( like stone, like ice, Yuri doesn't allow himself to show any sign of his horror at Victor's situation. sinking deep into his persona as Frostflower he follows the man into the arena, looks up at his detainers, and feels something solidify into cold, cold stone deep within him.
this isn't bad. it's the literal worst possible scenario.
Yuri keeps himself impassive as his introductory spiel is spun and doesn't bother correcting anything. he inclines his head gravely when it seems the man is done speaking, subtly widening his stance, hands clasped behind his back. he's not readying himself to fight; he doesn't think he can. no; Yuri's readying himself for a beating.
hopefully it'll be enough to keep them occupied while everyone else closes in. without his earpiece Yuri can't hear what's happening on the other end of things but he knows Phichit, knows, bone deep, how stubborn the younger man is. there's no way he won't kick up enough of a stink to get things rolling.
he looks at Victor's slumped, bloodied form and hopes things roll in time.
the first blow has him stumbling, a fist to the jaw that has blood welling coppery in Yuri's mouth. before he can regain his balance it's a crowbar to his knee, and how he manages to avoid the cap shattering is beyond Yuri's comprehension. he staggers from beating to beating, teeth clenched, hands behind his back. desperately he tries to ignore the rising pain. his focus is as knocked about as his body.
one thug picks him up in a textbook suplex that drives the wind from Yuri's lungs. his whole body is screaming in pain and they've barely started. now he's prone there's a swift succession of steelcapped boots to any part of him they can get to. which is pretty much all of him, since Yuri's making no real attempt to defend himself. he feels his ribs go, feels the bone in his cheek splinter, feels a tooth roll almost into his throat before he coughs blood and spits it out of choking range. all the while the whole thing is narrated like a UFC match. it's not for Yuri's benefit, he knows.
it's for Victor's.
he lays bleeding on the ground, bruised and broken. his hands are still behind his back. someone steps on them and Yuri cries out despite himself as fingers break. the narrator expresses amazement at how weak he is and Yuri forces himself to turn, spitting more blood at his feet. it earns him a cold grin and a fresh round of kicking; that doesn't matter. it all buys time.
as his vision sways, Yuri stares through blackened eyes to the ropes binding Victor's wrists. there's no watchers on him now; everybody not directly involved in his beating is taking jovial bets.
with agonising concentration a very, very fine sliver of ice saws against Victor's bindings. the effort of it almost makes Yuri pass out - or maybe that's the pain, or maybe that's the blood loss. he can't tell any more. all his focus is reserved for not passing out before he does this final task.
Yuri's not sure he succeeds but he can't fight unconsciousness any more when another boot collides brutally with his skull. )
no subject
this isn't bad. it's the literal worst possible scenario.
Yuri keeps himself impassive as his introductory spiel is spun and doesn't bother correcting anything. he inclines his head gravely when it seems the man is done speaking, subtly widening his stance, hands clasped behind his back. he's not readying himself to fight; he doesn't think he can. no; Yuri's readying himself for a beating.
hopefully it'll be enough to keep them occupied while everyone else closes in. without his earpiece Yuri can't hear what's happening on the other end of things but he knows Phichit, knows, bone deep, how stubborn the younger man is. there's no way he won't kick up enough of a stink to get things rolling.
he looks at Victor's slumped, bloodied form and hopes things roll in time.
the first blow has him stumbling, a fist to the jaw that has blood welling coppery in Yuri's mouth. before he can regain his balance it's a crowbar to his knee, and how he manages to avoid the cap shattering is beyond Yuri's comprehension. he staggers from beating to beating, teeth clenched, hands behind his back. desperately he tries to ignore the rising pain. his focus is as knocked about as his body.
one thug picks him up in a textbook suplex that drives the wind from Yuri's lungs. his whole body is screaming in pain and they've barely started. now he's prone there's a swift succession of steelcapped boots to any part of him they can get to. which is pretty much all of him, since Yuri's making no real attempt to defend himself. he feels his ribs go, feels the bone in his cheek splinter, feels a tooth roll almost into his throat before he coughs blood and spits it out of choking range. all the while the whole thing is narrated like a UFC match. it's not for Yuri's benefit, he knows.
it's for Victor's.
he lays bleeding on the ground, bruised and broken. his hands are still behind his back. someone steps on them and Yuri cries out despite himself as fingers break. the narrator expresses amazement at how weak he is and Yuri forces himself to turn, spitting more blood at his feet. it earns him a cold grin and a fresh round of kicking; that doesn't matter. it all buys time.
as his vision sways, Yuri stares through blackened eyes to the ropes binding Victor's wrists. there's no watchers on him now; everybody not directly involved in his beating is taking jovial bets.
with agonising concentration a very, very fine sliver of ice saws against Victor's bindings. the effort of it almost makes Yuri pass out - or maybe that's the pain, or maybe that's the blood loss. he can't tell any more. all his focus is reserved for not passing out before he does this final task.
Yuri's not sure he succeeds but he can't fight unconsciousness any more when another boot collides brutally with his skull. )