Yuri isn't expecting the sudden jerk from his jacket, and even before he can look back to see if it's from Victor -- even though it has to be, right? -- he's shattered by a different realization. Being drug backward, by that firm, unasking hand, behind him there are three men and a video recorder trained on him. Making his eyes go wider, whiter. Dubious expressions and absolutely nothing else in this direction to be looking at except him. Losing it.
Victor Nikiforov's skater falling to pieces before he could even get on the ice and damage his reputation properly.
And now him, being drug away by Victor, announcing brusquely that they need to go find somewhere else. He manages to catch his feet, and ends up at Victor's side. Then, under Victor's arms when it finds his shoulder.
Victor, who can't not tell at this point. Victor, who isn't talking and keeps dragging him further and further and further from the area they are all supposed to be in. Victor, who can't want to be here. To be part of this anymore. Victor, who had his arm across Yuri's shoulder, and was still leading him silently, calmly, smoothly away from everything. Their footsteps silent in a stairwell when there finally aren't other people shuffling, dashing, moving things and getting other things done.
Where they end up ... makes no sense. Underground? Under the arena? In a parking garage, surrounded by cars, and dark in every direction except for right where the lights are shining down and throwing shadows in every direction. It makes no sense. None at all. Did Victor bring him down here to talk to him about how this is all over now? Somewhere without people, without cameras to see it. Like waiting until they got to the hotel earlier.
Except Victor'd meant to make him sleep. Hadn't he? Except now it was worse, and Victor had to be able to see that.
Fear and dread and desperation knotted in his stomach, in his throat, all of it lined with confusion. As much as he hated it, and as little as he wanted it, he should be upstairs. He should be where Victor dragged him from. They could be through the first half, and how would he know. How would they know? He hadn't even been close enough to be watching Chris' skate, to have an idea of the score he had ended up with.
Not that he needed clues to how well it was going with the applause and compliments.
He should know, shouldn't have to ask, but he does, foundering, and trying not to, "Victor, what are the current standings?"
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Date: 2017-04-08 08:51 pm (UTC)Victor Nikiforov's skater falling to pieces before he could even get on the ice and damage his reputation properly.
And now him, being drug away by Victor, announcing brusquely that they need to go find somewhere else.
He manages to catch his feet, and ends up at Victor's side. Then, under Victor's arms when it finds his shoulder.
Victor, who can't not tell at this point. Victor, who isn't talking and keeps dragging him further and further and further from the area they are all supposed to be in. Victor, who can't want to be here. To be part of this anymore. Victor, who had his arm across Yuri's shoulder, and was still leading him silently, calmly, smoothly away from everything. Their footsteps silent in a stairwell when there finally aren't other people shuffling, dashing, moving things and getting other things done.
Where they end up ... makes no sense. Underground? Under the arena? In a parking garage, surrounded by cars, and dark in every direction except for right where the lights are shining down and throwing shadows in every direction. It makes no sense. None at all. Did Victor bring him down here to talk to him about how this is all over now? Somewhere without people, without cameras to see it. Like waiting until they got to the hotel earlier.
Except Victor'd meant to make him sleep. Hadn't he? Except now it was worse, and Victor had to be able to see that.
Fear and dread and desperation knotted in his stomach, in his throat, all of it lined with confusion. As much as he hated it, and as little as he wanted it, he should be upstairs. He should be where Victor dragged him from. They could be through the first half, and how would he know. How would they know? He hadn't even been close enough to be watching Chris' skate, to have an idea of the score he had ended up with.
Not that he needed clues to how well it was going with the applause and compliments.
He should know, shouldn't have to ask, but he does, foundering, and trying not to, "Victor, what are the current standings?"