Yuri doesn't say anything, but after a while, he nods, and leans his head back against the seat, while Victor glances over to smile at him, encouraging. Giving the hand in his a squeeze that's nothing like the surprised grip of earlier: just a reminder. "I promise I'll be right here the whole time."
If he has anything to say about it –– and he does –– he won't leave Yuri's side again. Be my coach until I retire, that's what Yuri said, that's what he asked, and that's what it means, isn't it?
( stammi vicino )
Everything he'd never really understood until this last year. How did anyone think he had skated that program with any amount of truth? He had no idea what it really meant. To be in love. To fear loss. To want to stay near someone, always. Even in that last year, heartbroken and furious, he hadn't gotten it quite right. He'd known it even then, known there was something missing, that anger wasn't the only thing he should be feeling, that despair wasn't it, either, but he hadn't known what it was. The missing thing. What he searched for and couldn't find in the hours upon hours of practice, as Yakov's frown sank in deeper lines around his mouth and between his brows, as he withdrew further and further.
(What was it missing? Maybe it was never meant to just be him,
alone,
at all.)
None of that is anything he can say now, in the car, driving home. Maybe none of it is anything he can say at all until after food has been had, or greetings given, and the exhibition watched. Maybe all of it needs to wait, the way the apology that keeps bubbling into his throat has to wait, until cover of darkness, when there are no distractions and nothing standing in the way of simple honesty. When he can reach out to touch Yuri, and not just wind their fingers together. When he can underline it all with so much more than words.
But they aren't there yet, and he doesn't want to keep Yuri awake, so he stays quiet, letting the road unwind beneath their wheels, letting the gentle hum of the engine fill the car instead of all the words that are clouding up his head.
He isn't a patient man. But soon, he won't have to think soon. It'll be now, and he can say everything he couldn't before: over the phone, at the airport, in the car.
no subject
If he has anything to say about it –– and he does –– he won't leave Yuri's side again. Be my coach until I retire, that's what Yuri said, that's what he asked, and that's what it means, isn't it?
Everything he'd never really understood until this last year. How did anyone think he had skated that program with any amount of truth? He had no idea what it really meant. To be in love. To fear loss. To want to stay near someone, always. Even in that last year, heartbroken and furious, he hadn't gotten it quite right. He'd known it even then, known there was something missing, that anger wasn't the only thing he should be feeling, that despair wasn't it, either, but he hadn't known what it was. The missing thing. What he searched for and couldn't find in the hours upon hours of practice, as Yakov's frown sank in deeper lines around his mouth and between his brows, as he withdrew further and further.
(What was it missing? Maybe it was never meant to just be him,
None of that is anything he can say now, in the car, driving home. Maybe none of it is anything he can say at all until after food has been had, or greetings given, and the exhibition watched. Maybe all of it needs to wait, the way the apology that keeps bubbling into his throat has to wait, until cover of darkness, when there are no distractions and nothing standing in the way of simple honesty. When he can reach out to touch Yuri, and not just wind their fingers together. When he can underline it all with so much more than words.
But they aren't there yet, and he doesn't want to keep Yuri awake, so he stays quiet, letting the road unwind beneath their wheels, letting the gentle hum of the engine fill the car instead of all the words that are clouding up his head.
He isn't a patient man. But soon, he won't have to think soon. It'll be now, and he can say everything he couldn't before: over the phone, at the airport, in the car.
But not yet.