Okay, no. He WAS going to skate again. He was. He was already used to putting in hours of training around his school tutoring, he'd just turn all that energy towards physio, and he WOULD see results.
They already had him doing some things. They said they'd even been moving him while he'd been in a coma, to keep him from stiffening up beyond repair. He'd heard of the dreaded frozen joint syndrome, but never thought he'd be at actual risk for it. Standing up to go to the actual bathroom instead of just using one of those bottles had been... instructive. It felt like his joints were full of gritty sand, stiff and immobile. And by the time he'd crawled, trembling back into bed with his grandfather's help, he'd been as winded as if he'd run five kilometers straight.
But his hips had been moving better by the time he laid back.
The nurses cautioned him not to work too hard, and he didn't really listen. He DID listen when Yakov rapped him on the uninjured side of his skull and told him a reinjury now would extend his healing time, possibly indefinitely.
So, he did the annoyingly slow movements, trying not to think about how effortlessly he'd been able to do the splits, or do handstands, or kick above his head while balancing on a knifeblade. It didn't matter. He'd get there again. He just had to work hard enough.
He actually made a few days running of physiotherapy, sleeping, watching tv, sleeping, more physio, and yet more sleeping. More bandages came off, exposing mottled, scarred skin on his arm that made him shudder to look at. One day, someone who wasn't his grandfather, coaches, or nurses walked in his room, and his eyes narrowed to see his tutor there. "Yuri. It's such a relief to see you awake. How are you doing?"
"Busy," he said, arm trembling as he raised it up through the motion he'd been shown. They'd given him a small, light stick to hold, he wasn't even allowed a half-pound weight yet.
"Well... it's good to see you're keeping active," she said, smiling. "Now Yuri, you must know you've gotten very behind."
"Yeah. I noticed. I have a lot to do if I'm going to make it into the Olympic runnings." he said, frowning in concentration. His arm kept wanting to wander too far in as he raised it.
"I actually was talking about school, Yuri. You were already running several months behind in your studies because of your training ramping up for the Championships, and we agreed you'd make it up over the spring semester, when you could take time leading up to Europe."
"So, leave the homework, and I'll read over it." he said with a grunt of effort.
She walked over in front of him, so he couldn't keep pretending she wasn't there. "Yuri, you have to start thinking about your future. You're never going to skate competetively again, you're going to NEED to graduate on time if you're going to make it into university or a trade."
He swore, and swore worse when the little dowel he'd been holding missed her completely. His aim was terrible, she was only five feet away. "How DARE you! I'm not giving this up! I'm the best skater in the world, and I'm only 16 and you should be helping me succeed! Not telling me I can't!"
She didn't even get upset, just bent down to pick up his dowel, and somehow that made it so much worse. She was saying something as she set it down, and smiled at him in that patronizing, understanding way, but Yuri couldn't hear it over the pounding in his head. It wasn't until she was gone that he realized he was crying, and that made him pissed, and that made him cry harder.
Someone came by, dressed in hospital greens, and he couldn't really hear anything from them, either. Eventually, his grandfather arrived, folding him into a hug despite his feeble protests; and Yuri collapsed against him, a shuddering mess. He felt him talking first, low, gravelly rumbles in the chest he was leaning on, and then he slowly started to hear it. Mostly it was just snippets of old lullabys, nonsense reassuring words, but it did give him something to cling to.
"I'll show her," Yuri said in a low voice. "I'm not done yet."