Maybe it's nice for Viktor to have new experiences. For as many years as he's been skating, the day-in, day-out routine of home to rink to gym to studio to home, with only minor variations in the pattern, is liable to wear on anyone after a while. Competitions might be a welcome break, a change of scenery and a chance to catch up with old friends and rivals, but even those are more predictable than not, and then it's back to St. Petersburg once more and onto the skating federation's grinding treadmill again. For him, it's no wonder that everything in Hasetsu is a wonderful adventure, nothing like he's ever had before, something to be seized with both hands and held up to exclaim and delight over, no matter how small or insignificant.
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.'
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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.'