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“Oh, did you see that guy from Japan?”
“Katsi? No, that’s not right. Anyhow, what about him?”
“Nearly knocked me over on his way to the restroom. I didn’t know figure skaters of that calibre got butterflies.”
Yuri Plisetski glances up from his phone. The conversation he overhears is from two of the event volunteers. They’ve moved on, a third arriving with a list to direct the pair to their tasks or whatever the workers here do when they don’t gossip.
The bustle is dying down. The Four Continents kicks off tomorrow with ceremonies and it is the first time Yuri can experience a competition from the outskirts. Russia does not compete in this tournament, but Japan does.
So, too, does Kazakstan. Otabek is changing, and the real reason why Yuri has come.
He is not here for Yuuri.
Yuuri whom he met for the first time, blubbering in a bathroom stall. And it’s not like the Japanese skater has a reason to be doing that again. Practice time had gone well as far as Yuri could tell, not that he was paying attention to the pig.
Much.
Besides, it is Viktor’s job to cheer up Yuuri.
Viktor, who is not arriving until late tonight.
“It’s nothing,” Yuri mutters. He has plans and maybe the other Yuuri -- the lesser one, the more annoying one, the sensitive but smug one, who is cool but sometimes useless, and often a mess, yet also kind despite that...and…and fuck --
-- maybe the other Yuuri is not crying in a bathroom stall over nothing.
He could be sick.
Which would warrant Plisetsky to check up on him.
Or, the other is using the restroom for its designated purpose.
Or utilizing the privacy to call and be obscene with his fiance.
Which would definitely not warrant a check up.
It could be nothing.
It should be nothing.
“Ugh, whatever,” Yuri hisses. It will give him something to complain about tonight to Otabek. He rounds the corner to the hallway that the volunteers had come through. The lights are dimmed as the staff prepare to close down for the night.
The door gives under Yuri’s shoulder. He is tempted to kick it open, but decides to assuage his fears by listening. There is no Katsuki washing his hands at the sink. The space is bare, but Yuri hears a shuffle of movement in the echoing chamber. One door is closed, its secret occupant kept hidden from the wall of mirrors.
“Hey pig. Are you crying again?” Yuri snaps. His words bounce from tile and metal stalls.
“No,” comes a reply at last. Familiar. And burdened by congestion. Yuuri had certainly been crying.
“Good God,” Yuri growls, throwing his head up and marching into the space. The door slams behind him. “What the hell is it this time?”
Yuuri chances a sniffle. It is clear he tries to minimize the strength of it. The plastic scrape of a tissue holder creaks loudly, swallowing further sounds. “It’s stupid.”
“Of course it’s stupid,” Yuri grunts. “Imbeciles cry over imbecilic things. Did you flub a jump when I wasn’t looking? Did you realize that Otabek is going to win and you’re wasting your time? Can you not wait three more hours until Viktor gets here so you can be a disgusting, messy couple again?”
He gets a snort. “No. It’s...not those things.”
Yuri peers at himself in the mirror. Hair bound back, grown a bit longer since the Prix. His new leopard jacket. And what he is most proud of: all the righteous fury in the world. He hates that there is now a crease of concern encroaching across his features. “Did something happen? At home?”
Yuuri blows his nose. The sound is jarringly ugly. “No. I...it’s stupid,” he repeats. His voice cracks. “I did an interview with…someone named June.”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The Russian scowls, wheeling. “June Natalie Parn?”
“Uh huh,” hiccups the older skater.
“You idiot,” Yuri reprises, also cursing out Viktor for not being here to prevent such a thing, and also for not previously warning the other about that particular reporter. “She’s the worst. She wrote a whole editorial on how some countries should just stay out of skating.”
Yakov has forbid Yuri from picking a fight with her after he had found out about it. Her attacks on Otabek’s accomplishments had been infuriating and unfair. She was a stain on the sport and it was annoying that Yuuri had never noticed, especially as Phichit’s successes were a favourite target of hers.
The Russian skater now can't help but imagine what kinds of inquisitions she had thrown Yuuri’s way. And if he had been by himself when that happened, and stifled by his Japanese politeness.
Yuri might just start that fight after all. It’s not like Yakov is here to stop him...
“I know it’s stupid,” Yuuri huffs. “And…and...her opinion doesn’t mean anything but…” The words are staggered by smothered sobs. “I know...it’s stupid.”
“She’s stupid,” Yuri sighs. He gives the door a kick, but the gesture lacks any energy.
“I’ve...I shouldn’t let it get to me...but...it’s not been the best day and...and it just happened and...and I know I’m a good skater and...and…”
The door to the room creaks open and Yuuri abruptly stops his blubbering, holding his breath.
Yuri spins about. “This room is occupied,” he shouts, finger raised. “Go find somewhere else to pee!”
The poor intruder stops, appears to prepare some comment before wisely thinking better of it. He mumbles what could be an apology in another language before slinking out.
The door clatters closed.
Yuri directs his remaining annoyance at the stall door. “Look pig, Viktor would know what to say. And Yakov would know what to say. And probably anyone else would say it better than me. But the bitch is wrong. You were good before Viktor came along and you’re pretty adequate now, too. And while you still won’t win gold this week, I will be pissed off if you don’t get silver. That would be the worst thing you could do to Parn. Cover the podium with people she hates. And she’d probably hate it a lot if you kissed Viktor a bunch on television, too. So, I don’t know, look forward to that instead of crying like a baby by yourself. Crying should be on the ice. Because you earned it.”
There is a snuffle. “I...I know.”
“But if you still have to get it out of your system, I’ll guard the door,” Yuri murmurs, defeated.
“Thank you,” Yuuri warbles.
“I’ll be outside. But don’t take too long. I have things to do.”
“I think I’m almost done,” Yuuri’s voice drifts after him. “Thanks…” The reiterated gratitude counters the claim, pitching the Japanese man into another sob.
Plisetsky grits his teeth, but finds the silence in the hallway only slightly less constraining. He can’t remember the last time he was reduced to tears over something so pathetic. Though he does fly into tantrums. In a way, they’re the same. Different outlets for their emotions. Yuri knows he had regretted his first outburst at the Japanese man, at least until he had lost the dance off that same night.
He shakes his head. The Japanese crybaby would be okay.
His phone buzzes.
//Finished. You outside?//
Yuri replies to the awaited text, a nostalgic grin now upon his face. //Helping a friend. Might be a moment.//
//Meet you @ cafe by my bike?//
//That place looks awful. Can’t wait.//
He fills out the message with some cat emojis. Then consigns himself to his post.