It's a comment without hesitation, but also without compliment exactly.
It's a singular fact, above the rise of opinion, but never above the rise of personal comparison or the demons therein. (The loitering uncertainty.) He's one of six people to have attained a place at the Grand Prix Finale. He's one of four going there with two medals earned from the qualifiers. (Another thing Yuri wasn't.) Good was never going to be questionable. He'd still been good in the short program after he stopped being ... hurt, more than focused.
He doesn't know one way or the other. About Yurio's grandfather.
He probably wouldn't get an answer if he asked. He definitely wouldn't if it was a no.
Yuri frets a moment, as the camera cuts from Yurio's exit, to the girl skating on to taking his place. There's a blink of surprise when Yuri recognizes that face, too -- the girl who had congratulated him, right before he hugged her. Crispino's sister. He hadn't even heard that she placed. He felt even worse for Crispino for that. To medal, and yet not place, and for his sister to still place. There's a crinkle to Yuri's brow and press to his lips. Guilt and selfishness, and both barely a transitory distraction.
Her music starts and so does she, beautifully as well, while Yuri's gaze, along with his attention, slipped from the screen with an idea, looking down. Hands lifting for a second -- but, no. They were empty. He'd run into the other room and come back and -- where was it? He'd come with it originally. He was sure he had. He spotted his phone, finally, to a side, dropped in a muddle of blanket he'd crawled over earlier, and wiggled slightly lopsided in the hold Victor's arms (...and when exactly had that?) to grab it.
It's only the tap of three or four buttons to pull Instagram up, scroll a short distance to Yurio's name in someone else's slightly blurred still photo from the same just-seen skate, already screaming, to bring up his page, tag Message
but then sit there.
Staring at the blank empty window. Hands frozen there, fingers unmoving.
He knows Yuuko-san and Yurio talk. Have. For months. Since they left. But they haven't. They don't. It's not that he'd argue Yurio likes him now. If this weekend hadn't happened. If Makkachin hadn't. If Victor hadn't. If 'He left you here alone, and I couldn't --' wasn't still hanging there, unfinished. Along with the brown bag. The green tea. The sidewalk. The swearing. And Yuri, staring at the blank screen.
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Date: 2017-08-12 02:45 am (UTC)"He always does."
It's a comment without hesitation, but also without compliment exactly.
It's a singular fact, above the rise of opinion, but never above the rise of personal comparison or the demons therein. (The loitering uncertainty.) He's one of six people to have attained a place at the Grand Prix Finale. He's one of four going there with two medals earned from the qualifiers. (Another thing Yuri wasn't.) Good was never going to be questionable. He'd still been good in the short program after he stopped being ... hurt, more than focused.
He doesn't know one way or the other. About Yurio's grandfather.
He probably wouldn't get an answer if he asked. He definitely wouldn't if it was a no.
Yuri frets a moment, as the camera cuts from Yurio's exit, to the girl skating on to taking his place. There's a blink of surprise when Yuri recognizes that face, too -- the girl who had congratulated him, right before he hugged her. Crispino's sister. He hadn't even heard that she placed. He felt even worse for Crispino for that. To medal, and yet not place, and for his sister to still place. There's a crinkle to Yuri's brow and press to his lips. Guilt and selfishness, and both barely a transitory distraction.
Her music starts and so does she, beautifully as well, while Yuri's gaze, along with his attention, slipped from the screen with an idea, looking down. Hands lifting for a second -- but, no. They were empty. He'd run into the other room and come back and -- where was it? He'd come with it originally. He was sure he had. He spotted his phone, finally, to a side, dropped in a muddle of blanket he'd crawled over earlier, and wiggled slightly lopsided in the hold Victor's arms (...and when exactly had that?) to grab it.
It's only the tap of three or four buttons to pull Instagram up, scroll a short distance to Yurio's name in someone else's slightly blurred still photo from the same just-seen skate, already screaming, to bring up his page, tag Message
He knows Yuuko-san and Yurio talk. Have. For months. Since they left. But they haven't. They don't. It's not that he'd argue Yurio likes him now. If this weekend hadn't happened. If Makkachin hadn't. If Victor hadn't. If 'He left you here alone, and I couldn't --' wasn't still hanging there, unfinished. Along with the brown bag. The green tea. The sidewalk. The swearing. And Yuri, staring at the blank screen.