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"Even though Christophe Giacometti has had one of the longest skating careers out of all the competitors and has made it to the Grand Prix more than anyone skating, he's never won the event." The announcer states, pausing a little to let the crowd go even wilder for their favoured skater.
"How does his all time rival, Victor Nikiforov, watching from the audience, feel about this?" He inquires over the loud cheers for the living legend who was still ignoring Yuuri like he didn't even exist.
"By sitting out this season it opens a chance for any skater..."
Yuuri's head lifts at the last line and averts his gaze to look at Victor, thumb and pointer finger holding his chin in a look of clear interest for nothing else but the skate Chris was performing.
It still bothered the Japanese skater that everyone seemed to be surpassing him. Christophe's skate had just finished up and the male stood there in his finishing pose on the ice, obvious that he may have had another orgasm.
At this point, though, Yuuri knew what was to come of the score and prepared himself as the announcer's words boomed through the speakers, "Christophe Giacometti's score has been finalised to 102.37!"
The crowd once again cheers for Chris with enthusiasm and Yuuri was glad because it drained out any remorseful thoughts he had in his head. Victor, still sitting beside him, cupped his hands around his mouth and cheered out for his long time rival, "Go, Chris!"
"He has easily surpassed Yuuri Katsuki's score and is now in second place!"
"Oh, looks like a fan just launched herself at him..." The announcer's words slowly faded from Yuuri's hearing as his thoughts went completely static.
I'm always going to be surpassed, aren't I? He thought to himself as he clutches his chest, the feeling of his heart becoming heavy had worried him gravely, I can't seem to do anything right...
He hadn't noticed Sala look over to him in worry as he clenched his teeth in anger and let go of his jacket, now crumpled from the force of the hold. Her dark violet eyes moved to observe Victor, who paid no mind to his student in his current state of pain.
Instead, his head was facing the direction in which Yuri Plisetsky was advancing from with confidence plastered all over his grim looking face.
Before she knew it, he'd sat his arse down in the seat behind hers and, as Sala interpreted, slammed his feet between the arm-rests of her's and Yuuri's chairs and rested his arms behind his head as if the Grand Prix were some kind of cinematic.
