Yuri nods. Once. Twice. A few times, before he turns, waiting the few seconds from one of the people rounding the side to cross in front of him before he takes off. A too heavy breath leaves his mouth, eyes closed tight for a long second, before he draws a breath in and opens them in movement, curving the closest rounded edge. Focus. Focus, he needs to focus. His feet blur, and unblur. He breathes in his nose, and back out. Again. The next curve. Weaving behind someone else.
Slow down.
Tell the story.
Of how he swept into town and stole the heart and hand of the hottest playboy.
Paint it for me, Victor said, and somewhere in the background, his other words are there, too. Seduce me, Yuri. (And the echo unbidden, too recent to even fend off, You seduced me.) Yuri tries to out race that one. Erase it. Not important. Not real. Drunken rambling that shouldn't be here any more than the way he still feels like he comes into his steps too fast. Too rushed. Too heavy.
Frustrated at his feet (at himself) enough that he spins out, giving himself seconds lost in a spin, fast and tight, hands against his thighs, and then arms, then above him, fingers locked, temple brushing a forearm, and not even part of his program, just the speed of the cold air and his body in fast movement, only to give himself right back to it, fluid right from the spin, the next moment after.
Demanding better from them. His feet. Grace. He knows this.
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Date: 2017-04-02 03:17 am (UTC)Slow down.
heart and hand of the hottest playboy.
Paint it for me, Victor said, and somewhere in the background, his other words are there, too. Seduce me, Yuri. (And the echo unbidden, too recent to even fend off, You seduced me.) Yuri tries to out race that one. Erase it. Not important. Not real. Drunken rambling that shouldn't be here any more than the way he still feels like he comes into his steps too fast. Too rushed. Too heavy.
Frustrated at his feet (at himself) enough that he spins out, giving himself seconds lost in a spin, fast and tight, hands against his thighs, and then arms, then above him, fingers locked, temple brushing a forearm, and not even part of his program, just the speed of the cold air and his body in fast movement, only to give himself right back to it, fluid right from the spin, the next moment after.
Demanding better from them. His feet. Grace. He knows this.
He knows the footwork in this piece.
More than breathing.
More than dreaming.
He loves it. He needs that.