Chapter Text
Yuri Plisetsky has had it. As if it isn’t bad enough that a sudden growth spurt is making his bones ache and throwing off all of his jumps, now Yakov’s deciding that his puberty is a sign from God or whatever and dragging in his terrifying former prima ballerina of an ex to make Yuri’s life hell, Mila’s taking every opportunity to prove that not even an extra seven centimeters are a match for her mutant she-beast strength, and Georgi… is just being so fucking Georgi. And for the cherry on top of this delightful eff-em-ell sundae, Victor I-Am-Such-A-Precious-Goddamn-Genius Nikiforov has presented Yuri with some twee little tinkly baby song for his promised senior debut program. Proudly. Gleefully. The asshole is relishing it.
Now he’s skating lazy circles around Yuri with Approachably Charming Living Legend Smile #3 plastered on his smug face while cheerfully ripping Yuri’s best efforts to shreds. You have to make the jumps look ethereal, Yuratchka. Your step sequence looks like you’re jogging through tires in boot camp, Yuratchka. Try to put some tiny semblance of vulnerability into your Ina Bauer, Yuratchka. Do you want to borrow my English dictionary so you can look up ‘agape’ again, Yuratchka? Because quad-flipping all up on Yuri’s very last nerve is definitely the best way to evoke unconditional love from his performance.
Whatever that even means.
Yuri throws himself into the Biellmann spin like he feels personally attacked by it, closing his eyes and letting the roar in his ears drown out Victor’s mocking commentary. He’s not sure why he’s suddenly thinking of the stories dedushka used to tell him, and he’s even less sure why he finds the words bubbling up in his throat. What he does know is that right at this moment he is completely and utterly out of fucks to give.
“I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now,” Yuri hisses under his breath as he spins.
The rink goes dark.