The music starts, sinuous and seductive, and Yuri's moving with it, and it looks right –– it's all the same movements, everything he and Yuri and Minako have worked over and over again –– but not, too.
Not wrong. More right than right.
A low, thoughtful sound at the base of his throat when that look burns across the ice towards him, and he still doesn't get it, where all this was for the last eight months, for the last two years, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, because Yuri has never owned Eros, or the audience, or even his own body, the way he is now. Each step and turn and slide taken in a perfect fluid dance; no hesitation, no questioning. Whatever had been worrying him seems to have dropped away, leaving nothing but the demon from Victor's dreams and memory and more photos still saved on his phone than he'd admit to keeping –– but it's not like that, either. Not even that night was anything quite like this.
But it's certainly working. Victor watching, finger pressed to his mouth, eyes following Yuri everywhere around the rink, as his hands go above his head and slip down to send him into a modified Ina Bauer that pushes Victor's spine straight, sudden delight diffusing his uncertainty.
"Perfect!"
All of it is. Even without Yuri's demand, he could never have looked away from this: this is no katsudon, and it's no beautiful woman. It's pure masculine sex appeal, barely contained, never coy. It's a huge triple axel that soars over the ice like a boast, followed by a perfect quad Salchow that Yuri hadn't nailed in practice, but which now seems impossible to miss. Just like it's impossible for the audience to do anything but fall for him, the way Victor has, is, keeps doing. Every step, full of arrogant confidence. Every jump proof that arrogance is warranted. Every coaxing, graceful slide of his hands feeling like they're running over skin instead of through air.
Impossible to look away. Impossible to register. Impossible to breathe.
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Date: 2017-04-04 02:42 am (UTC)Not wrong. More right than right.
A low, thoughtful sound at the base of his throat when that look burns across the ice towards him, and he still doesn't get it, where all this was for the last eight months, for the last two years, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, because Yuri has never owned Eros, or the audience, or even his own body, the way he is now. Each step and turn and slide taken in a perfect fluid dance; no hesitation, no questioning. Whatever had been worrying him seems to have dropped away, leaving nothing but the demon from Victor's dreams and memory and more photos still saved on his phone than he'd admit to keeping –– but it's not like that, either. Not even that night was anything quite like this.
But it's certainly working. Victor watching, finger pressed to his mouth, eyes following Yuri everywhere around the rink, as his hands go above his head and slip down to send him into a modified Ina Bauer that pushes Victor's spine straight, sudden delight diffusing his uncertainty.
"Perfect!"
All of it is. Even without Yuri's demand, he could never have looked away from this: this is no katsudon, and it's no beautiful woman. It's pure masculine sex appeal, barely contained, never coy. It's a huge triple axel that soars over the ice like a boast, followed by a perfect quad Salchow that Yuri hadn't nailed in practice, but which now seems impossible to miss. Just like it's impossible for the audience to do anything but fall for him, the way Victor has, is, keeps doing. Every step, full of arrogant confidence. Every jump proof that arrogance is warranted. Every coaxing, graceful slide of his hands feeling like they're running over skin instead of through air.
Impossible to look away. Impossible to register. Impossible to breathe.