That hand stays on his shoulder, as they walk back up the stairs. Victor quiet and present, a weight hovered at his back and his side, while Yuri wipes at his eyes, and cheeks, and chin, with his fingers, and hands, and the cuffs of his jacket. He probably doesn't have time to splash water on his face, and he doesn't want to ask.
He's not sure if there's a point, while their steps echo up the stairwell the same way they'd echo'd down. The same silence, but it feels different. When Victor beside him, looked at only in the barest glance now and again, is silent. He might not have been talking the whole time earlier, but this is different. Victor, hidden behind the curtain of his bangs, and his face a quiet seriousness and distance.
One Yuri doesn't know the shape or sound of. What it means. Only that he made it. He did, didn't he?
He shouldn't have yelled, but somehow, he's not sure he's sorry either. Which is just an impossible feeling. A curious, empty, impossible feeling that stretches and stretches in the question of itself across the space of his thoughts. Ready and waiting for the shame and recrimination, the doubts and second guesses, that will land on him and swallow him for that. But it doesn't come.
He really doesn't have the time to ask why, because the dividing curtain is moved, and they are walking outside of the practice area. Georgi is on the ice, in the middle or end of his routine, all straight shoulders, more dignity, and grace than Yuri remembers from what little he could remember of watching Georgi yesterday. But his eyes don't stay there either. He finds a bench and starts putting on his skates. There's only minutes.
Only minutes as that music comes to a close and a cheer goes up.
A breeze ruffling his skin, but his fingers on his laces only hesitate for the barest breath.
Then he's pushing up, looking up long enough to see the disappointed curve of Georgi's shoulders as he says something to Yakov that isn't relayed on the big screen the way the third place marking is. Third. He's in third and Yuri has absolutely no real clue who is in any of the other four places. None at all. No idea how well or badly they did, or at what. It's a strange thought. A strange feeling, elastic and formless, but touching everything, when he hands off his jacket and steps onto the ice.
Simple stroked steps sending him over to where Victor is waiting by the wall. Skates guards, tissues, water bottle and this face. This troubled face like Victor, himself, had done something wrong that. He looked so ... young. Uncertain. Lost. Frustrated. Guilty. Yuri continued to look at him as he took one of the tissues from the box and blew his nose. Something answering, even from the rung dry state of himself.
Something quiet, exhausted and exasperated, and ... fond? ... was it fond? Fond ... and almost sad? ... when he crumpled the tissue. He held it out, watching Victor's hand dropp like a mechanism. More reflex than thought, and before he could second guess the nature of the inspiration, Yuri moved his hand.
Inches to the side of where he'd been only right over Victor's hand, and dropped his tissues toward the ice.
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Date: 2017-04-09 07:25 pm (UTC)He's not sure if there's a point, while their steps echo up the stairwell the same way they'd echo'd down. The same silence, but it feels different. When Victor beside him, looked at only in the barest glance now and again, is silent. He might not have been talking the whole time earlier, but this is different. Victor, hidden behind the curtain of his bangs, and his face a quiet seriousness and distance.
One Yuri doesn't know the shape or sound of. What it means. Only that he made it. He did, didn't he?
He shouldn't have yelled, but somehow, he's not sure he's sorry either. Which is just an impossible feeling. A curious, empty, impossible feeling that stretches and stretches in the question of itself across the space of his thoughts. Ready and waiting for the shame and recrimination, the doubts and second guesses, that will land on him and swallow him for that. But it doesn't come.
He really doesn't have the time to ask why, because the dividing curtain is moved, and they are walking outside of the practice area. Georgi is on the ice, in the middle or end of his routine, all straight shoulders, more dignity, and grace than Yuri remembers from what little he could remember of watching Georgi yesterday. But his eyes don't stay there either. He finds a bench and starts putting on his skates. There's only minutes.
Only minutes as that music comes to a close and a cheer goes up.
A breeze ruffling his skin, but his fingers on his laces only hesitate for the barest breath.
Then he's pushing up, looking up long enough to see the disappointed curve of Georgi's shoulders as he says something to Yakov that isn't relayed on the big screen the way the third place marking is. Third. He's in third and Yuri has absolutely no real clue who is in any of the other four places. None at all. No idea how well or badly they did, or at what. It's a strange thought. A strange feeling, elastic and formless, but touching everything, when he hands off his jacket and steps onto the ice.
Simple stroked steps sending him over to where Victor is waiting by the wall. Skates guards, tissues, water bottle and this face. This troubled face like Victor, himself, had done something wrong that. He looked so ... young. Uncertain. Lost. Frustrated. Guilty. Yuri continued to look at him as he took one of the tissues from the box and blew his nose. Something answering, even from the rung dry state of himself.
Something quiet, exhausted and exasperated, and ... fond? ... was it fond? Fond ... and almost sad? ... when he crumpled the tissue. He held it out, watching Victor's hand dropp like a mechanism. More reflex than thought, and before he could second guess the nature of the inspiration, Yuri moved his hand.
Inches to the side of where he'd been only right over Victor's hand, and dropped his tissues toward the ice.