Yuri nearly jumps at the touch, and sags because of it, even as every alarm bell in his skin is still going off over over and over, a shattering pierce, beyond realization. He could say it's because his music is drowning out everything (but it's not, not, not) and he mumbles an apology (he's sorry, he is so sorry, for everything, for himself), that he had no clue if even turns out to be audible or just a vibration in his throat, just for it itself, a strident sharp stab of something like terror slamming his stomach just for the first second he sees Victor's face.
But he pulls out one of his earbuds, even while his system at the speed of light somehow reverses shock for dread, explosion for implosion, blasting outward into a sink hole inward, but all Victor is telling him is what he had been desperately reaching for. He needs to warm-up. His matt is over there. He should take it and go over there, and warm-up. Loosen up. (Figure out how to breathe.)
He goes because he's supposed to, because he has no better idea, because any direction is better than none. (He doesn't know why Victor cares, why Victor thinks it will matter now, if or why he does. Why he's still here at all. Maybe he doesn't want to be, any more than Yuri wants to be here anymore. This country, this building, his body, his head.)
Gets down on the floor, on hands that feel numb, and starts stretching out his legs. Trying not to think, not to fall, slide, slip, into the darkness, (but trying at all, feels thinner than paper, thinner than air, thinner than a thought, sliced bare and bleeding), but all he can see is Victor's face above him when he jumped. Victor seeing that he's an absolute mess. That he's come this far and he's never going to even make it out there.
Everything they've ever done is for nothing because Yuri isn't anything more than this. He has never been. All it well-meant lies that are shattering on the floor in Shanghai, while he can't keep it together. Pull it together.
In a routine order that he knows better than he has to think about (purposeless memorization, for what will be a purposeless attempt at a medal, at the box, at a standing at his ability, but not possiblity), he moves from the mat to the wall. Desperation like a full being clinging to his head. His body, his arms, his hands, and hips as they begin to shift, loosening muscles needed for everything from turns to jumps.
He didn't come here wanting this. He didn't train for this. He didn't put the year behind him for this. But it's here, there, everywhere, all the same. Jamming up his lungs, stopped and starting and screaming every worst thought. He can't even make his breaths stay consistent and slow, even when he's only staring at the wall and his shoes.
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Date: 2017-04-08 07:38 pm (UTC)But he pulls out one of his earbuds, even while his system at the speed of light somehow reverses shock for dread, explosion for implosion, blasting outward into a sink hole inward, but all Victor is telling him is what he had been desperately reaching for. He needs to warm-up. His matt is over there. He should take it and go over there, and warm-up. Loosen up. (Figure out how to breathe.)
He goes because he's supposed to, because he has no better idea, because any direction is better than none.
(He doesn't know why Victor cares, why Victor thinks it will matter now, if or why he does. Why he's still here at all.
Maybe he doesn't want to be, any more than Yuri wants to be here anymore. This country, this building, his body, his head.)
Gets down on the floor, on hands that feel numb, and starts stretching out his legs. Trying not to think, not to fall, slide, slip, into the darkness, (but trying at all, feels thinner than paper, thinner than air, thinner than a thought, sliced bare and bleeding), but all he can see is Victor's face above him when he jumped. Victor seeing that he's an absolute mess. That he's come this far and he's never going to even make it out there.
Everything they've ever done is for nothing because Yuri isn't anything more than this. He has never been.
All it well-meant lies that are shattering on the floor in Shanghai, while he can't keep it together. Pull it together.
In a routine order that he knows better than he has to think about (purposeless memorization, for what will be a purposeless attempt at a medal, at the box, at a standing at his ability, but not possiblity), he moves from the mat to the wall. Desperation like a full being clinging to his head. His body, his arms, his hands, and hips as they begin to shift, loosening muscles needed for everything from turns to jumps.
He didn't come here wanting this. He didn't train for this. He didn't put the year behind him for this. But it's here, there, everywhere, all the same. Jamming up his lungs, stopped and starting and screaming every worst thought. He can't even make his breaths stay consistent and slow, even when he's only staring at the wall and his shoes.