“Mr Plisetsky,” the journalist yells, “one last question, please. Would you ever date a fan? And, indulge us a bit, are you the romantic kind of man?”
Yuri stills.
“Come on,” Yakov urges. He’s holding the car door open, motioning for Yuri to get inside. “Let’s go.”
He really shouldn’t. “One second,” Yuri tells him in Russian. Yakov lifts a brow.
Yuri turns to the journalist and takes a slow breath. Notepads come out of pockets, the crowd pushing closer. A microphone almost touches his cheek.
“What do you mean by romantic?”
The journalist from before seems to be vibrating in his place. “Well, love at first sight, the one and only love, staying together forever. That sort of thing!”
Oh. Well. “Absolutely. Good night.”
It is silent for barely a heart beat. Then, the crowd bursts into a myriad of questions, only a few of which reach Yuri’s ear: “How come? Would you date a fan? Why does the ice tiger of Russia believe in true love?”
Annoying, Yuri thinks. His cheeks feel hot when he juts his chin forward and stares back at them.
“I don’t believe in it, you idiots. I’ve seen it. And,” he whirls around, letting Yakov guide him into the car, grinning a little bit to himself when his phone chimes with another skype call from one of those two accounts.
“If something seems impossible, and still happens with all of the world against it, then there’s definitely some truth to it.”
Moami 