This isn't exactly the way he'd expected to see Barcelona. Not that he'd really expected to see Barcelona at all. His last two Grand Prix Finals, he'd been too young (Yakov's spoken words) and too irresponsible (Yakov's actual unspoken meaning) to be wandering around on his own, which had suited Yuri just fine. Who the hell wants to tag along with their coach everywhere anyway? The inside of the hotel room had been enough, when he wasn't at the competition arena itself.
What he actually does end up seeing of Barcelona is a stretch of road mostly blocked by the back of Otabek Altin's head, and -- when he tilts his own head back -- the sky rushing past overhead. The latter is an unusual shade of chilly blue, deepening as the winter afternoon wears on. And at some point, in the midst of turning onto a new street, he finds that he's stopped holding onto the back of the bike seat and is holding onto Altin instead.
It's for safety, of course. It's hard to know whether Yakov would be able to murder him before Lilia did, if he were to slip off the bike and break a leg the night before the short program. But it's also easier to lean into the turns that way. It's more comfortable, too.
(None of this makes any sense.)
Ever since he'd climbed on the back of Altin's bike, time has seemed to move in ways that defy Yuri's ability to keep track of it. Was it five minutes? Half an hour? Forty-five seconds? And when Altin turns into the park, slowing the bike to a near-stop before dropping a leg down and putting the kickstand in place, a strange pang of frustration resonates in Yuri's chest -- though it's frustration with himself more than anything else. His first time on a fucking motorcycle, and all he could do was stare at things like an idiot? But he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Altin's already getting off, and Yuri can only do likewise. And then he's walking, and Yuri's trailing after him, in this place where no one gives them a second look.
All the while, Altin's not speaking. Not saying a word. He's not strutting around like Viktor, or jumping at his own shadow like Katsudon. It's not like being with Mila or Georgi, either. And Yuri keeps pace with him, because what else can he do?
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What he actually does end up seeing of Barcelona is a stretch of road mostly blocked by the back of Otabek Altin's head, and -- when he tilts his own head back -- the sky rushing past overhead. The latter is an unusual shade of chilly blue, deepening as the winter afternoon wears on. And at some point, in the midst of turning onto a new street, he finds that he's stopped holding onto the back of the bike seat and is holding onto Altin instead.
It's for safety, of course. It's hard to know whether Yakov would be able to murder him before Lilia did, if he were to slip off the bike and break a leg the night before the short program. But it's also easier to lean into the turns that way. It's more comfortable, too.
(None of this makes any sense.)
Ever since he'd climbed on the back of Altin's bike, time has seemed to move in ways that defy Yuri's ability to keep track of it. Was it five minutes? Half an hour? Forty-five seconds? And when Altin turns into the park, slowing the bike to a near-stop before dropping a leg down and putting the kickstand in place, a strange pang of frustration resonates in Yuri's chest -- though it's frustration with himself more than anything else. His first time on a fucking motorcycle, and all he could do was stare at things like an idiot? But he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Altin's already getting off, and Yuri can only do likewise. And then he's walking, and Yuri's trailing after him, in this place where no one gives them a second look.
All the while, Altin's not speaking. Not saying a word. He's not strutting around like Viktor, or jumping at his own shadow like Katsudon. It's not like being with Mila or Georgi, either. And Yuri keeps pace with him, because what else can he do?
What the hell does Altin want with him?