"Oh, there's no stripper pole this year," Viktor says as they walk into the event hall. Yakov had expected to hear many things tonight; that was definitely not one of them. Apparently none of these banquet things can ever be easy. Oh well, at least there's an open bar.
He surveys the room while waiting for his drink. Viktor's right, there's no stripper pole. He doesn't know why that's a talking point- what kind of banquet has a stripper pole? There's a largeish dance floor, a long buffet table, and what appears to be an ice sculpture of a single figure skate. He raises an eyebrow. Over by a side door, Mila seems to be showing that Otabek boy how to do lifts. This cannot end well. He considers getting up.
"Your drink, sir."
It'll be fine.
Yakov hasn't even been sitting down for twenty minutes when Yuri starts yelling.
He turns to look and immediately develops a headache.
Otabek is holding a very angry Yuri above his head and parading him around the room. Mila, who should really know better, is only encouraging this behavior. It took Yakov three days to teach her that lift and she's somehow taught Otabek in fifteen minutes. Either Otabek is a very, very quick learner, or they've practiced this before. He narrows his eyes.
"Mr. Feltsman, aren't you going to do something?" A woman next to him asks. "This is supposed to be a formal event."
"I'm not Altin's coach, I don't know what you want me to do."
They watch as Otabek starts spinning around. Yuri squirms, looking dangerously close to falling.
Thankfully after Yuri is returned to the ground, nothing much happens for the next hour or so (save for one small incident involving a lot of paella but none of Yakov's skaters, so it's not his problem), leaving Yakov in blissful solitude. He doesn't remember enjoying a banquet before, but this could be his night. None of his skaters got into any fights; everyone's doing a good job of keeping their clothes on their bodies; there's no sappy, heartbroken skaters trying to tell him about their exes-
A very drunk Georgi sidles up. "Can I talk to you?"
Never mind. Yakov sighs.
"I just miss Anya so much, all the time. Do you think she might want to get back together after watching my program this year? I thought she would like it, you know, I thought I really put myself out there, but I haven't heard from her since she unfollowed me on Instagram."
Yakov wonders what Instagram is. Yuuri's Thai skater friend keeps trying to talk to him about it. Oh, Georgi's still talking. He tries to look like he's been listening.
"And then after that I saw this lovely girl Irina for a while... Oh Irina, why did she leave me? I thought things were going well. You were married once, weren't you Yakov? Why did Lilia break up with you? It's because you're bald, right?" Yakov frowns. Georgi pats his head clumsily. "Don't feel bad, Yakov, I like you, even though you're bald. I wouldn't break up with you if we were dating, I wouldn't care if you went bald..."
"Georgi," Yakov interrupts. "Go to bed."
Yakov thought things would calm down once Georgi left and he would be able to enjoy some semblance of a relaxing night, but he was, shockingly, wrong. Somehow Yuri has got his little teenager hands on a glass of wine. Yakov glowers. He's had enough trouble tonight as it is and he is not about to add "drunken fifteen-year-old" to his list of problems.
"Yuri, what's that you're drinking?"
"What? I don't know. It's soda. Go away."
"Yuratchka, who gave you this? You're too young to drink. Give it to me."
"It's mine," Yuri whines.
"Don't give me that look, Mr. Plisetsky. Give it here. I'll get you a nice cranberry juice, how does that sound?"
Yuri's glare could freeze Hell solid enough to skate on, but Yakov is unphased. He's been dealing with sulky teenage stars since Yuri was wobbling around his first rink and eventually he manages to coax him into giving the wine up. As promised he goes to get a juice from the buffet table, but when he returns, Yuri's gone off somewhere. Yakov's slightly worried, but what's the worst Yuri can do, get in another dance battle? Yakov can handle that. Probably. Hopefully. He heads back to the bar, sipping on Yuri's cranberry juice. It's not very good.
"Can I help you, sir?" The bartender asks.
"Yes, can you just pour the vodka into this cup please?"
"Yakov!" Viktor says.
Yakov spins around slowly on his barstool.
Viktor pauses for a second at the look on Yakov's face (which is known industry-wide for its ability to shut down any skater who steps out of line, but then again Viktor's never really been "any skater," has he) then breaks into a smile. "Yura said you would help me and Yuuri plan our wedding!"
So that's what Yuri was up to, the little sneak. Yakov's going to make him stay late at practice every day for a month.
Viktor plops down in the seat next to him and Yuuri appears out of nowhere to sit on Yakov's other side. He's brought a very full binder and is leafing through it, excitedly showing Yakov his favorite flower arrangements while Viktor spouts some of the most absurd ideas Yakov has heard in his life.
"So arriving in a helicopter is out, I think the noise would upset Makkachin, and I know Yura gets seasick so we can't do a yacht either. Yuuri, what's your favorite kind of ground transportation? Oh, and we still need to figure out more decor for the reception, do you have any ideas?"
"JJ said he and Isabella are having an ice sculpture of the two of them at their wedding, we need one of us but bigger than theirs," Yuuri says.
"Good idea." Viktor nods thoughtfully. "How much do you think a fountain that shoots champagne would cost? I think Chris might know someone..."
He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through contacts.
"Yakov, look at these six color schemes here, which one would compliment Viktor's eyes the best?"
Yakov looks. "...The third one, obviously."