The question of continued surprise isn't so surprising. The sudden shout of Yurio's name a second after, is. It takes a blink to realize Victor is looking to the side of his face now, and Yuri turns his own head to follow Victor's gaze, to the inevitable. Yurio sliding out onto the ice, weaving in and out of the traveling spotlight. A splash of color, neither white nor red and black, on a slip of a boy, so much smaller on the screen than he was in real life. (Than he was in Yuri's head even.)
Yuri doesn't shift back to where he was when this started. Before the brown bag dash, back to couple at the beginning. He turns forward, but he stays where he is. The flush ( ... safe?) foundation that is Victor right behind his shoulders, chest raising in breaths against Yuri's back, when he tucks his head just slightly, to the side, against Victor's, leaning more than is intentional back into rather than out from. Watching the screen.
He's seen this routine before. After Skate Canada, after he'd watching JJ's and Emil's, completing it with Yurio's. It fits the not-quite-forgotten, but-not-entirely-memorable, watch of it during the week before he was headed to China. Yuri's not sure he really was watching it that time. Yuri's not sure what he's looking for in it now. Everything still quiets down and tenses up, inside of him, for it.
The relation of the two musical pieces picked is obvious, but so is the call and echo of the pieces, and so are the fingerprints on the moves. There's more aggression than grace in them, but aggression to the point just short of disaster had won him yesterday and Moscow, hadn't it? It was here, too. That breathless streaking speed, that turned it into sharpness rather than grace. Same as it was that speed that put him more in the shadow than the spotlight, making it chase him, distracting the eye.
It showed the bones of the artistry that made it, and the age of the six-month skills Yurio had new under his new teacher. He wonders what Minako thinks of it, sees in this. In Yurio's other programs. Yuri thinks, if he doesn't psyche himself out long before getting there, he'll ask her tomorrow, or sometime later this week. When he's back in her studio half the day, too. Whenever he's done avoiding meeting her eyes and listening to what he should have done better yesterday.
But it's the end that makes Yuri's heart tighten just a second (and his fingers curve, clutching softly, in parallel response on whatever it is they've fallen on since he last was thinking of them) in a way no part of the skating did. When Yurio looks to the crowd, off behind him, where the camera can't see and the darkness of the dim arena is too hard to parse anything but audience, and Yuri hopes even without certainty. For one small thing that is large enough to be everything, even in the murky din all around this -- whatever t h i s is ; was ; for one day, yesterday -- in Yuri's head.
Maybe especially when he'sright here.
In Victor's bed, In Victor's lap, with Victor's breaths expanding Victor's chest against his back and something suspiciously faint like Victor's heartbeat is softly pelting away against his left shoulder blade. Sometimes one small thing -- one person ; the right person ; being there -- is bigger, and better, than anything else that could be named. Or given. Or earned. Or explained.
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Date: 2017-08-11 01:09 am (UTC)The question of continued surprise isn't so surprising. The sudden shout of Yurio's name a second after, is. It takes a blink to realize Victor is looking to the side of his face now, and Yuri turns his own head to follow Victor's gaze, to the inevitable. Yurio sliding out onto the ice, weaving in and out of the traveling spotlight. A splash of color, neither white nor red and black, on a slip of a boy, so much smaller on the screen than he was in real life. (Than he was in Yuri's head even.)
Yuri doesn't shift back to where he was when this started. Before the brown bag dash, back to couple at the beginning. He turns forward, but he stays where he is. The flush ( ... safe?) foundation that is Victor right behind his shoulders, chest raising in breaths against Yuri's back, when he tucks his head just slightly, to the side, against Victor's, leaning more than is intentional back into rather than out from. Watching the screen.
He's seen this routine before. After Skate Canada, after he'd watching JJ's and Emil's, completing it with Yurio's. It fits the not-quite-forgotten, but-not-entirely-memorable, watch of it during the week before he was headed to China. Yuri's not sure he really was watching it that time. Yuri's not sure what he's looking for in it now. Everything still quiets down and tenses up, inside of him, for it.
The relation of the two musical pieces picked is obvious, but so is the call and echo of the pieces, and so are the fingerprints on the moves. There's more aggression than grace in them, but aggression to the point just short of disaster had won him yesterday and Moscow, hadn't it? It was here, too. That breathless streaking speed, that turned it into sharpness rather than grace. Same as it was that speed that put him more in the shadow than the spotlight, making it chase him, distracting the eye.
It showed the bones of the artistry that made it, and the age of the six-month skills Yurio had new under his new teacher. He wonders what Minako thinks of it, sees in this. In Yurio's other programs. Yuri thinks, if he doesn't psyche himself out long before getting there, he'll ask her tomorrow, or sometime later this week. When he's back in her studio half the day, too. Whenever he's done avoiding meeting her eyes and listening to what he should have done better yesterday.
But it's the end that makes Yuri's heart tighten just a second (and his fingers curve, clutching softly, in parallel response on whatever it is they've fallen on since he last was thinking of them) in a way no part of the skating did. When Yurio looks to the crowd, off behind him, where the camera can't see and the darkness of the dim arena is too hard to parse anything but audience, and Yuri hopes even without certainty. For one small thing that is large enough to be everything, even in the murky din all around this -- whatever t h i s is ; was ; for one day, yesterday -- in Yuri's head.
Maybe especially when he's right here.
In Victor's bed, In Victor's lap, with Victor's breaths expanding Victor's chest against his back and something suspiciously faint like Victor's heartbeat is softly pelting away against his left shoulder blade. Sometimes one small thing -- one person ; the right person ; being there -- is bigger, and better, than anything else that could be named. Or given. Or earned. Or explained.