“And is your family here tonight?” One of the journalists asks him when he’s just about to push his way backstage.
“My grandfather is,” he decides to say when the guy doesn’t back off. “Could you let me through?”
“Yes, sure sure - is there nobody else?” The man moves, but now Yuri doesn’t. “Mr Plisetsky?”
He forces a deep breath into his lungs. “Nobody, no. Good night.”
Viktor goes first. He just knocks at the door of Yuri’s hotel room, impolite as always. Before Yuri can protest, he’s already sticking his head inside, stomping in a mere moment later. “Just saw your interview.”
“So? I didn’t insult your beloved fiancé this time-”
Two arms close around him. Yuri’s heart thunders.
“Your family watched your entire performance. They were there the whole time, and if you still don’t see that, then it’s about damn time.”
Viktor leaves without a word. Yuri doesn’t mind. He couldn’t have replied anyways, not with his heart beating up into his throat, or with the first tear reaching his cheek when the door goes shut.
“Do you think I’m family?”
“I need to borrow your gloves. I forgot mine. Please?”
“I asked you something.”
Yuuri looks up from where he’s tying his skates. He’s smiling and Yuri bites down on his lips, hard, so he doesn’t do something stupid like crying (again).
“Never doubt that,” Yuuri says quietly. He pushes his hand into Yuri’s hair, ruffles it like the idiot (inspiration, just never letting him know that, friend, or that, and maybe something that is stronger and thicker than all even without blood or water) that he is, and gets up. “Now let’s go.”
It’s only after practice that Yuri can’t find his gloves. Turns out that it’s not a problem, because Yuko sends him a pair in her next package. And if he wears them even though blue and pink never were his favourite colours, well, that’s his business.