Seven thousand kilometers and five time zones away, Yuri is standing in the cafe at the Sports Champions Club.
So he'd forgotten to watch most of the China Cup free skate. Not that he particularly wanted to watch Georgi vomit his toxic soup of emotions all over the unfortunate people of Shanghai, but Yakov had told him to keep an eye on Giacometti -- that oversexed brick of a Swiss who'd been chasing Viktor for most of their careers -- in particular as a likely competitor for the Grand Prix Final. He'll have to pull up the videos on his phone later; if he catches the tail end of the free skate, at least, it won't be an outright lie to Yakov that he'd been watching it live.
The cafe serves a reasonably cheap and healthy menu, and after more than an hour going over his own free skate step sequence his body is screaming for food. A hot bowl of borscht, the specialty of the little old Ukrainian chef who runs her cafe's kitchen with the wonderfully soulless efficiency of a missile production factory, is exactly what he needs. And Baba's there already, watching the free skate with that friend of hers from Tomsk whose name Yuri can never remember -- Petru-something, maybe, or maybe not -- and so Yuri can hang back and keep half an eye on the television.
And of course, because he has the best luck these days, he's just in time to see the cameras follow Katsudon as he glides into position.
Yuri on Ice. Stunningly imaginative.
Even the best camera work is no comparison for watching a performance live at the rink, but Yuri's eyes focus on Katsudon's skates as he starts in on his routine, queuing up his first couple of jumps (ha, quad salchow, so you finally figured it out, Katsudon?). His movements look cleaner than they were in Hasetsu, true, and right now he's in the top spot, but there's still time for him to choke.
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Date: 2017-04-09 09:33 pm (UTC)So he'd forgotten to watch most of the China Cup free skate. Not that he particularly wanted to watch Georgi vomit his toxic soup of emotions all over the unfortunate people of Shanghai, but Yakov had told him to keep an eye on Giacometti -- that oversexed brick of a Swiss who'd been chasing Viktor for most of their careers -- in particular as a likely competitor for the Grand Prix Final. He'll have to pull up the videos on his phone later; if he catches the tail end of the free skate, at least, it won't be an outright lie to Yakov that he'd been watching it live.
The cafe serves a reasonably cheap and healthy menu, and after more than an hour going over his own free skate step sequence his body is screaming for food. A hot bowl of borscht, the specialty of the little old Ukrainian chef who runs her cafe's kitchen with the wonderfully soulless efficiency of a missile production factory, is exactly what he needs. And Baba's there already, watching the free skate with that friend of hers from Tomsk whose name Yuri can never remember -- Petru-something, maybe, or maybe not -- and so Yuri can hang back and keep half an eye on the television.
And of course, because he has the best luck these days, he's just in time to see the cameras follow Katsudon as he glides into position.
Yuri on Ice. Stunningly imaginative.
Even the best camera work is no comparison for watching a performance live at the rink, but Yuri's eyes focus on Katsudon's skates as he starts in on his routine, queuing up his first couple of jumps (ha, quad salchow, so you finally figured it out, Katsudon?). His movements look cleaner than they were in Hasetsu, true, and right now he's in the top spot, but there's still time for him to choke.
The borscht isn't going anywhere.