the first and only time yakov slips and accidentally calls yuri “yurio” he is met with a long, blustering stare and discovers, for the first time, a feeling not unlike the quiet horror and resignation a crab spider must feel when she realizes she is about to be devoured by her young.
“ah, yurochka- ”
“coach,” he says bitingly.
a faint irritability rises in the back of yakov’s mind when yuri rises to his full height; why can’t he maintain such an impeccable posture during the training that counts? what’s wrong with the name yurio anyway? and why couldn’t yura just be like the diva-crybaby hybrid vitya was—will always be—and why must he instead be such an exhausting composite of refined spitefulness and unrestraining savagery?
he braces himself for the verbal tirade that’s sure to follow, but a cheery voice floats from the other side of the rink, “yurio! hey, wanna work on our quads together?”
and yakov watches, in disbelief, as his pupil immediately deflates to pivot on a blade and call back, “you better not fuck around and land all your flips this time if you think you’re ever gonna beat me, katsudon…”
sometimes crab spiders are eaten by their young, and other times crab spiders find themselves saved by unassuming japanese men with a talent for pacifying turbulent personalities
“Blind red spiders with crown of fingers and long limbs frantically
dancing, touching every bit of surface they cling to. Fingers tap, tap
and wiggle, every touch is pain and ecstasy brewed into confused desire.
These Palpaters try to walk as men, but broken limbs provide little
stability. Do not let them touch you, as they obsess over the feeling of
humanity and will molest every inch, even driving their fingers into
every orifice just to feel the organs inside.”