The water is wonderful. Clarifying in a way that doesn't quite really mark up the same way as clearing up anything in his head, but it does bring his focus down to his skin. To the heavy exhaustion in every inch of his body, like bricks. To the pain in all his muscles, and even leaves him for a half minute examining the bruise on his side that is well into coloring.
It'll be darker by morning, and it'll be sore through the exhibition, but he deserves it -- and strangely, the thought that truly sticks, is he earned it.
Tried it. Both succedded and failed it and would be trained on it.
(And - and - and - no. Not yet. Not yet.)
It isn't like he couldn't skate Stay Close to Me in his sleep, too, at this point. Even if it will be the first time for Prix itself. The first time people are watching him, while Victor is at the edge. A shadow of his shadow, inside the shadow of the flip he'd done the day before.
He doesn't regret it. That, too, is a thought that sticks in the heat.
Not the flip.
(Not kissing Victor? Echoes softly right after.
There's a wobble. A clench. An uncertain blink and sigh.
No. No, maybe not that at all, if he set it apart from everything it evoked.)
But still his fingers raise, brushing his own skin slowly under the hot water. His fingertips against his lips. His cheek. His temple. Against the edge of his ear and slowly down the line of his throat. It's not the same, nowhere near the same, and still, everything under his skin aches toward those points he presses. His mind filling with images and the barest echoes of how overwhelming, how everything it had felt in the second.
Why.
Why. The door in his head that was closed harder than anything else he'd closed away in the days and weeks and months after the beach. When he'd stopped asking why Victor was there and why him without ever asking, without ever having an answer. He'd accepted Victor was there, Victor was training him, Victor was prepping him for the Grand Prix Finale, Victor would be there until the end of this year.
Why. Like a fist beating lightly against a wall. His heart against his ribs. No insult and no curiosity, no hundred answers he gives himself, knows.
As much as he's not aiming to take forever, not forgetting he only has about fifteen minutes, and really that's enough time for a shower like Victor says, this isn't the springs. He can't just stay here, put a towel on his head, and close his eyes and drift away on the heat and the steam.
There's nowhere to even sit because it's just a shower, and eventually that means he has to turn off the water and go back out there to Victor and, soon, dinner. (And the Gala, and training, and Moscow, and and and
and Victor.)
So, off the water goes and he pulls himself a towel, drying off.
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Date: 2017-04-18 05:06 pm (UTC)It'll be darker by morning, and it'll be sore through the exhibition, but he deserves it -- and strangely, the thought that truly sticks, is he earned it.
Tried it. Both succedded and failed it and would be trained on it.
(And - and - and - no. Not yet. Not yet.)
It isn't like he couldn't skate Stay Close to Me in his sleep, too, at this point. Even if it will be the first time for Prix itself. The first time people are watching him, while Victor is at the edge. A shadow of his shadow, inside the shadow of the flip he'd done the day before.
He doesn't regret it. That, too, is a thought that sticks in the heat.
Not the flip.
(Not kissing Victor? Echoes softly right after.
There's a wobble. A clench.
An uncertain blink and sigh.
No. No, maybe not that at all,
if he set it apart from everything it evoked.)
But still his fingers raise, brushing his own skin slowly under the hot water. His fingertips against his lips. His cheek. His temple. Against the edge of his ear and slowly down the line of his throat. It's not the same, nowhere near the same, and still, everything under his skin aches toward those points he presses. His mind filling with images and the barest echoes of how overwhelming, how everything it had felt in the second.
Why.
Why. The door in his head that was closed harder than anything else he'd closed away in the days and weeks and months after the beach. When he'd stopped asking why Victor was there and why him without ever asking, without ever having an answer. He'd accepted Victor was there, Victor was training him, Victor was prepping him for the Grand Prix Finale, Victor would be there until the end of this year.
Why. Like a fist beating lightly against a wall. His heart against his ribs.
No insult and no curiosity, no hundred answers he gives himself, knows.
As much as he's not aiming to take forever, not forgetting he only has about fifteen minutes, and really that's enough time for a shower like Victor says, this isn't the springs. He can't just stay here, put a towel on his head, and close his eyes and drift away on the heat and the steam.
There's nowhere to even sit because it's just a shower, and eventually that means he has to turn off the water and go back out there to Victor and, soon, dinner. (And the Gala, and training, and Moscow, and and and
So, off the water goes and he pulls himself a towel, drying off.