The new couple on the ice start their routine, weaving in and out of that spotlight and the darkness around it. The dizzying difficulty of that and how much it takes away from focus and spacial gaging, but how little it matters for this. For the Gala. For the performance that is just the celebration of having made it, and those specifically requested to join it.
It's harder to feel, even if he remembers, that he was in one only a week ago. Harder to feel, after this weekend, that he'll be in the next one. Even if he wants it. He does. (He'd wanted this one, too.)
Yuri's eyes still track to Victor, head turning a little more each time he talks, to see Victor's face next to his. (He's so beautiful.) The profile of it and his mouth moving, as he speaks. (He's still real.) The soft settled first word coming from Victor being the one Yuri had almost used. Or settled on a second too late to fix what he'd used. That alone made his chest warm with a strange, stronger thump distracting him and maybe just very barely the top of his cheeks while Victor just goes on without noticing, without really calling him out on it, even if his heart feels like he did.
He has to swallow a little harder to get to: "Maybe."
It's uncertain, even when Yuri does truly hope that it's happened. The idea of it making him squint a little more at the screen, even when he knows it's hopeless and he'd never be able to recognize a person he's never met in an audience barely clear enough to seen as a blob of shadowed people with almost all the arena lights off.
"He made it to the las--oh." It catches under foot, in his thoughts, from the conversation in the bar booths to the conversation in the snow, about his Grandfather and everything from there out. "Oh!"
Yuri stillness is broken by absolutely everything but that suddenly. His hand on Victor's arm tugging it, harder, with an actual grip, this time up off of him. His body. Both of his hands prying off both of Victor's arms. As Yuri's already pushing up from sitting, trying to get him legs under him, with a glance at the screen for how much time he has while he's already trying to launch himself toward scrambling, ungracefully, off one side of the bed.
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It's harder to feel, even if he remembers, that he was in one only a week ago. Harder to feel, after this weekend, that he'll be in the next one. Even if he wants it. He does. (He'd wanted this one, too.)
Yuri's eyes still track to Victor, head turning a little more each time he talks, to see Victor's face next to his. (He's so beautiful.) The profile of it and his mouth moving, as he speaks. (He's still real.) The soft settled first word coming from Victor being the one Yuri had almost used. Or settled on a second too late to fix what he'd used. That alone made his chest warm with a strange, stronger thump distracting him and maybe just very barely the top of his cheeks while Victor just goes on without noticing, without really calling him out on it, even if his heart feels like he did.
He has to swallow a little harder to get to: "Maybe."
It's uncertain, even when Yuri does truly hope that it's happened. The idea of it making him squint a little more at the screen, even when he knows it's hopeless and he'd never be able to recognize a person he's never met in an audience barely clear enough to seen as a blob of shadowed people with almost all the arena lights off.
"He made it to the las--oh." It catches under foot, in his thoughts, from the conversation in the bar booths to the conversation in the snow, about his Grandfather and everything from there out. "Oh!"
Yuri stillness is broken by absolutely everything but that suddenly. His hand on Victor's arm tugging it, harder, with an actual grip, this time up off of him. His body. Both of his hands prying off both of Victor's arms. As Yuri's already pushing up from sitting, trying to get him legs under him, with a glance at the screen for how much time he has while he's already trying to launch himself toward scrambling, ungracefully, off one side of the bed.