Victor agrees before Yuri can even put the words together to disagree, and it's all a little disorienting how fast and especially how unwaveringly certain Victor makes those words sound, bounced back at him. While Victor is pulling him up off the bench and the others are coming toward them.
Which makes him look to the ice, where the ice is still having the last of things picked up off it. Boxes going up. It's all really happening. It's strange, that lull, almost snag and tug, deep in his stomach, when Victor's hand slips away from him entirely, and he's walking off.
But Phichit is heading for him and Yuri is positive his smile is too wide, too aware, too obviously laughingly accusatory, for just the way Phichit clobbers him in a hug. There's a muffled shout of something like We made it! into Yuri's jacket, that blurs straight into half being left go, to having an arm slung around his neck, from a body much shorter than his, causing him to slouch down, while Phichit is saying, Picture! We need a picture! The first picture! and Yuri doesn't really question where the phone comes from.
He stopped questioning that years ago, and maybe it's not a perfect smile. At least not the first one. Or three. It's not like Phichit doesn't keep clicking it anyway. Habits are habits and his smile changes in it.
Something red-faced and startled (when the first one or two flick by, while Phichit leans in flashing a V for Victory at his own screen, and he's on his toes for his head to brush Yuri's cheek) and then an uncertain something in his face (that he's sure Phichit will delete without labeling, but it's the first time Yuri feels it sink in as not Gold, not Gold), but it fades out, of his face at least, unable to truly fight Phichit's tease to smile.
Making him look at Phichit's, and that's infectious a bit, too.That absolute golden thing that has so much pure pride, without a drop of arrogance, and is unwaveringly so glad to share this with Yuri. (That somehow makes it sting less.)
Before long, though, the lights are dimming, and there are spotlights on the boxes, and it's time. It's time, it's time, it's time. They are the three people who made it, and they'll all go on to different skates for the next qualifier, since neither Chris or Phichit was slated for Moscow. If it says something, and he tries not to let it, entirely, he can't quite keep his focus forward on the bright light in front of him once he's out there.
Weight hanging at his neck. Everything being recorded. Several professional camera shots. Individually and then together.
But every once in a while, every long enough he feels like it's not just been two seconds, his gaze tries to travel back. To the edge of his vision. To the edge off his shoulder. The edge of the rink, where the ice meets the wall. To the place where Victor is waiting (... and the place where ... everything just happened).
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Date: 2017-04-11 03:08 am (UTC)Which makes him look to the ice, where the ice is still having the last of things picked up off it. Boxes going up. It's all really happening. It's strange, that lull, almost snag and tug, deep in his stomach, when Victor's hand slips away from him entirely, and he's walking off.
But Phichit is heading for him and Yuri is positive his smile is too wide, too aware, too obviously laughingly accusatory, for just the way Phichit clobbers him in a hug. There's a muffled shout of something like We made it! into Yuri's jacket, that blurs straight into half being left go, to having an arm slung around his neck, from a body much shorter than his, causing him to slouch down, while Phichit is saying, Picture! We need a picture! The first picture! and Yuri doesn't really question where the phone comes from.
He stopped questioning that years ago, and maybe it's not a perfect smile. At least not the first one. Or three.
It's not like Phichit doesn't keep clicking it anyway. Habits are habits and his smile changes in it.
Something red-faced and startled (when the first one or two flick by, while Phichit leans in flashing a V for Victory at his own screen, and he's on his toes for his head to brush Yuri's cheek) and then an uncertain something in his face (that he's sure Phichit will delete without labeling, but it's the first time Yuri feels it sink in as not Gold, not Gold), but it fades out, of his face at least, unable to truly fight Phichit's tease to smile.
Making him look at Phichit's, and that's infectious a bit, too.That absolute golden thing that has so much pure pride,
without a drop of arrogance, and is unwaveringly so glad to share this with Yuri. (That somehow makes it sting less.)
Before long, though, the lights are dimming, and there are spotlights on the boxes, and it's time. It's time, it's time, it's time. They are the three people who made it, and they'll all go on to different skates for the next qualifier, since neither Chris or Phichit was slated for Moscow. If it says something, and he tries not to let it, entirely, he can't quite keep his focus forward on the bright light in front of him once he's out there.
Weight hanging at his neck. Everything being recorded.
Several professional camera shots. Individually and then together.
But every once in a while, every long enough he feels like it's not just been two seconds, his gaze tries to travel back. To the edge of his vision. To the edge off his shoulder. The edge of the rink, where the ice meets the wall. To the place where Victor is waiting (... and the place where ... everything just happened).