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fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
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9 - 10 December, 2014 - Barcelona
There's a swift, fleeting moment, between his toes breaking the water's surface and the waves he'd created closing over his head, where he imagines himself on vacation. On a break from the hectic stresses and mundanity of everyday life, floating high above a sea of lights. Free to be himself, to relax. To lose himself in those self-indulgent fantasies only possible when daily training and errands, practice and diet, aren't demanding every second of his undivided attention.
He floats on his back, spread-eagled in the water, letting it buoy him, letting his thoughts trickle along whatever path they most wish to take –– which, these days, means they wander along a well-worn path from sleepless nights and newly-opened gates. Life and love –– two words he's neglected for over twenty years, that suddenly knock at the door of every thought, nudging him further down the path before he even recognizes he's headed that direction.
Whispering, for the first time, in glimpses and sidelong glances, of a tomorrow past today.
"Ah-choo!"
A sneeze brings him out of tantalizing reverie, and he sinks further into the water to sniffle, the moment broken. It turns out even Barcelona's cold in December –– not the bone-deep freeze of St. Petersburg or Moscow, a thin wind biting through coats and scarves and jumpers with ease, but still probably a little cool to be lazing in a rooftop pool, here at the official hotel for the Grand Prix Final. Still, it's peaceful up here, and the water is heated even if the air isn't, and he has no place special to be. Yuri is still sleeping off his jetlag –– that's why they got here early to begin with. They have all of tomorrow to practice and acclimate before the Final begins.
Steps, and the gentle tinkling of crystal against glass, distract him before the words even come, but then, Chris is a prodigy of distraction. He's made it into an art form.
"I thought, other than me, only a Russian would be stupid enough to get in the pool this time of year." That robe is scandalously short, and Victor allows himself an amused moment of picturing Chris, and the accompanying distress, at the baths at Yu-topia. "I guess I was right."
And dark glasses, even at night. Victor can't hide his amusement. "Chris!"
"Hi, Coach Victor." From anyone else, that tends to sound like an insult, but from Chris it only feels like a fond nickname. They've known each other too long and too well to stand on ceremony, so Chris' complaint that Victor is in the way of his skinny dipping rolls right off Victor's back like water droplets.
"Don't let me stop you. I'll even take photos for you."
It wouldn't be the first time.
And just like that, the illusion of a vacation is over, drowned and smothered by the dozens of photos Victor finds himself taking of Chris mugging for the camera like he was born to do it. Sometimes it's difficult to remember that this sex bomb was once an angelic-looking little boy with golden curls, the sort Victor could picture most clearly skipping through a Swiss meadow full of flowers, but Chris has become a force to reckon with in his own right.
He can't imagine a skating season without Chris. They've shared the podium so many times it's almost begun to feel like tradition.
But then, it's already been eight months since he came to Hasetsu, too. How much time does it really take to change the things that can't be imagined?
Gotta Supercharge It! –– The Finalists Arrive!
Downstairs in the hotel, fans await with bated breath, hands on signs and phones. If they're patient, they may catch a glimpse of their favorite skater and win the chance to wish them good luck in the upcoming battle.
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'Yuri!' Yakov snaps, keycard in hand. 'At least check yourself in!'
It it too much to ask that his coach does the things that a coach is supposed to do? 'You do it, Yakov!' Yuri snaps back. 'I'm freaking tired.'
He should have known that Yakov Feltsman shouting his name at the top of his voice would carry like the blast of a trumpet, because no sooner has Yuri started to drift away than an absolutely insane horde of young women and girls, all of whom are wearing those dumb-ass cat-ear headbands, have all but surrounded him, squealing loud enough to burst his eardrums.
'Eee, Yuratchka!'
Shit. The Angels. There must be a dozen of them at least, the really fucking terrifying hardcore ones who aren't content with just showing up at the practices or at the event. And he doesn't have his hotel key yet, so he can't make a break for the stairs or the lifts to get away from them. Even as the panic starts rising in his chest, Yuri growls low in his throat, ready to lash out at them. 'You ug -- '
'Yuri Plisetsky, do not be nekulturny.' Because of course Lilia Baranovskaya has ears like a bat, and Yuri nearly breaks into a cold sweat at the sound of her voice. Just like that, he's trapped. And as the Angels advance on him, his heart sinks into his gut when he spots that one of them has an extra cat-ear headband in her hands and a distinctly unsettling gleam in her eyes.
(Grand Prix Final Lesson #1: Get your hotel room key the moment you step into the lobby, lest your rabid fans get the drop on you before your luggage is out of your hand.)
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'Yuri's Angels are famous.'
Because of course, there's the asshole Canadian himself, Jean-Jacques Leroy in the flesh, with a pair of sunglasses stuck on his head and some gross woman hanging all over him. And even as Yuri looks over, nearly sick with relief to have an acceptable target for his wrath, JJ's arm candy gives the prick a simpering smile and adds an unnecessary remark of her own. 'Hm. But JJ Girls are better about following the rules, and we're cuter.'
It's like someone setting a firework off inside his head. 'Don't diss my fans and call them ugly, you shriveled-up bitch!' Yuri explodes. Where the fuck does an old hag like that get off talking shit about his fans?
'So scary....' The way the woman winds herself around that prick JJ, as if he's supposed to protect her with that bloated body of his, is nauseating to say the least. 'Save me, JJ.'
Of course, the asshole goes along with it. 'Oh, he's just jealous because my fiancee is so beautiful,' JJ says, all but cooing at her.
'Anyone who wears sunglasses on his head is a piece of shit,' Yuri sneers, pointing out the obvious. It's a lame insult, but why waste one of his better ones on someone who's too fat-headed to appreciate them? For that matter, he can't resist taking another shot at the hag who had the nerve to trash-talk his fans. 'Even your ugly old ass could do better!'
'Hey, don't be so cocky,' JJ shoots back -- but before Yuri can really wind up and let him have it (like he should have done in Moscow, oh yes, we're done fucking around here), the prick starts waving at someone over on the other side of the lobby. 'Ah, Otabek! Where are you going?'
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In the quarter- and half-seconds that follow JJ's brash voice calling out his name, he weighs his options.
1. Keep walking. He has no reason to be polite.
2. Turn and answer. He has no reason not to be polite.
JJ is obnoxious, but he has to wait for the door anyway, so it's as little an expenditure of energy to turn, slipping his sunglasses off his face, and say: "Out to eat," as it would be to keep going.
Besides, JJ isn't his rival. He doesn't fully understand why the Canadian calls him "odd" right before inviting him to dinner, but it's nothing to waste energy on. His "thanks, but I'll pass" could be any other sentence with the same level of interest. I find you boring, or what would be the point?
There isn't one, to being around JJ, who is almost as desperate to socialize with the other skaters as he is to win. He's like a mosquito that just won't stop buzzing in everyone's ear, and doesn't understand why he keeps getting slapped away.
Not like that smaller, slighter figure. The one off to the side. Otabek's gaze tracks over to Yuri Plisetsky, lands on him without any shift of expression or emotion. Yuri's simply there, in his field of vision.
He wonders if Yuri remembers the same things he does.
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Otabek Altin. Kazakh. Second at Skate America, first at the NHK. And a bronze at Worlds, of all things, behind Viktor and Giacometti, and it wasn't as if the entire rest of the field had had their kneecaps bashed in the night before the short program, either. Of course Yuri had watched his competitors' programs as well as his own, trying not to fall asleep on the sofa between Yakov and Lilia, with Potya a warm weight in his lap. Even from the cameras' choppy vantage point, it's evident that Altin's wins this season weren't flukes. He doesn't get his dick out on the ice like Giacometti; he doesn't skate like he's aiming to get points for enthusiasm like Chulanont. He doesn't do that Katsudon thing where you end up weirdly light-headed from holding your breath while he's skating -- for good or bad reasons. And he certainly doesn't act like a particular asshole Canadian, as if the world owes him gold medals simply for occupying the same air as them. He's...different, somehow.
(Yakov had called it the result of what happens when you throw everything at the wall to see what sticks, but Lilia had immediately contradicted him. He skates with intention, she'd said firmly. He knows what he wants to do when he skates, what he wants to convey and in what way -- and then he does it, which is a rare enough trait these days. Yuri had been about a minute away from nodding off against her shoulder at the time, but something about that comment had stuck with him. It makes more sense than Yakov's remark, anyway, which had that sort of weird ex-Soviet rivalry thing that frankly bores the shit out of him.)
All the same, none of it really matters when the guy himself is there, and no sooner has he shot down that prick JJ like it's no big deal than he glances over at Yuri. And then just stares at him, like he's trying to dissect Yuri with his brain.
What is it? Why is Altin staring at him? Does he want something from them? Is this some kind of psych-out tactic? (Fuck, is he laughing at the stupid cat ears that he's still fucking wearing?) Whatever it is, it makes Yuri's anger sharpen, and his eyes narrow. 'What's with you, asshole?'
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Yuri is all confrontation. Was, even back then. It seems like a strange excess of energy, but beneath the bluster, Otabek knows they share the same laser focus, the single-minded intent of a soldier on a mission. All Yuri Plisetsky's bluff and anger can't hide that.
(Not even with those ridiculous cat ears perched on his head, making him look both younger still and even more furious from embarrassment,)
But it's not something to pursue here, now, with JJ and his fiancee standing right there, and Yuri's fans still calling for him. And besides, he's hungry, so --
He turns to the door, and makes his way outside into the brisk Barcelona air.
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Who the hell does something like that? Just, like, stares at someone, and then fucking walks away?
(Otabek Altin does, apparently.)
As precious seconds tick past, Yuri is so thrown off balance by Altin's sudden appearance and equally abrupt departure that he doesn't take advantage of the opportunity to escape. Before he can think to move in any direction that would get him out of the hotel lobby, his fans advance on him yet again. And this time, Mila is among them with her phone at the ready, smiling at her rinkmate with devastating cheerfulness. You see, she's generously volunteered to help Yuri's Angels, who've so kindly taken the time to come out and show their support for their beloved Ice Tiger, and she will be more than happy to make sure that everyone who'd like a photograph with Yuri Plisetsky has a chance to do so before they both have to leave with their coaches to prepare for the start of the competition.
Yuri will make it out alive, somehow. If only just.
(Meanwhile, Yakov Feltsman has been watching the whole thing from the sidelines with Yuri's room key in hand -- and he has no intention of stepping in to rescue the little hooligan from the consequences of his own actions.)