That. Was. A lot. For a moment, it felt like the world had come to a screeching tire squeal of a stop. That. None of that happened. He hadn't went home. Victor wasn't his coach. Victor never lived with him...for months. And yet. He knew about Stammi Vicino. He had been working on that for months, trying to find some kind of motivation to keep skating for himself, but it stayed the same. He'd bombed, and he couldn't skate for Victor if the man barely knew he existed. Here he was, staring that very man down (or up as it were), while he talked about everything with such ease that Victor would have to be some kind of crazy elaborate compulsive liar to pull it off.
It all took a moment to sink in fully, and by that point Yuri really took notice of how close Victor had gotten. When had that happened? The drawl of his name from Victor's lips was enough to make him turn bright red and the last thing he could think about was how he felt about any of it when all he felt was Victor warm and solid and practically on top of him and that sent things veering way off course, at least, off what he assumed Victor was thinking. He suddenly jerked back, taking an embarrassingly few number of steps before hitting the counter but it was enough space to breathe, let it all swirl around and before he knew it, his eyes were starting to burn.
His hands lifted, like he were to cover his face but they stopped at his cheeks, breath shaky for a moment as the tears welled up. That didn't seem possible. If he was here, how could any of that have happened. "H-How?" He managed, fingers curling into fists just below his eyes. He really didn't want to cry. It felt like he'd been doing that enough lately. "That's not fair..."