He doesn't see the connect coming, but it shifts Yuri's expression. Even if Minako hasn't been at his side as much as had in his childhood before he'd left Hasestsu for Detroit, that space now fully owned by Victor as his coach, there was a comfort to her being there. That she'd come to his first two competitions. That she'd been the other half of his days, his practice, his routines, helped him find his own ways into them, for all of these months.
It made losing her presence, even more idea than solidity, not comforting. It raised the question about whether she'd stay for the Gala or she'd already be gone back home, and even if Moscow is more and less a week from now through being finished even, and then he'd be home after, it's not the comparison of any seven normal days.
Training a quad flip.
Continuing to critique, then tighten Eros and Yuri on Ice. The new people he'd go up against for this round of the qualifier.
It wasn't a week, it was a mountain, and it smushed at his ears, clouding his chest, like he'd tapped it on the shoulder and it had jumped at the invitation to clobber any available space there. Leaves him staring for a long too long second, until Victor's hands and the stream of the tea make him blink. Make him catch the words being said then, not quite sure if he'd missed earlier ones.
Where had they been? Russia. Victor's home. The things he missed. The things and places all that he'd had to give up to train Yuri.
The things and places he'd be suddenly near to, but busy.
"But, maybe after, if you wanted --" Yuri shugged a little, shoulders pushed in together, left it hanging like some combinations of a reminder and an odd offer, of something he wasn't really much in the control of offering. Not clue where they'd, he'd, be in those seven days. But it was almost a month between Moscow and Barcelona. If he made it. No. When. When he made it. (If.) It was Victor's home. It wasn't like Yuri wouldn't understand, didn't want him to be able to touch it if he could.
(Not even if it made something catch fingers in back of his breastbone.)
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Date: 2017-04-19 07:49 pm (UTC)It made losing her presence, even more idea than solidity, not comforting. It raised the question about whether she'd stay for the Gala or she'd already be gone back home, and even if Moscow is more and less a week from now through being finished even, and then he'd be home after, it's not the comparison of any seven normal days.
Training a quad flip.
Continuing to critique, then tighten Eros and Yuri on Ice.
The new people he'd go up against for this round of the qualifier.
It wasn't a week, it was a mountain, and it smushed at his ears, clouding his chest, like he'd tapped it on the shoulder and it had jumped at the invitation to clobber any available space there. Leaves him staring for a long too long second, until Victor's hands and the stream of the tea make him blink. Make him catch the words being said then, not quite sure if he'd missed earlier ones.
Where had they been? Russia. Victor's home. The things he missed.
The things and places all that he'd had to give up to train Yuri.
The things and places he'd be suddenly near to, but busy.
"But, maybe after, if you wanted --" Yuri shugged a little, shoulders pushed in together, left it hanging like some combinations of a reminder and an odd offer, of something he wasn't really much in the control of offering. Not clue where they'd, he'd, be in those seven days. But it was almost a month between Moscow and Barcelona. If he made it. No. When. When he made it. (If.) It was Victor's home. It wasn't like Yuri wouldn't understand, didn't want him to be able to touch it if he could.
(Not even if it made something catch fingers in back of his breastbone.)