He doesn't know why Victor is smiling, hands raised, and voice light. All of it contorts in his head. Twisting. Nothing makes sense.
There's nothing to smile about. There's nothing about this that is light. Is okay. He doesn't want to be patronized. He knows he's not doing well. He knows everyone else must know it by now. He's not keeping anything together. He's failing Victor, and everything they've been working for, every day, every night, almost every single hour he's been awake since the moment Victor showed up in Hasetsu.
Question after question, Victor's voice asks them, half like a question and half like he's talking to a scared animal, and Yuri hates that, too. The look on Victor's face. Ownership and uncertainty, and direction, over and over and over, again. But Yuri manages something to an affirmative when he's told to go back to warming up (even though not knowing rips at him, turns and twists, maybe it's worse than he thought from the cheers, maybe it was perfect, flawless, unbeatable by any standard short of Victor going out there).
He tries, even if he flounders for a long moment looking at the space around him. They didn't bring the mat and he doesn't want his costume touching the dirt, grime, and likely grease to be found on the ground. It wouldn't be polite or proper to use one of the cars, and the walls don't look that much better. He can practice his steps. His arm movements. He can try to loosen the muscles in his back, his shoulders, around his chest, where he still can't breathe.
Close his eyes and try to find even the most shredded approximation of his theme. Try to find his love. Somewhere underneath everything else. Shift to the choreographed sequence. But the clock is in every turn of his body, every cross of his feet. It must be passing. Must be. He should already be up there. What if it is his turn. What if he's late. It must be time. It must.
He reaches up to take his earplugs out, to ask Victor, remind him -- and the world goes from drowned quiet to thunderous applause.
So much louder than anything that had come earlier. Slamming into him with the force of his fall from earlier. No, worse. More. Heart sprinting into the top of his throat, his mouth, out of the top of his head, at the same second as his stomach makes the same mad dash, bottoming out his body, his shoes, straight through the floor. Who is that? Is it still Phichit? Or is it Leo now? Who?
But he can't hear. He can't even hear his own thoughts. The crowd is going crazy and the whole garage is an amplifier.
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Date: 2017-04-08 10:03 pm (UTC)There's nothing to smile about. There's nothing about this that is light. Is okay. He doesn't want to be patronized. He knows he's not doing well. He knows everyone else must know it by now. He's not keeping anything together. He's failing Victor, and everything they've been working for, every day, every night, almost every single hour he's been awake since the moment Victor showed up in Hasetsu.
Question after question, Victor's voice asks them, half like a question and half like he's talking to a scared animal, and Yuri hates that, too. The look on Victor's face. Ownership and uncertainty, and direction, over and over and over, again. But Yuri manages something to an affirmative when he's told to go back to warming up (even though not knowing rips at him, turns and twists, maybe it's worse than he thought from the cheers, maybe it was perfect, flawless, unbeatable by any standard short of Victor going out there).
He tries, even if he flounders for a long moment looking at the space around him. They didn't bring the mat and he doesn't want his costume touching the dirt, grime, and likely grease to be found on the ground. It wouldn't be polite or proper to use one of the cars, and the walls don't look that much better. He can practice his steps. His arm movements. He can try to loosen the muscles in his back, his shoulders, around his chest, where he still can't breathe.
Close his eyes and try to find even the most shredded approximation of his theme. Try to find his love. Somewhere underneath everything else. Shift to the choreographed sequence. But the clock is in every turn of his body, every cross of his feet. It must be passing. Must be. He should already be up there. What if it is his turn. What if he's late. It must be time. It must.
He reaches up to take his earplugs out, to ask Victor, remind him -- and the world goes from drowned quiet to thunderous applause.
So much louder than anything that had come earlier. Slamming into him with the force of his fall from earlier. No, worse. More. Heart sprinting into the top of his throat, his mouth, out of the top of his head, at the same second as his stomach makes the same mad dash, bottoming out his body, his shoes, straight through the floor. Who is that? Is it still Phichit? Or is it Leo now? Who?
But he can't hear. He can't even hear his own thoughts. The crowd is going crazy and the whole garage is an amplifier.