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theglassheartIt takes Yuri all of about two minutes to realize that down might have been just as bad an option as up.
That downstairs in the hotel, at the buffet, involved a world of national jackets. Dozens and dozens of men and women, in various states of dress around and under and without those jackets, some picture perfect and some all but in pajamas and bare feet still, in various states of awake and asleep. Still on their feet, putting food on plates, sitting on their own and others, carrying them back upstairs. Not to mention those fans who could afford to stay here, watching from nearby tables and occasionally thrusting one of their own with a pen and napkin at some skater's table.
There are so many more of them here. There hadn't been this many last time.
(But, by last time, he means in October.
His body snags back and forth between the urge to clutch his plate full of food to his chest, and gulp each bite down, while dragging it under the table with him, and just to slide under the table, without it or someone else, especially Victor, noticing he's vacated his seat and relocated there.
It doesn't help he can't quite seem to focus right. To hear what Victor is saying. To know what to say when he can. When he can't seem to more than flit his gaze that way and away. (That he was an absolute idiot, and jumped like he'd been hit, or expected to be, the first time Victor threw an arm around his shoulder headed to the elevator to come down here. Even though Victor's been nothing but sane and sober and normal since they woke up.)
People keep laughing and talking. Nails on the chalkboard inside his skull. His jacket feels odd at the edges of his shoulders. The booth is too big. The room is too small. He watches the clock. Time is slipping away already. Practice, then performance. Practice, then performance. Breakfast ends. Uncertain if he ate too much. Trying to counter that he didn't eat enough last night. (Or maybe sleep enough. And what if he crashes on the ice because he didn't take care of both of those?
What if he's ruined it all because he couldn't even manage his first twenty hours in the Prix Qualifier even?)
They leave when they have to. Early enough to look at everything. Early enough to make sure everything is ready for practice, and practice is practice. He's so in his head. He can't stop watching the people around him as they practice their routines. His skin prickles at just the bite of the air on it. He can't outrun the itch in the back of his head.
It's like a wall in front of him, always two inches in front, no matter how fast or how slow. Goading him to run, with sharp prods, but staying two inches away. Always two inches away. Never closer. Never in reach. His feet are a hiss on the ice, jumps a little too sharp, and his mind still won't stop tossing up and out, in front of his skates, all the things that don't belong out here.
That downstairs in the hotel, at the buffet, involved a world of national jackets. Dozens and dozens of men and women, in various states of dress around and under and without those jackets, some picture perfect and some all but in pajamas and bare feet still, in various states of awake and asleep. Still on their feet, putting food on plates, sitting on their own and others, carrying them back upstairs. Not to mention those fans who could afford to stay here, watching from nearby tables and occasionally thrusting one of their own with a pen and napkin at some skater's table.
There are so many more of them here. There hadn't been this many last time.
(But, by last time, he means in October.
There were totally this many last time
- this time, two years ago.
A sea of people.)
- this time, two years ago.
A sea of people.)
His body snags back and forth between the urge to clutch his plate full of food to his chest, and gulp each bite down, while dragging it under the table with him, and just to slide under the table, without it or someone else, especially Victor, noticing he's vacated his seat and relocated there.
It doesn't help he can't quite seem to focus right. To hear what Victor is saying. To know what to say when he can. When he can't seem to more than flit his gaze that way and away. (That he was an absolute idiot, and jumped like he'd been hit, or expected to be, the first time Victor threw an arm around his shoulder headed to the elevator to come down here. Even though Victor's been nothing but sane and sober and normal since they woke up.)
People keep laughing and talking. Nails on the chalkboard inside his skull. His jacket feels odd at the edges of his shoulders. The booth is too big. The room is too small. He watches the clock. Time is slipping away already. Practice, then performance. Practice, then performance. Breakfast ends. Uncertain if he ate too much. Trying to counter that he didn't eat enough last night. (Or maybe sleep enough. And what if he crashes on the ice because he didn't take care of both of those?
What if he's ruined it all because he couldn't even manage his first twenty hours in the Prix Qualifier even?)
They leave when they have to. Early enough to look at everything. Early enough to make sure everything is ready for practice, and practice is practice. He's so in his head. He can't stop watching the people around him as they practice their routines. His skin prickles at just the bite of the air on it. He can't outrun the itch in the back of his head.
It's like a wall in front of him, always two inches in front, no matter how fast or how slow. Goading him to run, with sharp prods, but staying two inches away. Always two inches away. Never closer. Never in reach. His feet are a hiss on the ice, jumps a little too sharp, and his mind still won't stop tossing up and out, in front of his skates, all the things that don't belong out here.
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Date: 2017-04-06 08:46 pm (UTC)There's an arm lopping his waist. Another catching his shoulder. Victor's chin on his shoulder. Yuri knows he should jump. Any other time he'd jump. He was shaking last night. The thought is almost academic there, but the idea of moving toward it, jumping, is exhausting even. He's not entirely sure he can feel his body, and it's not all that different from Victor throwing himself around his shoulders a few minutes ago on camera.
It's almost orienting more than the disorientation he expects. Weight in his toes, on his shoulders. It doesn't entirely stop that his cheeks flush a little, the very tops of themselves when Victor's cheek brushes his as he settles. Yuri's eyes only shifting over enough to catch the pale of his skin and silver-grey of his hair, before he shifts back to watching Chris Giacometti, missing the two pairs of eyes lingering on them first.
Chris' outfit is more aggressive and sexier than Yuri could even dream of having the confidence to wear. It's shimmers everywhere, every time he moves, drawing the eyes to every part and angle of his body that catches the light. The whole thing makes his stomach coil tighter and even as it makes him want to curl in, he leans back slightly, into the weight of Victor, watching the comparison of what he'd done at a completely different level.
One he wasn't positive he could ever touch, no less pretend he could be.
It doesn't matter that the elements are downgrading from expected, Chris has set the audience and the ice on fire. The flush of his cheeks and the sensuous movements of his body above and beyond that. There's no way everyone watching that wasn't moved. Even he was. Phichit looks in shock, Guang-Hong's hands are at his mouth, and Victor might only be commenting on his elements, but that can't be the only thing he sees either.
Not Victor who has been skating beside Chris since Chris joined the senior division.
There's absolutely no way that Victor can't feel it, like all of them here, all the audience out there.
"I guess today's sex appeal award goes to Chris," Yuri says glumly, while Victor's hand is patting his far shoulder. "Even the ice looks soaking wet."
They stand there, waiting. The four of them, as Chris and his coach appear in the kiss-and-cry next, and then the screen bars finally blink into place. Yuri staring for what feels like an insanely, confused moment at the Rank 5, especially as Chris is on his feet playing to the adoring crowd like it's the exact opposite of that number.
All of it startles a soft sound of true surprise from Yuri's mouth, "Huh?"
Chris didn't displace him, and if Chris didn't --
"Then, am I--" First? He was still in First?
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Date: 2017-04-06 09:41 pm (UTC)Hearing Phichit say he's gunning to pass Yuri tomorrow in the free skate, and walking past a determined-looking Leo de Iglesia and his coach, there's a sea of tossed congratulations and an exuberant feeling of accomplishment saturating the air. No one is going to feel like they're out of the running after the short program, with the much higher possible scores of the free skate to come, so the skaters are effervescent and optimistic, congratulating each other and posing for selfies before heading out to talk to the cameras waiting outside.
For his part, Victor can't stop smiling, even if he tries to make it look like he knew this would be the result all along. Is he surprised that Yuri is currently in first place? No, he is not: he's always known Yuri had the ability to do as well as he had today. Does their success in the short program make him pleased with his decision to turn to coaching? Well, he'd already been pleased with it, but this is nice, too. Is being back at the rink during a competition enough to make him want to come back as a competitor himself? It's good to be back, and interesting to be on the other side of the wall during the perfomances, and, look! Here's Yuri! Please focus on him, after that outstanding performance.
Stepping to the side, alight with pride, as Yuri stammers through his answers, steadily gaining steam and confidence, even if his voice shakes a little when he declares they'll win together tomorrow with the power of love, making Victor step into frame, beaming genially and tossing up victory symbols. "Win, win!"