The colors change, from a reflection of them sitting there, into red's and golds, and the audience goes crazy, again. Victor is already moving suddenly beside him, but Yuri still has to squint at the far screen. Leaning forward, elbows dropping onto his thighs, just short of his knees, water hanging between them as disoriented confusion meets with a need greater than it, and the faintest, familiar tendril of dread that springs in through concrete and slowly settling reality.

He really only has time for it to shift mostly into focus -- not really even time to process; he's in first? His. He scored a -- before Victor all but plows into him from the side. Arms circling Yuri tight, from over one shoulder to just below the other, Victor's head meeting his head, cheek, and temple and ear, and he's shouting Yuri's name with the kind of excitement Yuri thinks he's only really heard Victor use to describe food or to talk to Maccachin.

Except it's not that. It's even better than that. It's more somehow.