It's a perfect night for some fireworks!

[fivetimechamp]

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."

Comments

[yuri_plisetsky]

In the end, in the strained silence and the aborted conversation that tries to break it, it's the gentle crackling of the fire and the slow, repetitive wash of saltwater on sand, the sounds of nature, that help to ease Yuri's internal grip on his anger. Once it starts to loosen, it's not all that long until he finds that he's breathing more evenly, in unconscious rhythm with the waves. His chest still feels tight, but that's as much a matter of his own bad posture as anything else. For just a moment, he closes his eyes, seeing the negative reflection of the flames against the back of his eyelids, before he opens them again.

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?

[fivetimechamp]

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."

[theglassheart]

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.

[yuri_plisetsky]

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.'