Victor's going for his seat belt and Yuri stares at his house thinking it. It's his family. It's not a few thousand screaming audience members. It's only his family. Only the only people he's wanted to make sure were proud of him, that he was doing right by the name and sacrifices of, for two decades. Victor's door opens and Yuri can't sit there much longer, so he pushes his own door open, making a face at the cold air that finds his still sleep-warm skin. Self.
Even with the chill wind slipping in his scarf, down his back with cold fingertips that make his skin prickle under two layers and a coat, he appreciates the milder edge of the winter's he's been exposed to this year. Here, Bejing, Moscow. Cold, and cold and snowy, biting in their own ways, but none of them have the century's record breaking opposite that his last winter had. He wonders if it's the same, again, this year over there.
He misses it; he doesn't miss it much at all.
A different world, a different life, a different, well, everything.
Maccachin butts his now snow-speckled head and body against Yuri's own legs, investigating his progress, and Yuri mumbles, with no ability to be more than amused by the poodle excitement, "I'm coming, I'm coming."
Yuri drags his backpack from the floor, tugging it back over his shoulders, and snapping it across his chest, while Maccachin is dancing back a few feet, and before springing forward, again. All easy delight, and rambunctious movement, as though Maccachin was going to help Yuri be excited about this by sheer will and personal excitement. Yuri simultaneously wishes that was him, and wishes he could sleep standing up just seeing it.
Victor comes round, with his bag -- Victor keeps doing that, that thing where Victor keeps getting his bag, his things, him -- and Yuri falls in step with him. Feet stomping on the light dustings of snow that managed to fall on the walks since it was shoveled this morning. He'll be back to helping take care of that in the mornings. Just a week's blip away, like a vacation, during which nothing like a vacation took place.
He's tired in his skin and he can feel the wire in my chest, razor sharp and too tight, right before the door opens and he steps through. No way to avoid it, even when at the last second he'd wondered, for the millionth time in his life, how impossible was it really to scale the wall and enter through his window, like so much snow on the breeze, accumulated soundlessly on the sills all around them. But he can't and the door is open, spilling light and warmth out.
Maccachin dashing in ahead of them, no one needing to tell him anything. Shaking snow off everywhere, and looking back at them expectantly excited.
The voices of people come from a few different places as Yuri dutifully scuff-shoes off the little snow he's gathered between the car and the door on the mats just inside. One hand on his thigh, leaning to brush a sticking chunk from the otherside of his left shoe, when his name get's boisterously tossed out from across the room. His father's head peering out through a kitchen window not far off, smiling his subtle smile, sounding pleased even in his easy reserve and stilted English.
"Yuri! Welcome home." It's an effort at inclusion, even if it's probably less thought about these months later. Victor has changed a lot of little things around here, and not all of them are Yuri's skating.
Yuri's thank you is quiet and more respectfully automatic than thought about.
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Date: 2017-08-01 12:03 pm (UTC)Victor's going for his seat belt and Yuri stares at his house thinking it. It's his family. It's not a few thousand screaming audience members. It's only his family. Only the only people he's wanted to make sure were proud of him, that he was doing right by the name and sacrifices of, for two decades. Victor's door opens and Yuri can't sit there much longer, so he pushes his own door open, making a face at the cold air that finds his still sleep-warm skin. Self.
Even with the chill wind slipping in his scarf, down his back with cold fingertips that make his skin prickle under two layers and a coat, he appreciates the milder edge of the winter's he's been exposed to this year. Here, Bejing, Moscow. Cold, and cold and snowy, biting in their own ways, but none of them have the century's record breaking opposite that his last winter had. He wonders if it's the same, again, this year over there.
He misses it; he doesn't miss it much at all.
A different world, a different life, a different, well, everything.
Maccachin butts his now snow-speckled head and body against Yuri's own legs, investigating his progress, and Yuri mumbles, with no ability to be more than amused by the poodle excitement, "I'm coming, I'm coming."
Yuri drags his backpack from the floor, tugging it back over his shoulders, and snapping it across his chest, while Maccachin is dancing back a few feet, and before springing forward, again. All easy delight, and rambunctious movement, as though Maccachin was going to help Yuri be excited about this by sheer will and personal excitement. Yuri simultaneously wishes that was him, and wishes he could sleep standing up just seeing it.
Victor comes round, with his bag -- Victor keeps doing that, that thing where Victor keeps getting his bag, his things, him -- and Yuri falls in step with him. Feet stomping on the light dustings of snow that managed to fall on the walks since it was shoveled this morning. He'll be back to helping take care of that in the mornings. Just a week's blip away, like a vacation, during which nothing like a vacation took place.
He's tired in his skin and he can feel the wire in my chest, razor sharp and too tight, right before the door opens and he steps through. No way to avoid it, even when at the last second he'd wondered, for the millionth time in his life, how impossible was it really to scale the wall and enter through his window, like so much snow on the breeze, accumulated soundlessly on the sills all around them. But he can't and the door is open, spilling light and warmth out.
Maccachin dashing in ahead of them, no one needing to tell him anything.
Shaking snow off everywhere, and looking back at them expectantly excited.
The voices of people come from a few different places as Yuri dutifully scuff-shoes off the little snow he's gathered between the car and the door on the mats just inside. One hand on his thigh, leaning to brush a sticking chunk from the otherside of his left shoe, when his name get's boisterously tossed out from across the room. His father's head peering out through a kitchen window not far off, smiling his subtle smile, sounding pleased even in his easy reserve and stilted English.
"Yuri! Welcome home." It's an effort at inclusion, even if it's probably less thought about these months later.
Victor has changed a lot of little things around here, and not all of them are Yuri's skating.
Yuri's thank you is quiet and more respectfully automatic than thought about.