Yuuri’s sure if it got even a degree colder, his balls would end up bluer than the goddamn sky.
“O-o-of all the t-t-times, wh-why now?” he stutters, stuffing his hands further into his track suit pockets. Any deeper and he might just rip a hole through the material, but Yuuri couldn’t care less. It’s freezing, and he knows as night falls, it’s only about to get colder.
He’s no stranger to harsh weather- Hasetsu has hit him with ridiculously hot summers and chilly winters, but Russia’s cold bites in a way no other place ever has. Yuuri’s spent a majority of his life in an ice skating rink, but the sheer amount of pain he feels at the moment is unnatural. No amount of exposure to ice could possibly prepare him for this.
“The fuck is wrong with you?”
It’s a familiar voice, the anger and stubbornness a comfort that cuts through the fog in Yuuri’s brain. He never would’ve thought Yurio’s voice would be a source of such happiness, but it is.