Victor's voice is light and conversational. The opposite of everything he expects. Making him glance toward Victor. Victor's shoulder. The side of Victor's face, where he looks it, too. Light and breezy, and Yuri's heart can't decide whether it's floundering or falling. Trying -- trying -- to find something in that bare second he looks.
(For the too familiar press of his mouth. The slant of his eyebrows. That ruthless bluntness about the things he didn't like and disappointed him.)
"I'm okay." Is the furthest thing from the truth, but he can't imagine sleep wants to come to him anymore now. Not even when his eyes feel dry and tired and his body is a sack of bricks hanging on his bones. He wanted to sleep all of last night, first to rest, then to escape his own head, and that hadn't helped in the slightest either way. "Lunch sounds good."
It sounded like something to fill the time.
More time to sit. More time to think. He needed to stop. Had to get his fingers around this. He had to try. Before whatever Victor would say. After. Now, and later. There were only so many hours until his skate (and yet so many hours). He would go last, because of coming in First. Granted with seeing everything. Seeing exactly what he had to overcome, what margin to beat anything.
(To even get close enough to place in third.)
There's an urge to close his eyes, but he's walking. He needs them open. He doesn't want this whole day to be like all of last night. He doesn't.
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Date: 2017-04-07 04:26 pm (UTC)(For the too familiar press of his mouth. The slant of his eyebrows.
That ruthless bluntness about the things he didn't like and disappointed him.)
"I'm okay." Is the furthest thing from the truth, but he can't imagine sleep wants to come to him anymore now. Not even when his eyes feel dry and tired and his body is a sack of bricks hanging on his bones. He wanted to sleep all of last night, first to rest, then to escape his own head, and that hadn't helped in the slightest either way. "Lunch sounds good."
It sounded like something to fill the time.
More time to sit. More time to think. He needed to stop. Had to get his fingers around this. He had to try. Before whatever Victor would say. After. Now, and later. There were only so many hours until his skate (and yet so many hours). He would go last, because of coming in First. Granted with seeing everything. Seeing exactly what he had to overcome, what margin to beat anything.
(To even get close enough to place in third.)
There's an urge to close his eyes, but he's walking. He needs them open.
He doesn't want this whole day to be like all of last night. He doesn't.