She was a matryoshka; Happiness nested in sorrow Wrapped in anxious yearning Smothered by frustration Until at the core she lay curled Longing for a place to call home. She stacked and unwrapped Clawed her way out of her layered confinement Only to gather her mock fortress of strength back To mask the depth of the soot stains Where the fire in her heart recedes. In a prison made of rib cage and heartstrings Vacillating from atrophy to shining bright She quietly sings to herself A soft murmur to soothe the trembling ache. Someday she will untangle her love lines, Rip the IV pumping promises into her veins And break free from her chosen hell.
As the sun is going down. Voices sound out throughout your house. You know curiosity killed the cat but nevertheless you decide to investigate. The voices become louder and louder as the sun goes down. You follow the sounds and it takes you to your fire mantle. On top, the Russian nesting doll has come to life and starts separating.
I’m calling it “Yurio Catches Puberty” as a working title. (PG for swearing and puberty.) (Warning for body image stuff, very minor.)
“WHEN WILL THIS BE OVER?”
The scream of anguish from the rink’s locker room shower made Yuuri look up sharply. He’d only arrived in St. Petersburg yesterday, but this couldn’t be normal, even if nobody else seemed to be paying the slightest attention.
It was definitely Yurio.
“Yurio?” he started to ask, but Georgi clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t engage,” he hissed.
Yuuri looked at him, wide-eyed.
“What’s going on?” he whispered, as Yurio began a steady, at least quieter stream of cursing in Russian, then English, then Japanese that Yuuri definitely hadn’t taught him.
“Puberty,” Georgi said.
Yuuri blinked. “Puberty?” he asked.
Georgi gave him a disgusted look. “Of course,” he mumbled to himself. “The golden boy didn’t suffer puberty…”
He wandered off, now also cursing, and Yuuri had ten seconds of silence before Yurio kicked the shower door open and strode out, towel around his waist.