Victor doesn't start lecturing him for not listening, for crashing his jump after being forbidden to even try.
Instead, he asks if Yuri is even alright in soft concern, and it's even worse. Sympathy for failure. Pity. He doesn't know why he doesn't. (He does.) Point it out. (Snap at him.) Yell at him. (Like every time he's never held back, wanting Yuri's best.) But he doesn't. (It still happens, phantoms in Yuri's head, for them both. A second Victor at his other shoulder.)
Victor just shepherds him away from the ice and the audience, back to those familiar back hallways that all blend into one. Where Phichit is dancing his moves down a hallway, and the others are having long last-minute discussions with their coaches, or grabbing mat's or foam rolls, dropping to stretch out whatever they'd learned still needed more flexibility in those few minutes. He doesn't. He considers it. For a handful of seconds. But he doesn't.
He drifts toward the area with the tv's, where there is a crowd of people in a hush, watching the miniature Guang-Hong is sliding across the ice. His movements like that of a sword-wielder. Soft and sharp in turns. It's beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful. He lands all of his first-half jumps -- even this boy who was in last place the night before, doing better than Yuri could, in first, fifteen minutes ago -- and Yuri can't watch this. He can't. He can't.
He reaches out and turns off the tv by the button on the top, that is far too broad, and there's a moment's reprieve, the space of seconds long, before he can still here the music, clenching his ribs, his lungs, he's going to be sick, even as he's looking to his side. Where Guang-Hong is still, on another tv, higher up, and he's already three or four strides toward it, reaching for that power button, too, because he can't, he can't. Not even when there are voices suddenly murmuring worriedly and others asking who turned it off, why, fading to an irritated confusion on him, and there are people whose eyes he can't meet. So many people.
Can't look at them any more than he can't look at Victor. Five more. Five. And even the last place looks better than his warmup.
Yuri finds himself a chair, but even momentary silence (before someone does flip a tv, and then the second one, back on), none of it helps. He can't keep his breaths inside his chest. (He shouldn't have touched the tv's.) He can't look over, and he can't stop hearing the commentary as it happens. (He buries his face in his hands, everything, everything, everything still moving, still color, still the flash of everyone else in color and perfect movement around him, still the impact of slamming into the ice.)
The rumble of applause sings through the whole building and he can't stop it. Everything is moving. His whole body. The darkness doesn't help. Sitting doesn't help. He's shaking. He can't hold his foot still. He can't sit here, or he'll just fly apart. Digging in his pockets for his earbuds, and turning anything else on. Something to drown out the room. Drown out the people. Drown out the applause and the music to start shortly.
That's .... that's almost better. Marginally. Barely. For seconds. It does drown out everything, even without words. Drops his shoulders from frozen rigor. He can't stop his eyes from lingering back toward the crowds and the tv's. But no. No, he has to distract himself. Anything else. He should move further away. He should warm-up. Victor said to warm-up. He had to warm-up. He had little more than half an hour at the best outset. Half an hour and he'd have to go out there again.
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Date: 2017-04-08 03:07 pm (UTC)Instead, he asks if Yuri is even alright in soft concern, and it's even worse. Sympathy for failure. Pity. He doesn't know why he doesn't. (He does.) Point it out. (Snap at him.) Yell at him. (Like every time he's never held back, wanting Yuri's best.) But he doesn't. (It still happens, phantoms in Yuri's head, for them both. A second Victor at his other shoulder.)
Victor just shepherds him away from the ice and the audience, back to those familiar back hallways that all blend into one. Where Phichit is dancing his moves down a hallway, and the others are having long last-minute discussions with their coaches, or grabbing mat's or foam rolls, dropping to stretch out whatever they'd learned still needed more flexibility in those few minutes. He doesn't. He considers it. For a handful of seconds. But he doesn't.
He drifts toward the area with the tv's, where there is a crowd of people in a hush, watching the miniature Guang-Hong is sliding across the ice. His movements like that of a sword-wielder. Soft and sharp in turns. It's beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful. He lands all of his first-half jumps -- even this boy who was in last place the night before, doing better than Yuri could, in first, fifteen minutes ago -- and Yuri can't watch this. He can't. He can't.
He reaches out and turns off the tv by the button on the top, that is far too broad, and there's a moment's reprieve, the space of seconds long, before he can still here the music, clenching his ribs, his lungs, he's going to be sick, even as he's looking to his side. Where Guang-Hong is still, on another tv, higher up, and he's already three or four strides toward it, reaching for that power button, too, because he can't, he can't. Not even when there are voices suddenly murmuring worriedly and others asking who turned it off, why, fading to an irritated confusion on him, and there are people whose eyes he can't meet. So many people.
Can't look at them any more than he can't look at Victor. Five more. Five. And even the last place looks better than his warmup.
Yuri finds himself a chair, but even momentary silence (before someone does flip a tv, and then the second one, back on), none of it helps. He can't keep his breaths inside his chest. (He shouldn't have touched the tv's.) He can't look over, and he can't stop hearing the commentary as it happens. (He buries his face in his hands, everything, everything, everything still moving, still color, still the flash of everyone else in color and perfect movement around him, still the impact of slamming into the ice.)
The rumble of applause sings through the whole building and he can't stop it. Everything is moving. His whole body. The darkness doesn't help. Sitting doesn't help. He's shaking. He can't hold his foot still. He can't sit here, or he'll just fly apart. Digging in his pockets for his earbuds, and turning anything else on. Something to drown out the room. Drown out the people. Drown out the applause and the music to start shortly.
That's .... that's almost better. Marginally. Barely. For seconds. It does drown out everything, even without words. Drops his shoulders from frozen rigor. He can't stop his eyes from lingering back toward the crowds and the tv's. But no. No, he has to distract himself. Anything else. He should move further away. He should warm-up. Victor said to warm-up. He had to warm-up. He had little more than half an hour at the best outset. Half an hour and he'd have to go out there again.