Sorry for the lateness. I was busy with other fic and art projects, plus a new job as a commission artist which you can find out about here because drawing my damn relatives for money is getting pretty fucking old: /people/CorkonianCowboy
Please ignore the 'cowboy' part of my username though, I'm genuinely reliable.
Anyway, I'll try to keep this updated, as I'm pretty excited to see how people react to the ending and all the fucked up shit that happens to everyone. Sorry this chapter is stupidly short. Sometimes they will be.
...
Day two: still no Yuuri.
He did not make it aboard and I will have to accept that, as hard as it will be to live and exist an entire ocean away from him. Maybe he needed more time. Maybe he will make the journey one day and we will be together again, or maybe he will want nothing to do with me now after I left so suddenly and demanded he follow. Dear Christophe has been consoling me all day and I fear it is straining him, though he would never complain about helping a friend, even if he needed to, and I adore him for that, even if I needed to allow him a break to eat and rest. He did not raise any concerns about our move when I explained it would be good for Georgi, even though I suspect he has left an incredible life and secret behind. Chris is such a good friend to me.
I do not think he quite understands why I am so upset though, and thinks I am wracked with betrayal, not love. He says he does but… who am I to judge? Maybe he does, maybe he does not. Maybe it has something to do with his secret letter.
To take my mind off of everything, I woke up early to go for a swim, and after that got a tad tedious I hunted down Georgi to go and check on Yakov and our de facto siblings. In a way, I mourn never getting another chance to see the others who spent time at our old orphanage, but Mila and Yuri were always my favourites anyway. Or at least, that was what I told them. I loved all my makeshift siblings and hope for the best, wherever they have found themselves.
Yakov, naturally, had a lot to say when we arrived. We booked a cabin near the front- bow?- of the ship, which upsets Yuri's seasickness, and on G deck right near the bottom of the ship, which was making Mila feel claustrophobic. And they served sludge that was supposed to be called food. How could I have forgotten this could possibly be the worst position in a ship when making the bookings? The fact that Georgi and I have paid for their travel is not enough, apparently, but complaining is Yakov's favourite hobby. So I let him get on with it. He knows I hardly listen anyway.
He was happy to see us though, and always will be despite what he says. He has warm hugs and kisses for us, and will always call me Vitya like a real father. I wonder if there is anything to do to make him truly hate me, or at least so angry he will refer to me as 'Viktor'. I do not want to find out. There is probably nothing I have not tried at some point though, right up to homosexuality. All I seem to do is make him worry, so I should probably stop testing him so. All this stress must be bad for his health.
Little Yuri had more complaints to inform me of, ones even Yakov could not care to remember. He was cold; I promised to bring them blankets before nightfall. He misses his grandfather and resents my decision to uproot him; I have decided to track Nikolai Plisetsky down when I can and bring him to America. He does not like being cramped in one room with Mila and Yakov; I told him to go to the library or play on deck.
I am not a miracle worker, neither am I willing to share a cabin with him instead.
And now I am back in my- solitary- cabin, having tried reading to calm myself. I am not hungry, so do not feel like seeing anyone for dinner, but it is too early to sleep, had I even felt like it. I am writing purely because there is nothing to do, and I feel I must keep my diary, and heartache, up to date. Why not? The only other plan I have for today is pained weeping.
I want to write to Yuuri. I would have done so today but I fear it is too soon. Plus, the reading and writing room tends to be busy, and I would have to write in our mutual language- French- which can be read easily. If only Russian was an option here…
I suspect he would want time to think, and I do not want to come across as desperate. I will write once I get to New York then. Until then, I fear he will invade my every thought, whether I am awake or not, and I do not know if that is a comfort or a curse.
Oh bother. The blankets. I could probably take them down to Yakov instead of moping about.