He wishes Yuri didn't look so much like he's heading to the gallows instead of just walking down the hall back towards him, but it's difficult to focus, even for him. The energy of competition day buzzing through his veins like wine. It's not his performance, but he's not immune to the tension, the expectation, the hard curl of anticipation in his stomach. This is the world he knows best: the locker room halls and the sound of laces through leather, the clumsy click-click of skate guards, how the hall between locker room and rink seems to expand, growing longer with every step they take.
All of it folding together into a blur with a single focal point: his hand on Yuri's shoulder, the nearing doorway. Even the roar of the crowd seems to come from underwater. (But he recognizes it, loves it; some part of himself reaching back as they reach for him, wanting more.) Minako is up there somewhere, and plenty of Yuri's other fans, many of whom have been ecstatic at the prospect of his return. He's far more loved than he knows or believes, but all that can wait, and right now, he doesn't want Yuri thinking about them and getting overwhelmed, anyway. He has to bring Yuri's focus back, somehow, let him send Eros off as an arrow speeding directly for a single heart, and, in that, win them all.
Taking his jacket and skate guards, setting them to the side as Yuri steps onto the ice, a slim sleek line of black. Looking gorgeous. Looking dangerous.
There are only seconds left, but Victor doesn't want to rush this, leans forward to rest his hand over the one Yuri has fisted on the top of the rink wall, warmth filtering through the material of his gloves. "Yuri, listen."
He's ready. The program is ready. This is how he's going to make it his own. This is how he'll win. "The time to seduce me by picturing katsudon and women during your skate is over."
No tangling egg or ecstasy of taste, no matter how delicious. No beautiful seductress. No crutch. He doesn't need it. Calm, but with absolute confidence in his assessment, he continues. "You can fight with your own personal charm."
A force no character he might portray can ever live up to. A fickle playboy, stealing hearts and setting souls afire; a sweet and uncertain young man; a world-class athelete. Victor's demon and doom and delight. It feels like electricity is crackling off him –– off them –– already. He hasn't touched Yuri this specifically in months, but he allows it now: an index finger, sliding along the back of his hand. The pad of his thumb, sliding along the back of Yuri's. "You can envision it just fine, can't you?"
He should. It's easy. All he has to do is look at Victor's face, and read what's written there for anyone to see.
All he has to do is remember how he did it before, when he burned down the ballroom and brought the banquet to a screeching, screaming halt.
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Date: 2017-04-03 06:41 pm (UTC)All of it folding together into a blur with a single focal point: his hand on Yuri's shoulder, the nearing doorway. Even the roar of the crowd seems to come from underwater. (But he recognizes it, loves it; some part of himself reaching back as they reach for him, wanting more.) Minako is up there somewhere, and plenty of Yuri's other fans, many of whom have been ecstatic at the prospect of his return. He's far more loved than he knows or believes, but all that can wait, and right now, he doesn't want Yuri thinking about them and getting overwhelmed, anyway. He has to bring Yuri's focus back, somehow, let him send Eros off as an arrow speeding directly for a single heart, and, in that, win them all.
Taking his jacket and skate guards, setting them to the side as Yuri steps onto the ice, a slim sleek line of black. Looking gorgeous. Looking dangerous.
There are only seconds left, but Victor doesn't want to rush this, leans forward to rest his hand over the one Yuri has fisted on the top of the rink wall, warmth filtering through the material of his gloves. "Yuri, listen."
He's ready. The program is ready. This is how he's going to make it his own. This is how he'll win. "The time to seduce me by picturing katsudon and women during your skate is over."
No tangling egg or ecstasy of taste, no matter how delicious. No beautiful seductress. No crutch. He doesn't need it. Calm, but with absolute confidence in his assessment, he continues. "You can fight with your own personal charm."
A force no character he might portray can ever live up to. A fickle playboy, stealing hearts and setting souls afire; a sweet and uncertain young man; a world-class athelete. Victor's demon and doom and delight. It feels like electricity is crackling off him –– off them –– already. He hasn't touched Yuri this specifically in months, but he allows it now: an index finger, sliding along the back of his hand. The pad of his thumb, sliding along the back of Yuri's. "You can envision it just fine, can't you?"
He should. It's easy. All he has to do is look at Victor's face, and read what's written there for anyone to see.
All he has to do is remember how he did it before, when he burned down the ballroom and brought the banquet to a screeching, screaming halt.