All of his steps gliding into a camel spin, hands clenched together, as the air whips his bangs around the edges of his face, against his ears, and he strains from the top of his head to the flat of his foot. As straight, and level, and smooth as possible. Before dropping down and springing right back up from it.
Half of his elements down, but all of his jumps to come, meaning he's almost there. Almost through the first half, almost to the rise of that challenge. The rigor of placing them all in the second half, increasing all physical wear and exhaustion in the even smaller time window between them. The flying spin, into the first combination sit, again, and for the first time, the last time, the right time. Fingers curved around his calf, back curved, face parallel to his knee, while momentum tore through him again.
Until even that is in movement. His hand switching their hold. Long enough to be clear. Then leg position, for his one required shift. Then, finger curled around his blade, over his back, still crouched. Until he pushes up with the last of his rotation, and demands more speed on the first step back into the crossover coming out of it. Everything, everything in momentum now, even as the crowd starts applauding.
To be coming in fast enough on the triple axel. A burning certainty that never came with any doubt, up and up and up, and down, sliding down, foot behind him cutting the air. To slide right from if into his salchow. A burst of relief that feels overpoweringly hot, flaring through his skin. That he can. That he is. Showing them. This. This is what they came for. What he came back for. What he can do. What Victor has done.
And if they don't care, if they can't see it, can't feel it,
It didn't matter.
It was that simple. That sudden.
As certain as every step and spin that declared it.
Because Victor can. Victor does. Victor who was there. Every morning, and every night. Who was every voice in his head. Who created these moves, and whose face, when he got them right, got all of it right, was better than any sunrise, or snowfall, or award that Yuri had ever even seen his life. Victor, who said he was the only one. The only would who could satisfy him. That he was the only one. The only one, in the whole world, who knew Victor's love.
The only one who Victor called his. A fire burned moniker. (A glide that sent him forward, fast, knee almost but never touching.)
He didn't need them, if he had that. Had Victor. But. He could prove it to them. Show them. That they all wanted Victor, but only he had Victor. Only he had what Victor wanted. Just him.
Throw himself to the air for his combination jump. Quad toe loop first, coming down on the one foot, only long enough to thrust back up and into the spin again, for a triple toe loop, and he doesn't know when the roaring became a thunder in the rush of the music, the rush of the air, of his blood.
When his body straightens into a camel, again, but only long enough to slide into the death drop, second combination, without the flying entrance this time. Speed fighting with air, giving up breathing, teeth grinding in the tension, for speed picking up and up and up, the tighter he coils, the harder he holds close, spinning on one blade, so close to the ground. Holding one foot, only to let go, and thrust upward, and backward.
The arc, that pulls him right back into the center, throws his arms and everything in them, out, away, beyond him, rejected, unwanted, unwelcome to him anymore, and everything he's given out, pulled them in for, to one side,
then to the other, and, then, closed in, on only himself, with the snap of his arms as the music ends.
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Date: 2017-04-04 04:13 am (UTC)Half of his elements down, but all of his jumps to come, meaning he's almost there. Almost through the first half, almost to the rise of that challenge. The rigor of placing them all in the second half, increasing all physical wear and exhaustion in the even smaller time window between them. The flying spin, into the first combination sit, again, and for the first time, the last time, the right time. Fingers curved around his calf, back curved, face parallel to his knee, while momentum tore through him again.
Until even that is in movement. His hand switching their hold. Long enough to be clear. Then leg position, for his one required shift. Then, finger curled around his blade, over his back, still crouched. Until he pushes up with the last of his rotation, and demands more speed on the first step back into the crossover coming out of it. Everything, everything in momentum now, even as the crowd starts applauding.
To be coming in fast enough on the triple axel. A burning certainty that never came with any doubt, up and up and up, and down, sliding down, foot behind him cutting the air. To slide right from if into his salchow. A burst of relief that feels overpoweringly hot, flaring through his skin. That he can. That he is. Showing them. This. This is what they came for. What he came back for. What he can do. What Victor has done.
And if they don't care, if they can't see it, can't feel it,
It didn't matter.
It was that simple. That sudden.
As certain as every step and spin that declared it.
Because Victor can. Victor does. Victor who was there. Every morning, and every night. Who was every voice in his head. Who created these moves, and whose face, when he got them right, got all of it right, was better than any sunrise, or snowfall, or award that Yuri had ever even seen his life. Victor, who said he was the only one. The only would who could satisfy him. That he was the only one. The only one, in the whole world, who knew Victor's love.
The only one who Victor called his. A fire burned moniker.
(A glide that sent him forward, fast, knee almost but never touching.)
He didn't need them, if he had that. Had Victor. But. He could prove it to them. Show them.
That they all wanted Victor, but only he had Victor. Only he had what Victor wanted. Just him.
Throw himself to the air for his combination jump. Quad toe loop first, coming down on the one foot, only long enough to thrust back up and into the spin again, for a triple toe loop, and he doesn't know when the roaring became a thunder in the rush of the music, the rush of the air, of his blood.
When his body straightens into a camel, again, but only long enough to slide into the death drop, second combination, without the flying entrance this time. Speed fighting with air, giving up breathing, teeth grinding in the tension, for speed picking up and up and up, the tighter he coils, the harder he holds close, spinning on one blade, so close to the ground. Holding one foot, only to let go, and thrust upward, and backward.
The arc, that pulls him right back into the center, throws his arms and everything in them, out, away, beyond him,
rejected, unwanted, unwelcome to him anymore, and everything he's given out, pulled them in for, to one side,
then to the other, and, then, closed in, on only himself, with the snap of his arms as the music ends.