. Mostly into the cup itself, from the way his attention seems to be fixed on it. 'From the soup at breakfast.'
Soup at breakfast. It's nothing like home. One little thing of a hundred little things that informs him that every minute, every hour, every day here in Hasetsu is a minute or hour or day that he's not in St. Petersburg. Not doing what he's supposed to be doing. But what is he supposed to be doing?
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Maccachin comes to settle in heavy, panting warmth against his hip, and Victor lets his free hand drift down to the poodle's curly fur more out of habit than thought. Maccachin is always comforting -- he expects nothing but to be petted and adored and he loves unconditionally right back. There are times when Victor isn't sure how he would have made it through the pressure cooker of the international skating world without him, and Maccachin's straightforward affection works now as well as it ever does, helping Victor relax, to find his way back to enjoying the clear night, the soft sounds of wave and wind, the warmth of the fire and the delicate flavor of the soup.
Maybe Yurio is feeling something similar because when he speaks again, it's nearly a reply, which is almost as much of a relief as Maccachin's company. Victor's keen to capitalize on it, but he tries to keep his own response easy, Low-pressure is what he's going for tonight: both Yuri and Yurio are more than capable of creating their own high stakes situations and crumbling beneath them. They certainly don't need any help from him on that front. "I don't think I've ever had so much soup in any given day."
Or of such a different kind than he's used to. The thin, clear broths and even the rich ramen broths are nothing like heavy Russian food. There's not a blood-red bowl of borscht to be found anywhere in this town, and the flavors aren't as sharp. It's all good, but it's taking a little while to get used to how the different sorts of food affect his energy levels, how much he needs to eat to stay full, how to fulfill the cravings he gets.
And he likes traveling abroad and doing something completely different than what he's used to. He's not sure Yurio's ever spent this much time outside Russia. "We don't have anything like this at home, do we, Yurio?"
He's not sure it's actually the best move, but whatever Yurio might think about it, they're both a little out of their depth here, and they're each other's only link back to St. Petersburg, and the gulls, and Yakov, and their whole lives before this month arrived. "It's nice to have some new experiences. Especially when they taste this good."
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Everything was painstakingly silence against the sounds of the endless waves, lapping up over and over not far away, and the crackle of the tenacious fire snapping and popping away that were the loudest things out there until both of them said something again. Yuri looked over in their direction for both. It's strange, but not new, to think about a world where soup isn't had the way it is here, at home, in Japan, and it has Yuri easily nodding.
"It was strange when I first went to America, and they had nothing like it." Honesty, even if a little sheepishly said at his cup, before he looked to one side. Even though he'd been flying to other countries for years and years before moving, nothing had ever truly prepared him for any number of the things that came along with it.
It's an easy enough question to put to both of them. "Do you have something else instead of soup?"
Like America, who seemed to really only have it as appetizers sometimes before meals. Attached to salad bars.
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For Yuri, however, every new adventure here has been another chance for the demons of homesickness to slip out from the shadows and try to sink their claws into his chest. And right now, with Viktor there to remind him that they're both thousands of miles from everything familiar, he's not winning that battle.
It's easier to not feel it when they're all at practice. The Ice Castle is much smaller and quieter than the rinks he's been used to training at -- they're not fighting with hockey teams for every second of their ice time, or tripping over trainers and maintenance workers and support staff at every turn -- but locker rooms are locker rooms the whole world over, and the ice feels the same under his blades. Jumps are jumps, spins are spins, and even if it's Viktor and not Yakov telling him where and how he's fucking them up, it's what he knows. It's where he belongs. It feels like home -- or like the city that he's tried to convince himself is home, with reasonable success. In a weird way, he's oddly grateful to Viktor for the punishing training schedule he's cooked up for Onsen on Ice, because the physical exhaustion of their days means that it's been a lot easier for Yuri to just accept whatever he's been given, from the food to the baths to the cheerful (if frequently incomprehensible) voices of the Katsukis, with a sort of weary gratitude. And any time he feels himself starting to slip back into those dangerous, unguarded thoughts, all he has to do is remind himself that it's not as if either of them need another reason to think of him as a little kid, rather than a legitimate threat. Anger is one of the few weapons he has to keep the demons at bay.
But right now...all he has are his thoughts. The kind that make his eyes sting and his stomach feel tight. So at Katsudon's question, he has to take another sip of the soup to clear his throat before he replies, his voice still quiet and a little rough around the edges:
'Kasha.' It takes him a second to recall that that's not what it's called in English. '...porridge, I mean. With butter, and milk.'