Victor divests himself with an ease that Yuri envies from a distance, that suitcase, handle curled over by Victor's hand, trundling behind Victor in a way that Yuri can't yet. Follow Victor. Feel how Victor's fingers felt laced in his before he fell asleep. It makes his hands tighten, before he's turning back to his father just as his mother is coming round the cashier's desk, carrying a pile of fresh-folded towels.
It's worlds apart from those first few seconds in the airport.
It's not the same as the end of April, not even two weeks compared to five years, but still they don't fall on each other, not the way Yuri had gone running straight into Victor. Forgetting himself. Forgetting the world. His mother's hands are clasped in front of her stomach over the towels and her eyes are shining, she's smiling, bouncing on her toes when she speaks, but there's a respectful distance between them, and his father stays in the kitchen window.
Yuri can't help but think his parents might not have approved of that scene either. (They definitely wouldn't appreciate, or understand, him hugging all those people before it.)
His mother says what she had, they had, a number of people cheering still in the background, when she left the normal post-skate message that ended every competition day. That they're proud of him, everyone is, everyone watched, the Onsen was full and he must be excited, to be going on to the Finale, and Yuri mumbles something like yes not certain what to say, feel ( ... it's not entirely untrue ... ), how long he should stand here (while, also, wondering if Victor or Minako or someone else had talked about the Finale enough for them to remember the right name for it a day after still).
She follows it up, hands pressing, toes and hair bouncing just slightly, with a comment about how he must be tired, rather like a question, though his father refrain of not quite, nearly, the same words isn't. It's more like an agreement-answer. He doesn't argue, doesn't even get to agreeing before she's asking if he'd like her to make anything for him. A pork cutlet bowl.
He tries not to wince or shift back, shaking his head, and there are words, but they might be more like marbles he can't collect right. He can hear the skip-stutter in his own words. He doesn't -- still doesn't really want more. Not as anything more than this urge for something to hold on to, something to focus his hands and his mouth at, and there's already a plan for what comes next. Victor already agreed and he's mentioned it a few times. Not forgotten. (... like him?)
(And he didn't. Win.
He just didn't lose.
It's not the same thing.
Not to him.)
His father reminds, stoic and certain, from the window that he has been flying for a long time, that sleep will do him better and they can all celebrate tomorrow, and his mother's mother smile is soft, unperturbed for this possibility, too, reminding him only that everything is still where it was when he left, in both of the kitchens, if he changes his mind.
In the middle of the night, is unspoken.
But so is that 'in the middle of the night' is a time Yuri is awake often enough, too.
There's another thank you, before his mother shoos him off with a smile and subtle gesture of fingers toward the stairs. He doesn't really know how many minutes that was. Too few to feel too many. He loves his parents. He's conflicted about everything before now. Before today. Before last night. All of yesterday, and how to feel like he earned what he still has. Even if he had found himself out there.
He earned every point that painted his life and his future into a miracle-fluke last chance to prove himself.
Yuri is only up the first set of stairs, passing the second floor, and heading for the third, the murmur of the downstairs fading into the silence of their private areas, and only his socked feet, when something pangs harder in his chest. At the quiet. At the emptiness. Nothing and no one but him. Even when he knows that's not true, his chest tightens.
It's not like the options are many, or he doesn't know where he'll probably be, but hitting the next landing a bit faster, Yuuri still calls out, "Victor?"
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Date: 2017-08-03 03:20 am (UTC)Victor divests himself with an ease that Yuri envies from a distance, that suitcase, handle curled over by Victor's hand, trundling behind Victor in a way that Yuri can't yet. Follow Victor. Feel how Victor's fingers felt laced in his before he fell asleep. It makes his hands tighten, before he's turning back to his father just as his mother is coming round the cashier's desk, carrying a pile of fresh-folded towels.
It's worlds apart from those first few seconds in the airport.
It's not the same as the end of April, not even two weeks compared to five years, but still they don't fall on each other, not the way Yuri had gone running straight into Victor. Forgetting himself. Forgetting the world. His mother's hands are clasped in front of her stomach over the towels and her eyes are shining, she's smiling, bouncing on her toes when she speaks, but there's a respectful distance between them, and his father stays in the kitchen window.
Yuri can't help but think his parents might not have approved of that scene either.
(They definitely wouldn't appreciate, or understand, him hugging all those people before it.)
His mother says what she had, they had, a number of people cheering still in the background, when she left the normal post-skate message that ended every competition day. That they're proud of him, everyone is, everyone watched, the Onsen was full and he must be excited, to be going on to the Finale, and Yuri mumbles something like yes not certain what to say, feel ( ... it's not entirely untrue ... ), how long he should stand here (while, also, wondering if Victor or Minako or someone else had talked about the Finale enough for them to remember the right name for it a day after still).
She follows it up, hands pressing, toes and hair bouncing just slightly, with a comment about how he must be tired, rather like a question, though his father refrain of not quite, nearly, the same words isn't. It's more like an agreement-answer. He doesn't argue, doesn't even get to agreeing before she's asking if he'd like her to make anything for him. A pork cutlet bowl.
He tries not to wince or shift back, shaking his head, and there are words, but they might be more like marbles he can't collect right. He can hear the skip-stutter in his own words. He doesn't -- still doesn't really want more. Not as anything more than this urge for something to hold on to, something to focus his hands and his mouth at, and there's already a plan for what comes next. Victor already agreed and he's mentioned it a few times. Not forgotten. (... like him?)
(And he didn't. Win.
Not to him.)
His father reminds, stoic and certain, from the window that he has been flying for a long time, that sleep will do him better and they can all celebrate tomorrow, and his mother's mother smile is soft, unperturbed for this possibility, too, reminding him only that everything is still where it was when he left, in both of the kitchens, if he changes his mind.
In the middle of the night, is unspoken.
But so is that 'in the middle of the night' is a time Yuri is awake often enough, too.
There's another thank you, before his mother shoos him off with a smile and subtle gesture of fingers toward the stairs. He doesn't really know how many minutes that was. Too few to feel too many. He loves his parents. He's conflicted about everything before now. Before today. Before last night. All of yesterday, and how to feel like he earned what he still has. Even if he had found himself out there.
He earned every point that painted his life and his future into a miracle-fluke last chance to prove himself.
Yuri is only up the first set of stairs, passing the second floor, and heading for the third, the murmur of the downstairs fading into the silence of their private areas, and only his socked feet, when something pangs harder in his chest. At the quiet. At the emptiness. Nothing and no one but him. Even when he knows that's not true, his chest tightens.
It's not like the options are many, or he doesn't know where he'll probably be,
but hitting the next landing a bit faster, Yuuri still calls out, "Victor?"