happy valentine's day my fellow jjyurio!! here is some PLEASE-JUST-GET-IT-TOGETHER-AND-GET-TOGETHER jjyurio for you~
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Six years and any number of championship podiums later, Yuri still bristles when people call him Yurio. His name is Yuri, he’s said, over and over again, but people never listen and he’s disgustedly given up. Even the commentators slip up sometimes, like today, all because pig-Yuuri and his equally stupid husband were splashed across the headlines for three months and no one’s gotten over it. It wasn’t even anything to do with skating.
So when JJ sails into the waiting room, beaming, and calls him little Yuri like they’re best friends, it’s not quite as annoying as it once was.
“What,” he snaps, not taking his eyes off the monitor. It’s a young Chinese skater, relatively decent but definitely not competition. At least not yet.
“Just wondering how my favourite lady is.” JJ slides his fingers across the back of Yuri’s shoulders, there and gone before Yuri can lash out.
“That stopped being funny five years ago.”
“So you thought it was funny before?”
Yuri, for some reason, has to grit his teeth to stop from saying yes. His skin prickles where JJ touched him. “No. It wasn’t even funny the first time.”
“I,” JJ announces, collapsing against the wall, “am crushed. Devastated. My adoring fans will roast you alive.”
Completely without his permission, Yuri’s mouth twitches, and out of the corner of his eye he sees JJ give him a real smile instead of the camera one. He looks tired today. Yuri contemplates telling him that his crow’s feet are getting more and more obvious every time they meet. JJ is secretly even worse about signs of ageing than Victor is, which is something of an achievement.
He turns away from the monitor to prod JJ’s chest instead. “Your adoring fans like your,” he pauses, looking for the word, “degenerate pin-up photos, not you.”
Something that looks like hurt shadows JJ’s eyes, but of course it can’t be. JJ doesn’t do hurt. His ego is too impenetrable a shield.
“A mortal wound,” says JJ, and Yuri is thrown by how quiet his voice is. “I need a beautiful nurse.”
“You don’t—” before he can finish his thought JJ has pushed up and taken three long strides away. Yuri watches him escape out the door, at a loss.
Tinny cheers sound from the monitor. The commentator is saying something about a fine attempt at a quad salchow. Yuri snorts; there are no fine attempts, only success and failure. Yakov used to nod his approval of this philosophy, but he’s grown soft with age— he only frowns now.
JJ would get it, probably. Two seasons ago, he had complimented Yuri on competing a quad loop. But at that point he hadn’t landed a single clean one yet so it didn’t properly count, and he’d said so. JJ had grinned at him: “I like your style.” Yuri remembers this because it hadn’t been JJ’s usual empty flattery— it was just. He’d meant it, for once. Yuri scuffs his shoe on the floor.
no subject
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Six years and any number of championship podiums later, Yuri still bristles when people call him Yurio. His name is Yuri, he’s said, over and over again, but people never listen and he’s disgustedly given up. Even the commentators slip up sometimes, like today, all because pig-Yuuri and his equally stupid husband were splashed across the headlines for three months and no one’s gotten over it. It wasn’t even anything to do with skating.
So when JJ sails into the waiting room, beaming, and calls him little Yuri like they’re best friends, it’s not quite as annoying as it once was.
“What,” he snaps, not taking his eyes off the monitor. It’s a young Chinese skater, relatively decent but definitely not competition. At least not yet.
“Just wondering how my favourite lady is.” JJ slides his fingers across the back of Yuri’s shoulders, there and gone before Yuri can lash out.
“That stopped being funny five years ago.”
“So you thought it was funny before?”
Yuri, for some reason, has to grit his teeth to stop from saying yes. His skin prickles where JJ touched him. “No. It wasn’t even funny the first time.”
“I,” JJ announces, collapsing against the wall, “am crushed. Devastated. My adoring fans will roast you alive.”
Completely without his permission, Yuri’s mouth twitches, and out of the corner of his eye he sees JJ give him a real smile instead of the camera one. He looks tired today. Yuri contemplates telling him that his crow’s feet are getting more and more obvious every time they meet. JJ is secretly even worse about signs of ageing than Victor is, which is something of an achievement.
He turns away from the monitor to prod JJ’s chest instead. “Your adoring fans like your,” he pauses, looking for the word, “degenerate pin-up photos, not you.”
Something that looks like hurt shadows JJ’s eyes, but of course it can’t be. JJ doesn’t do hurt. His ego is too impenetrable a shield.
“A mortal wound,” says JJ, and Yuri is thrown by how quiet his voice is. “I need a beautiful nurse.”
“You don’t—” before he can finish his thought JJ has pushed up and taken three long strides away. Yuri watches him escape out the door, at a loss.
Tinny cheers sound from the monitor. The commentator is saying something about a fine attempt at a quad salchow. Yuri snorts; there are no fine attempts, only success and failure. Yakov used to nod his approval of this philosophy, but he’s grown soft with age— he only frowns now.
JJ would get it, probably. Two seasons ago, he had complimented Yuri on competing a quad loop. But at that point he hadn’t landed a single clean one yet so it didn’t properly count, and he’d said so. JJ had grinned at him: “I like your style.” Yuri remembers this because it hadn’t been JJ’s usual empty flattery— it was just. He’d meant it, for once. Yuri scuffs his shoe on the floor.
He should have made fun of the wrinkles.