The seconds of minutes crawl by, etching themselves in his skin, only for the hours to pass in the puff of a breath. Exhaled and unable to be pulled back on realization. Lunch is an event of anxiety he can't even truly convince himself to stop as it's happening. As though if he puts enough food in his mouth at a consistent rate it'll make it harder for Victor to be able to talk to him, or for him to have to respond immediately.
Filling his mouth shoves words off his tongue -- but it shoves nothing out of his head.
(You're the only one who ... )
In fact, it feels like the more he puts in his mouth and doesn't put into the air, his head just doubles and triples it.
(They'll be wanting more than good, more than good enough. They'll want him good enough to be worth the loss of Victor.)
By the time Minako shows up, he's not even surprised that she looks at him sideways, that dangerous slant to her eyes, before laughing and telling him he's going to fine. With that faint quaver to her voice, before he's been bussed to the side of a mostly empty hallway. Before she's quizzing him. On the line of his spine, and the tilt of his hips. Having him put away his phone, down his water.
Making him start the beginning part, the harder eyes of his teacher tracing every line of his body as it flows even on solid ground. Talking about having watched him earlier, and he didn't know she was there, but he's not surprised. Doesn't talk back to her, because it would involve more that he had. He lets his body do it. Start. Flow through. Tries to pay attention. Correct for two fingers touching where a shoulder should be down, a forearm should be closer, hand pressed more flush into touching himself.
He hasn't cared about touching himself like this in weeks and weeks and months now. It's become clinical how often, how harped. But it's the second when something goes wrong. Catches in his chest, at his own hand on his arm, his chest -- just for a second's flicker it's not his hand. Or not his skin. Or both. Somehow. Eyes cutting to the wrong place. (Wrong person.
Once, twice. Again, but only certain parts. He doesn't mind the movement. Doesn't mind having direction. Something to throw it into. This reckless restless biting up under him. He's used the yawning darkness. But the inability to stand still, sit still. It's like he can't stop some part of himself from moving. Like if he did, the rest of the world would start moving instead. Shaking, until it shook him off the skin of itself. Minako doesn't miss it, either, he doesn't think.
There's something in the way she keeps looking at him. He knows this look. She's been through all of this with him before.
(It feels different, but he can't point to how. It's just another breed of madness in a consistent one.)
Eventually, she goes, and his shoulders drop. Trying to settle. Victor finding one of them, leading him through the crowd. That hand as normal has it ever had been (before). The same can be said of the way he effortlessly drives and leads, both at once, Yuri through the crowd, while handling every question thrown at him, at them. As many about Victor as there are about Victor's opinions about Yuri.
He tries to hold on to them. Repeats them. Blurring faces. Being pushed and led, if without any driving force. He knows where he's going, but he doesn't want Victor to let go either. Everything is a derivation of a problem with itself, and everything else. He can't help the way his eyes slide to Victor everytime they ask him a question about himself, breathless for the smallest hint, and Yuri can't tell what he's feeling, in that pause, before Victor brushes it off, effortlessly, again and again.
Crowds grow. The warm-up time is called for the first group, and he has to go. His skin feeling both bigger than him and too tight for his bones. But the ice under him is almost a hiss of relief. Set free from the hard ground. He throws himself into moves he hasn't stopped making for hours. Days. Weeks. Months.
The timer is up before he knows it, leaving something aching. Something unfinished. Not enough, not enough, not enough.
His jacket goes back on. He turns down water, shaking his head, while his stomach becomes a knot that trying to strangle his ribs and his throat, and he keeps stretching. Keeps moving. Not meeting Victor's eyes. Not getting in anyone's way. Torn between the clock and the tv that shows the start of The Cup of China beginning, touching down in the broadcast. No longer just those in the stands, but everyone across the world could be watching now.
As Phichit-kun comes out, and Yuri's heart becomes a stricken sprint of itself, again. Conflicted longing, nausea, and demands for calm that no one seems to hear. The music he'd talked about for so many years, and that Yuri had heard over and over in those years, that Phichit was finally making his own. Throwing all of his dreams and himself into his skate. Giving everything he had to this season. Even when it isn't flawless, when Yuri is cringing for his fall, Phichit has made the music his own. Like he always promised.
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Date: 2017-04-02 07:57 pm (UTC)Filling his mouth shoves words off his tongue -- but it shoves nothing out of his head.
In fact, it feels like the more he puts in his mouth
and doesn't put into the air, his head just doubles and triples it.
They'll want him good enough to be worth the loss of Victor.)
By the time Minako shows up, he's not even surprised that she looks at him sideways, that dangerous slant to her eyes, before laughing and telling him he's going to fine. With that faint quaver to her voice, before he's been bussed to the side of a mostly empty hallway. Before she's quizzing him. On the line of his spine, and the tilt of his hips. Having him put away his phone, down his water.
Making him start the beginning part, the harder eyes of his teacher tracing every line of his body as it flows even on solid ground. Talking about having watched him earlier, and he didn't know she was there, but he's not surprised. Doesn't talk back to her, because it would involve more that he had. He lets his body do it. Start. Flow through. Tries to pay attention. Correct for two fingers touching where a shoulder should be down, a forearm should be closer, hand pressed more flush into touching himself.
He hasn't cared about touching himself like this in weeks and weeks and months now. It's become clinical how often, how harped. But it's the second when something goes wrong. Catches in his chest, at his own hand on his arm, his chest -- just for a second's flicker it's not his hand. Or not his skin. Or both. Somehow. Eyes cutting to the wrong place. (Wrong person.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Weight-ing, even.)
Once, twice. Again, but only certain parts. He doesn't mind the movement. Doesn't mind having direction. Something to throw it into. This reckless restless biting up under him. He's used the yawning darkness. But the inability to stand still, sit still. It's like he can't stop some part of himself from moving. Like if he did, the rest of the world would start moving instead. Shaking, until it shook him off the skin of itself. Minako doesn't miss it, either, he doesn't think.
There's something in the way she keeps looking at him. He knows this look.
She's been through all of this with him before.
It's just another breed of madness in a consistent one.)
Eventually, she goes, and his shoulders drop. Trying to settle. Victor finding one of them, leading him through the crowd. That hand as normal has it ever had been (before). The same can be said of the way he effortlessly drives and leads, both at once, Yuri through the crowd, while handling every question thrown at him, at them. As many about Victor as there are about Victor's opinions about Yuri.
He tries to hold on to them. Repeats them. Blurring faces. Being pushed and led, if without any driving force. He knows where he's going, but he doesn't want Victor to let go either. Everything is a derivation of a problem with itself, and everything else. He can't help the way his eyes slide to Victor everytime they ask him a question about himself, breathless for the smallest hint, and Yuri can't tell what he's feeling, in that pause, before Victor brushes it off, effortlessly, again and again.
Crowds grow. The warm-up time is called for the first group, and he has to go. His skin feeling both bigger than him and too tight for his bones. But the ice under him is almost a hiss of relief. Set free from the hard ground. He throws himself into moves he hasn't stopped making for hours. Days. Weeks. Months.
The timer is up before he knows it, leaving something aching. Something unfinished. Not enough, not enough, not enough.
His jacket goes back on. He turns down water, shaking his head, while his stomach becomes a knot that trying to strangle his ribs and his throat, and he keeps stretching. Keeps moving. Not meeting Victor's eyes. Not getting in anyone's way. Torn between the clock and the tv that shows the start of The Cup of China beginning, touching down in the broadcast. No longer just those in the stands, but everyone across the world could be watching now.
As Phichit-kun comes out, and Yuri's heart becomes a stricken sprint of itself, again. Conflicted longing, nausea, and demands for calm that no one seems to hear. The music he'd talked about for so many years, and that Yuri had heard over and over in those years, that Phichit was finally making his own. Throwing all of his dreams and himself into his skate. Giving everything he had to this season. Even when it isn't flawless, when Yuri is cringing for his fall, Phichit has made the music his own. Like he always promised.