Phichit's music comes to a close triumphantly and the crowd errupts, in the back of the tv screen and throught the walls of the building. Yuri's eyes raising for a second, even as he's straightening. His time is cutting, and cutting, and cutting closer. Minutes slipping away, like the bottom of his lungs. Harder to reacher, harder to hold in.
Phichit claims a new personal best, and it's almost time. Again.
The next person cuing up and in. Which means Yuri has only minutes. Minutes, minutes, minutes. The short program is. Short. Almost. But not yet. Now. So close it's too close and yet not yet. Everything moving inside of his skin. Too fast, too much. He has to move or it'll tear him apart just to stand still. No one is doing turns in the long hall anymore, the only place anyone can with their arms wide out and open, and he starts jogging back and forth.
The pounding of his feet almost solace, even too heavy, even not fast enough, even not letting himself go fast. He can't wear himself out either. But he can't stand still. And walking isn't fast enough. In seconds (minutes - seconds) it'll be him. He'll be out there, and it won't be like before. It won't be like his last competition, and it won't be like years ago, and people won't be just looking at him to represent Japan.
It's bigger than that. Bigger than just his country, just himself,
It's a sin, Chris's voice says, blurring into Takeshi from weeks ago. They'll think you stole him. Maybe all the skating fans hate you now.
There's no uncertainty in that. People who wanted to see Victor skating, wouldn't be satisfied with his skating. (With him.) The people who were there for him, cheering for him, wouldn't be satisified with the old him, the person he'd been before. If he had to choose one, there was only one to choose. That wasn't a choice. Had it ever been a choice.
When had Victor ever been a choice. Anymore than breathing. Or panicking. Or the sun rising. Or time sliding, clawing, tearing away.
How impossible was even hearing, even thinking, any other option. There was no other option. No other path. No road here without Victor. (That wasn't Victor.) Victor, and Victor, and Victor. Everyday. Everywhere. There was no other option, no other world, and if that mean it, too, then, he wanted to be hated as the man who took Victor from from the world. If he only gets one, he only wants --
But turning has Victor standing at the end, and he knows that look.
He's seen it three times now.
It's time.
Stopping him. Throat dry. Heart rate high.
But there's no stopping anything now, and his feet are already walking him back to Victor.
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Phichit claims a new personal best, and it's almost time. Again.
The next person cuing up and in. Which means Yuri has only minutes. Minutes, minutes, minutes. The short program is. Short. Almost. But not yet. Now. So close it's too close and yet not yet. Everything moving inside of his skin. Too fast, too much. He has to move or it'll tear him apart just to stand still. No one is doing turns in the long hall anymore, the only place anyone can with their arms wide out and open, and he starts jogging back and forth.
The pounding of his feet almost solace, even too heavy, even not fast enough, even not letting himself go fast. He can't wear himself out either. But he can't stand still. And walking isn't fast enough. In seconds (minutes - seconds) it'll be him. He'll be out there, and it won't be like before. It won't be like his last competition, and it won't be like years ago, and people won't be just looking at him to represent Japan.
It's bigger than that. Bigger than just his country, just himself,
They'll think you stole him. Maybe all the skating fans hate you now.
There's no uncertainty in that. People who wanted to see Victor skating, wouldn't be satisfied with his skating. (With him.) The people who were there for him, cheering for him, wouldn't be satisified with the old him, the person he'd been before. If he had to choose one, there was only one to choose. That wasn't a choice. Had it ever been a choice.
When had Victor ever been a choice. Anymore than breathing.
Or panicking. Or the sun rising. Or time sliding, clawing, tearing away.
How impossible was even hearing, even thinking, any other option. There was no other option. No other path. No road here without Victor. (That wasn't Victor.) Victor, and Victor, and Victor. Everyday. Everywhere. There was no other option, no other world, and if that mean it, too, then, he wanted to be hated as the man who took Victor from from the world. If he only gets one, he only wants --
But turning has Victor standing at the end, and he knows that look.
He's seen it three times now.
It's time.
Stopping him. Throat dry. Heart rate high.
But there's no stopping anything now, and his feet are already walking him back to Victor.