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If Yuri thought the night before this one never ended, he was wrong. It's this newest night that feels like it never ends. Oppressive, pressing, darkness, digging into his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, while Victor breathed heavy and easy in the adjoining bed. Yuri had tried to sleep. Turning this way, turning that way, staring at the backs of his eyelids toward the ceiling, pressing his face into his pillow. He tried and tried and tried (and most of all found himself trying not to let his breathing race so fast it might wake Victor).
The evening had been bearable, if not entirely enjoyable or unenjoyable. Less stressful than the one before it, if only marginally, while Phichit and Victor drug him from place to place. Too late for museums or anything with middaytime, there had been rather quick tours through the Yu Garden, the Oriental Pearl Tower, and the Jade Buddha Temple, and in the cases of closed doors, pictures with their iconic buildings. As well as everything else that looked interesting between them.
It took forever, and then it was just over.
He'd enjoyed some of it, but none of it stuck for long.
Not even the late calls from his family and Yuu-san had.
Not with the Free Skate looming. Not with every single person he was skating with gunning for where he was standing, and every person watching wondering if he could somehow pull out o f himself the miraculous performance that had seemed to come from almost nowhere. Like it hadn't even belonged to him. How many times had he performed Eros and it'd never been that?
How badly would it be when (if - when) tomorrow couldn't match it?
What would they say about him, then? What would they say about Victor, then?
Yuri would fall asleep only to startle awake what could only have been seconds later, nerves sharpening with each new jolt, until it felt like ice was splintering more and stabbing up harder through every part of his veins, until each second asleep seemed to only contain the certainty he would fall, he would fail, he would forget. He could never reach whatever he'd touched for that brief two minutes and eighteen seconds.
It'd been a fluke. He'd only dreamed it. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't sleep.
Every minute in that dark reaching, but, also, clutching his pillow.
Eyelids clenched tight, or eyes open, staring at the other bed.
Over and over, he counted his breaths down.
Over and over, he repeated that he had and he could.
Over and over, he told himself this was all in his head.
Over and over, he slipped right back as soon as it finished.
That morning comes at all only changes the color of the sky.
Breakfast is a blur, piling food into himself, like maybe it would give him any solidness. Weigh him to the seat, to the ground, to reality. It should be impossible, but his head feels even heavier than his body. Hot water had shaken some tension from his skin, but none at all from his mind. It hadn't mattered whether he was in the bed, in the shower, in a booth, at a table.
His foot tapped under the table, all the way up to his knee and thigh, and in the moments he could make himself stop, his fingers drum against the side of his thigh or the seat instead. Desperate to try and keep it from Victor's sight, when Victor won't stop looking at him, smiling like that, talking about how Eros was perfect, and what he should do as soon as they arrived at practice.
How would he look when he realized Yuri couldn't reproduce what he done. Couldn't even look at the things that compounded to get him there. Words Victor'd said, but entirely in a different way than he'd said them. That Yuri'd blown them out of proportion and reality out there, during Eros. What would he do if Yuri couldn't place at all?
What would he do when everyone no longer was cheering his name as the reason Yuri had done so well? When there would only be that gut-wrenching pity on every face and Victor's name was smeared with his failures the same as his already was? Why was he even going to put himself through that? Why was Yuri?
Practice is a comedy of uncertainty.
He doesn't even want to return to the wall and Victor during it.
His feet hardly feel like they belong to his body, and thinking about love doesn't produce his love, his family, Hasetsu, or Victor, it brings up more and more knots in his guts. It tears up the ice under him with images of last year, of every fall, of every day spent in his bed, avoid being awake, avoiding the rink, Celestino, Phichit. The flip of what that could -- will -- look like again.
Except at home. Except with his parents, and Minako, and Yuu-san, and his family.
Their sad faces, their disappointment, as Victor's back went vanishing away in the background of his loss.
Even the ease of his long earned and long loved turns seems to be slipping from him when his focus won't pull itself together. At full speed it makes it a fumble of something he hasn't fumbled in half his life, even if he doesn't fall. It's better the next time, and gone the third, but it still there. He can do this. He can. He's done it how many hundreds and thousands of times.
It makes him sloppy. It makes him reckless. It makes him stubborn. It makes him hesitate.
It ends all too soon. The alarm sounding for them to come in, and he trails in.
The evening had been bearable, if not entirely enjoyable or unenjoyable. Less stressful than the one before it, if only marginally, while Phichit and Victor drug him from place to place. Too late for museums or anything with middaytime, there had been rather quick tours through the Yu Garden, the Oriental Pearl Tower, and the Jade Buddha Temple, and in the cases of closed doors, pictures with their iconic buildings. As well as everything else that looked interesting between them.
It took forever, and then it was just over.
He'd enjoyed some of it, but none of it stuck for long.
Not even the late calls from his family and Yuu-san had.
Not with the Free Skate looming. Not with every single person he was skating with gunning for where he was standing, and every person watching wondering if he could somehow pull out o f himself the miraculous performance that had seemed to come from almost nowhere. Like it hadn't even belonged to him. How many times had he performed Eros and it'd never been that?
How badly would it be when (if - when) tomorrow couldn't match it?
What would they say about him, then? What would they say about Victor, then?
Yuri would fall asleep only to startle awake what could only have been seconds later, nerves sharpening with each new jolt, until it felt like ice was splintering more and stabbing up harder through every part of his veins, until each second asleep seemed to only contain the certainty he would fall, he would fail, he would forget. He could never reach whatever he'd touched for that brief two minutes and eighteen seconds.
It'd been a fluke. He'd only dreamed it. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't sleep.
Every minute in that dark reaching, but, also, clutching his pillow.
Eyelids clenched tight, or eyes open, staring at the other bed.
Over and over, he counted his breaths down.
Over and over, he repeated that he had and he could.
Over and over, he told himself this was all in his head.
Over and over, he slipped right back as soon as it finished.
That morning comes at all only changes the color of the sky.
Breakfast is a blur, piling food into himself, like maybe it would give him any solidness. Weigh him to the seat, to the ground, to reality. It should be impossible, but his head feels even heavier than his body. Hot water had shaken some tension from his skin, but none at all from his mind. It hadn't mattered whether he was in the bed, in the shower, in a booth, at a table.
His foot tapped under the table, all the way up to his knee and thigh, and in the moments he could make himself stop, his fingers drum against the side of his thigh or the seat instead. Desperate to try and keep it from Victor's sight, when Victor won't stop looking at him, smiling like that, talking about how Eros was perfect, and what he should do as soon as they arrived at practice.
How would he look when he realized Yuri couldn't reproduce what he done. Couldn't even look at the things that compounded to get him there. Words Victor'd said, but entirely in a different way than he'd said them. That Yuri'd blown them out of proportion and reality out there, during Eros. What would he do if Yuri couldn't place at all?
What would he do when everyone no longer was cheering his name as the reason Yuri had done so well? When there would only be that gut-wrenching pity on every face and Victor's name was smeared with his failures the same as his already was? Why was he even going to put himself through that? Why was Yuri?
Practice is a comedy of uncertainty.
He doesn't even want to return to the wall and Victor during it.
His feet hardly feel like they belong to his body, and thinking about love doesn't produce his love, his family, Hasetsu, or Victor, it brings up more and more knots in his guts. It tears up the ice under him with images of last year, of every fall, of every day spent in his bed, avoid being awake, avoiding the rink, Celestino, Phichit. The flip of what that could -- will -- look like again.
Except at home. Except with his parents, and Minako, and Yuu-san, and his family.
Their sad faces, their disappointment, as Victor's back went vanishing away in the background of his loss.
Even the ease of his long earned and long loved turns seems to be slipping from him when his focus won't pull itself together. At full speed it makes it a fumble of something he hasn't fumbled in half his life, even if he doesn't fall. It's better the next time, and gone the third, but it still there. He can do this. He can. He's done it how many hundreds and thousands of times.
It makes him sloppy. It makes him reckless. It makes him stubborn. It makes him hesitate.
It ends all too soon. The alarm sounding for them to come in, and he trails in.
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Date: 2017-04-07 08:13 pm (UTC)Gone like someone swung a pillowcase of bricks at his head, without preamble or warning. In his defense, it might be impossible to do otherwise: even quick against his ear, Yuri's heartbeat is steady and soothing to listen to, and the rise and fall of his chest is hypnotizing, and the small noises of his body working are so quiet and reassuring that Victor never really had a chance.
(Not that he ever did. With any of this.)
Yuri warm and comfortable underneath him. Yuri, who blew the roof off the rink last night, and only needs to remember who he is and what he can do tonight to do the same thing. Yuri, who Victor had to learn to love in a totally new and different and terrifying way, who is letting him lie here like a blanket, and even if Yuri isn't touching Victor, he isn't stopping Victor from touching all of him.
When that's more satisfying than he could ever have imagined a year ago. All of this has been. Is. So much more than he dreamed even possible.
Sending him off to sleep with a smile on his lips and the peace of pure, unbreakable certainty quieting his mind, until there's nothing at all except his soft snores, and the heavy weight of his head on Yuri's chest.
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Date: 2017-04-08 01:04 am (UTC)There's only the steady in and out of his breath (that blows pretty much straight through the sheet, against Yuri's bare skin, making it impossible for his mind to quiet or his face to cool, once he's struck by the realization, and by the goosebumps from the feeling of it). He lays there, uncertain in the extreme if Victor is just ignoring him, another part of this isn't a conversation, like if he just doesn't respond Yuri will get the hint and sleep sooner.
Victor hasn't seemed to have learned anything from the sleep Yuri didn't get for hours two days ago, because Yuri lays there, uncertain of anything about time under the sleep mask, except the darkness caused by it, the weight of Victor laying on him, and the sound of Victor's soft breath. Even softer snores. Anytime he so much as twitched or moved the smallest bit. The strange fact that Yuri can feel, and can't not feel, Victor's heart beating against his ribs and stomach.
The contemplation of Yuri moving is a short conversation with himself in that darkness. It's not like the other time. It's not like Victor's hand is just on him, or even like he's just curled up some part of Yuri's back or his shoulder. Victor is actually pressed across him, weighing him to the bed. Making shifting a nonpossibility on basically ever level. Which only makes every part of his body itch to move, fingers and toes, ankles and knees, and shoulders.
So it takes a while. Disjointed and trapped, under Victor, before he realizes that his own personal combination of panic and exhaustion isn't waning. Not once he can breathe. Not once he's given up moving, and given up that he can't see at all. Save the slightest sliver, that's only Victor's hair or his hair and forehead. He lays there inside, staring up at cloth imposed darkness. Time passing without marks, making it both impossibly slow and incredibly fast.
It's not that he doesn't try. He's stuck. He's exhausted in his skin. He's so tired of his own mind.
But trying to plead, to will, to throw himself at the mercy of the darkness does nothing, and more nothing, and even more of it.
Leaving it to his head to move in every single direction that his body can't. To replay and pick apart, every single expression Victor made from the moment Victor woke up, every single word Victor'd said since Victor woke up, since Yuri stepped off the practice ice, every time he should have asked but couldn't make himself. The constant reminding note. Eros was perfect. His jumps were horrible. His movements had been sloppy. Trying to decipher every word he hadn't said from the ones he had. His disappointment.
It's excruciatingly painful to be stuck, then. Not to want to be up. To move the exhausted, sleep-failing, lump of his body, and start practicing Yuri on Ice on the hotel room floor. Down the hallway. Even though everyone out there would probably give him the same non-descript look Victor had given him after his practice of it. But time was tick, tick, ticking, and night was getting closer, it had to be, he wasn't lucky enough for time to stop altogether.
He needed to be ready. He needed to not be a wreck.
He needed the day to start over, and for any second of sleep to find him.
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Date: 2017-04-08 02:04 am (UTC)He sits up with a sigh, and rubs at his eyes, shakes Yuri's shoulder with his hand as it drops. "Yuri, time to get up. There's time for you to shower, if you want."
He wants one. The only problem with afternoon naps is they leave him feeling flushed and sluggish, and his next yawn is jaw-crackingly huge as he stretches, and gets up off the edge of the mattress to go open the drapes again. Some water –– hot or cold, he doesn't care –– and something to drink, and he'll be ready to go again, ready for that suit hanging waiting in the closet, ready for the free skate.
Hopefully Yuri will be, too.
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Date: 2017-04-08 02:33 am (UTC)Except Victor shifts on him, with a low mumble, that vibrates into Yuri's ribs and his shoulder, before Victor is leaning up, before he finally slides off to one side, and his hand finds Yuri's shoulder to shake it. Victor's voice quiet, but insistent, against the shake. Because he was supposed to be asleep. That Victor pushes up gives him -- makes him? -- reach up for the sleep mask finally, eyes fluttering at the light of the room, and the sudden outpouring of it into the room.
Victor barely looks touched by his sleep, and Yuri is beginning to hate that. Somewhere in a sick pit in his stomach. Even in the semi-painful light, Victor's hair barely mussed, while Yuri's probably still looks like something slept in his hair during all those hours better than he did with any of that time inside of his own head. He looked at the clock, squinting for better focus, before wondering at how much, and how little, time had passed.
Hands finally free to move, Yuri pushed himself to sit upright, one foot tucked under a thigh.
"Yeah." The light is still a little disorienting after so long in darkness, and he's rubbing his eyes. "Okay."
Then, half folding the cloth in his hand, for all the good its imprisonment had done him. He held out the sleep mask, "Here."
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Date: 2017-04-08 02:58 am (UTC)Shoes, polished. Gloves in the pocket of his coat. And Yuri.
Who still looks tired, but Victor can't tell if that's because he's still sleepy from the nap, or because he didn't manage to sleep after all, but there's no time to get into it: they have to go.
(Frustrating to be going last. To have so much time to warm up, and too much time to think. All that time for Yuri's mind to play tricks on him, if Victor can't keep him focused.
But at least it's only five skaters ahead. It could be worse.)
The air in Shanghai in November is brisk, and it wakes him up even further, but his mind is already racing ahead, considering the routine, the competition, Yuri's weariness. He's not concerned about the latter as much as he perhaps should be: Yuri's stamina and stubbornness should power him through those four minutes and change even if there's nothing left of him to give by the end of it.
Once he's on the ice. Once it matters.
"We have lots of time once we're there to warm up, so take it nice and slow, okay?"
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Date: 2017-04-08 03:44 am (UTC)Who, unlike every other thought for more minutes or hours than even seems sane to himself, seems just as calm and prepared and absolutely nothing like Yuri's head had blown him up to be. Because he isn't. (He isn't.) Barely more minutes, scattershot, too fast, too slow, and Victor's done, Victor's ready, and they are leaving the room, and the hotel. Taking the walk back to the Oriental Sports Center.
The chill of the air makes him at least feel the skin on his neck and his ears more than the mostly nothing, while he watched the building getting closer and closer, more details standing out on every part of it. The next time he was outside of it would be the other side of the whole men's free skate competition. The whole answer of whether he'd never see it again, or be back tomorrow.
A divergence of direction and doors so that they don't have to deal with the fans still pouring into the building for their seats.
Inside he listens, as much out of obedience as it is out of simply having nothing better to tell himself, but he doesn't start warming up immediately. He's going to have the better part of nearly an hour to wait even after they get started. Which is soon, but still isn't now. It's easier to find something else. A chair that isn't very in the way, and then that's not really working, so maybe if he gets himself some water before they call for the warm-up to start.
Something to calm the churning in his stomach while he goes over what he should do for his warm up.
Trying to focus. (Which jumps need the most focus.) Trying. (Which step sequence to focus on after this morning).
But he ends up distracted when his fingers make it impossible to actually open the bottle of water in his hand,
uncertain if it's just stuck or if it's that he's actually shaking too hard to grip it properly and make it open.
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Date: 2017-04-08 04:14 am (UTC)He'd barely spoken at all on the way over here. Hadn't seemed to be listening. Didn't respond when people called his name, or tried to get his attention, and now Victor's watching him with a fixed and exasperated smile, resting his elbow on the arm around his own stomach, tapping at his cheek with one gloved finger, until it becomes too much.
Suddenly swooping in, hearing Yuri's surprised gasp like he'd forgotten Victor was even there, and Victor would honestly be surprised if that weren't the case. "Yuri, were you unable to take a nap?"
He looks terrible. Face drawn and pale, deep bruised circles under his eyes. Even his jacket looks like it isn't fitting right, and the hands around the water bottle he was trying and failing to open are trembling, and Victor doesn't know if he should hug him or shake him in exasperation.
His negation is such an obvious lie that Victor just rolls straight past it, not even deigning to acknowledge its existence. "I forbid you from doing jumps in the six-minute warm-up." The last thing Yuri needs while in this fragile state is to flub a jump and lose all confidence, and he looks so tired Victor's not even sure he'll be able to stand up under his own power, let alone practice jumps that he normally has no trouble with. "That's an order from your coach, Yuri."
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Date: 2017-04-08 05:37 am (UTC)Forbid.
When he only has six minutes, and it matters. Those six minutes. Because even if everything feels bogged down, it's only six minutes. It matters because he needs to go back over every part that didn't work this morning. It matters because he won't have another chance to warm-up out on the ice in his skates. It matters because he needs to make sure he's ready. It matters because it has to be perfect in an hour. It matters because holding back and floundering is all he's been doing, all his head wants, and that has to stop, he has to make it.
(It matters because when he slams the ice, smacking his side, and then his back, and then his other side, and then his front, all in the space of a second, still caught up in the momentum of the spin, even right down into the ice, he can't help but think those words first when he catches traction enough to push back up. That maybe Victor had known all along. That he couldn't do it, and he shouldn't even try, or try to pretend, he could.)
He'd done all of it yesterday. Somehow. When yesterday felt a million years behind him somehow. Impossible. Untouchable. Something that only ascribed itself to his name and his likeness, but wasn't him at all. Like the rest of him didn't seem to belong to himself anymore. He circles the rest. Some of it is step work. Some of it is nothing but his feet moving forward and forward and forward.
He doesn't try another jump after that. He doesn't try for any of the quads. He doesn't even do his triple axel.
When the announcement comes, it's not soon enough, and but it's, also, that everything is suddenly too very much right then. As soon as the ice clears the first person will be sent out, and it'll all start. No stopping the rapid descent of everything that is only coming faster and faster now. He's as reluctant to come off, and he is glad this part is over, even more worried about what's to come. All of it, circling, circling, circling, as he takes the skate guards from Victor's hands without even looking up.
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Date: 2017-04-08 11:32 am (UTC)Which is what is running through Victor's mind when he sees Yuri take to the air, only to crash on the ice and slide towards the wall, exactly as Victor worried might happen. He's not sure if he should be more annoyed that Yuri disobeyed a direct order, or relieved that Yuri at least had enough spirit to give it a shot, but either way it's frustrating and he has a sudden pang of sympathy for all time times he'd ignored Yakov's orders and done what he thought was best without considering their longterm effect.
Not that it will help Yuri for him to be annoyed, he looks downhearted enough when he comes to the gate to collect his skate guards and water bottle, so Victor doesn't chastise him, only asks "Did you hurt yourself?" and when it's clear that Yuri's fine, shrugs it off, and starts walking them back towards the warm-up space and green room. Yuri's shoulders are slumped and he says nothing, but Victor is still pushing for positive, talking like it meant nothing. "Well, it's common for skaters to nail something they flubbed during practice!"
It's about the only encouraging thing he can think to say, when he's getting nothing from Yuri and he's not sure how to crack this shell. Is it just exhaustion? Is it nerves? The flubbed jump? The pressure of being first? He'd never felt this way, so it's difficult to pinpoint just exactly how to keep this gray mood from snowballing further.
But it's not so bad, right? Perhaps if he just brushes it off, Yuri will latch onto that and start focusing on what he can do isn't of what he didn't, so his laugh is breezy and bright, even when Yuri mumbles an apology he can barely hear. "Well, just continue warming up, nice and easy."
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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.
no subject
Date: 2017-04-08 06:48 pm (UTC)Hunched in a chair, holding his head in his hands and staring at his jiggling knee, unable to stop his foot from bouncing, or maybe not even aware that it is, and he knew Yuri got anxious, knew that he choked during his last Grand Prix run and fell into a gloom he couldn't escape, binge-eating and depressed, feeling like he was fighting alone. But all that's changed, hasn't it? He has his family, Minako, Victor. Even Yurio and the other skaters: everyone wants to see Yuri do well this year, finally meet his potential and show them all what he can really do. It isn't two years ago, and he isn't going to crash and burn.
Well, not if Victor can help it, anyway.
Pushing himself out of his train of thought and dropping his finger from where it had been tapping his mouth, to head over to Yuri and put a hand on his shoulder. "Yuri, don't sit down. I want you to go stretch out so you don't get cold and stiffen up."
Looking around before he spots Yuri's mat, rolled up near the rest of his equipment, and giving Yuri's shoulder a gentle push towards it. "There's some space over there –– "
Away from the televisions, where he can listen to his music and focus on stretching. "–– Go use it. You need to loosen up and stay warm."
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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.
no subject
Date: 2017-04-08 08:07 pm (UTC)At least, through the rest of Guang-hong's routine, and into the start of Chris', when Victor is looking back and forth between the performance on the screen (Chris is on fire today, looking relaxed and confident, and has that been as uncomfortable a thought as it is right now?) and Yuri stretching first on the mat, and then against the wall. He seems focused, at any rate ... or, he does until Victor catches a glimpse of his expression and sees how blank his eyes are, how drawn his face, and realizes that Yuri is trembling.
No. Not trembling. Shaking. Out of fear or adrenaline or nerves or exhaustion, Victor doesn't know, but Chris lands a jump combination that makes the room burst into approving applause, and he can see Yuri's shoulders tightening and lifting under his jacket, followed by a hard shiver, and he comes to a sudden decision, clear and sharp as shattering glass. It's only a few steps to reach for Yuri and grasp him by the scruff of his jacket's collar to drag him off the wall, walking briskly away: from the room, from the televisions, from the competition, from the people crowding up Yuri's space and making it harder for him to breathe. "Yuri, let's warm up in a different spot."
In the end, Yuri will have to fight for those four minutes and change on his own, but until there, Victor can protect him as well as he's able: that's what a coach should do, right? Protect his skater. Comfort him, and lift his confidence. Right now, Yuri is the most fragile Victor's ever seen him, and watching the others skate and listening to the idle chatter in the room will only push him further, so where's the place with the fewest people? Somewhere safe for Yuri to warm up in peace, without pitting himself against every skater to take the ice before he does?
But there seems to be people everywhere they turn, and Victor keeps directing Yuri through other doors, into other hallways, until finally they're in the stairwell, and the only sound is that of their echoing footsteps. Yuri's just following wherever Victor directs him, and that's not good, but they're getting away from people, and that is, and Victor might not know exactly what to do to motivate Yuri now, or snap him out of this spiral, but he can at least give him the space to try and work through it, himself.
That space, it turns out, ends up being the garage below the rink, but it's fine, it's fine. For their purposes, they don't need anything else: all they need is space for Yuri to warm up and breathe in peace, and for that, it's perfect.
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Date: 2017-04-08 08:51 pm (UTC)Victor Nikiforov's skater falling to pieces before he could even get on the ice and damage his reputation properly.
And now him, being drug away by Victor, announcing brusquely that they need to go find somewhere else.
He manages to catch his feet, and ends up at Victor's side. Then, under Victor's arms when it finds his shoulder.
Victor, who can't not tell at this point. Victor, who isn't talking and keeps dragging him further and further and further from the area they are all supposed to be in. Victor, who can't want to be here. To be part of this anymore. Victor, who had his arm across Yuri's shoulder, and was still leading him silently, calmly, smoothly away from everything. Their footsteps silent in a stairwell when there finally aren't other people shuffling, dashing, moving things and getting other things done.
Where they end up ... makes no sense. Underground? Under the arena? In a parking garage, surrounded by cars, and dark in every direction except for right where the lights are shining down and throwing shadows in every direction. It makes no sense. None at all. Did Victor bring him down here to talk to him about how this is all over now? Somewhere without people, without cameras to see it. Like waiting until they got to the hotel earlier.
Except Victor'd meant to make him sleep. Hadn't he? Except now it was worse, and Victor had to be able to see that.
Fear and dread and desperation knotted in his stomach, in his throat, all of it lined with confusion. As much as he hated it, and as little as he wanted it, he should be upstairs. He should be where Victor dragged him from. They could be through the first half, and how would he know. How would they know? He hadn't even been close enough to be watching Chris' skate, to have an idea of the score he had ended up with.
Not that he needed clues to how well it was going with the applause and compliments.
He should know, shouldn't have to ask, but he does, foundering, and trying not to, "Victor, what are the current standings?"
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Date: 2017-04-08 09:32 pm (UTC)"O-Okay, Yuri."
Smiling and trying his best to stay an even keel, even as he's holding his hands up to try and ward Yuri off at the pass. "First, let's take deep breaths."
Yuri has to calm down, if for no other reason, so that he doesn't have a heart attack or stroke right here in the garage. "Don't worry about it, Chris was only the second to go. Looking at the standings now isn't going to mean anything, okay?"
He has no idea if anything he's saying or doing is getting through, and he doesn't like it down here: it's cold and dim and echo-y and it's maybe the second to worst place for Yuri to warm up. The problem being, of course, that the worst place is where they just came from, with all the building pressure.
(Phichit is up now, he thinks ... that means another ten minutes or so before they have to start heading back up.)
"Go ahead and warm up, I'll keep an eye on the rankings for you. That's part of my job, not yours, remember?"
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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.
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Date: 2017-04-09 01:57 am (UTC)But he doesn't know if he likes it. The inability to do anything. Having nothing to do but stand here, arms crossed, and watch Yuri warm up, and try to keep him focused, and try to find something, anything to say or do that might make the tension singing in Yuri's shoulders and the worry in his face dissipate. What would Yakov say? Probably nothing very helpful. Yakov had never coddled them when they were nervous or tired: he would be barking that Yuri's lines look sloppy, that if Yuri keeps shaking like that he'll fall before he ever even gets the chance to start his program, that if he can't focus on his warm-up and flubs the routine, he'll lose his spot on the roster.
Victor doesn't think any of that will help.
But he's distracted for a moment and glances up at a sudden roar of applause from above, where Phichit Chulanont must have just finished his program, and that means it's Leo next, and then Georgi, and then Yuri. Another ten minutes, give or take, and Yuri will be on the ice whether he's ready or not, so Victor has to say something, doesn't he?
Prove he can get Yuri through this, like he promised he would, heady with confidence back in the hot spring of Yu-topia, with Yuri's bewildered face staring at him through the steam. Yuri hadn't believed him that night, and not for plenty of nights afterward, and it certainly may not have been as simple as Victor thought it would be, but he can do this. Yuri can. They can, together.
Except everything goes right out of his head when he looks back to Yuri, mouth opening to tell him to wrap up his warm-ups so they can head back, and sees Yuri staring at the ceiling of the garage, earbuds in his shaking hands, and that isn't nerves, or exhaustion on his face, stark and pale: it's fear.
Striking like an arrow directly into Victor's chest, and sending him at a run, even if Yuri's only a step away, heart sprinting into his throat, all his thoughts wiped away in a single second of desperate need to stop that face. Stop Yuri from hearing the applause. Block it all out for him.
Gloved hands landing on Yuri's ears and pressing, as if he might be able to stop Yuri from having heard the roar of the crowd a second ago, but he can't, and it makes him furious. "Don't listen!"
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 02:30 am (UTC)He's not expecting Victor to run toward him, hands slamming the sides of his head.
He's really not expecting Victor to stand there, staring at him, with his fingers dug into his hair, around his ears just looking at him, with this expression Yuri can't even tell if is real for the first few seconds. Things he's not certain he's ever seen on Victor's face. Something like anger -- concern? Is it concern? He can't tell. Or maybe fear? But, no, Victor doesn't fear anything, -- and in it, in that demand before those hands landed, more absolute, unwavering command than Victor had ever shouted at him on a rink back home, sending Yuri from one shock to another, shoulders up and hands down, and spine straight.
But none of it stays, and Victor's hands aren't the same as ear buds, and the cheer exists around and in and through him, and his hands, and his too clear, too bright, too sharp eyes -- even when this one, this one is somehow more terrifying than the last second -- and Yuri can't think, and thinks too fast, and he did this, too. Whatever this is. He did this to Victor, too. Like he's going to tear Victor apart with what he's done, doing, can't stop from happening.
He deserves that, doesn't he? That anger. Disappointment. He waits for there to be more words.
But they don't come.
They don't come at all.
Victor just stands there, staring at him.
Pinched brows and firmed mouth pointing down.
Sourness curdling Yuuri's stomach on an endless loop, more and more and more, as this expression he's never seen never lessens. Tells him exactly how Victor feels about everything. About him. But the words still don't come. Like Victor who can find the words and way to charm everyone has nothing left for him. It's almost worst than anything else might be.
But the cheers have died away, and there's something else starting. Some other music.
Time is still passing. He still has to go out there and end this. For himself. For both of them.
To try. He has to try. Even if that word feels beaten so thin it's something like nonexistent, save for force.
Yuri raised his hands, looping them around Victor's forearms and pushing him back, saying it, if he won't. "Victor. It's almost time. We need to go back." When there aren't any words for that (and that's an answer as much as anything else is, isn't it?), Yuri looked down to a side and started walking past Victor. Stairs and doors, and everything in him, pushing for the back of his throat. (He remembers this too well.) But it's worse than that, too. (Worse because it's not just him. It's Victor, too.)
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 03:26 am (UTC)(Above, there's music: Leo de Iglesia.)
What can he do? He'd thought Yuri was tired, but Yuri didn't sleep. He thought Yuri was anxious, but this is unlike any attack of nerves he's ever seen. Why is he so nervous? He isn't throwing up or breaking down, he's just ... dissolving. Right under Victor's hands, and Victor is powerless to stop it, because he doesn't know what's going on, or why. If Yuri were a younger skater, he could understand being affected by the other skaters' rankings –– but Yuri isn't young. Not like that. He's been in this world for years, has competed at the national and world level on multiple occasions. Sure, he'd broken down two years ago, but two years ago, he hadn't had the last eight months of work, or programs built especially for his strengths and story and music. Two years ago he didn't have Victor, because Victor decided to hate him a little for making him fall in love instead of come to Japan like Yuri asked him to.
Because Victor was proud, and petty. And now, Victor doesn't know what to do.
How can he motivate Yuri?
He has no idea, and he hates that even more than he hates the way his heart dropped a second ago when he'd looked down to see raw panic written bare across Yuri's face. Standing here with his hands muffling Yuri's ears ... is this really being a coach? Is this doing what's best for Yuri? All day, he's been trying to be positive, optimistic, to try and lighten the mood, but was that actually beneficial, or was it a selfish reaction to Yuri's anxiety, to try and make him feel better, instead of fixing the problem before it spun out?
Did he cause this, because he didn't know what to do? Because he placed wanting Yuri to be happy over Yuri's ability to perform?
Maybe his question is answered when Yuri gently pries his hands away from the sides of his head and tells him they have to go, and this isn't right, his skater isn't the one who should be saying that. He should. He's the coach. He has to be a coach.
What would Yakov do?
Yakov believed that applying enough pressure would turn his skaters into beautiful masterpieces, but more often than not, they shattered first along the way. Perfection from pressure, beauty from pain. Skaters might be strong as diamonds, but their hearts are as fragile as glass. Maybe he's been trying for the wrong kind of motivation all along. Maybe Yuri needs something more substantial.
Or maybe he needs someone else to take the pressure off his shoulders.
"Yuri."
If they're so fragile ... maybe Victor should try shattering his into pieces. Maybe Victor needs to take the blame, and be the enemy, so Yuri can stop blaming himself, and fighting himself.
His footsteps have stopped, so Victor turns, hand digging into his forehead and hair, before sliding to the back of his neck. "If you mess up this free skate and miss the podium, I'll take responsibility by resigning as your coach."
It's the only thing he even has to give, isn't it?
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 03:59 am (UTC)Victor saying, absolutely straight-faced, back from whatever the earlier expression had been to something more flat, more business-like. And saying. Saying that he would take Yuri's shame. His failure. His weakness. Take responsibility for it. Stand up in front of the whole world. And say that it was his fault. That Yuri couldn't do any better this year than he'd ever down before this year, and it was --
It was his fault? He was the excuse? The scapegoat? The reason Yuri was this way?
That Yuri could just bow out? Just escape all of this, and leave it and everything else, all on Victor?
Yuri doesn't even realize it's started until there's moisture falling down his cheeks, dripping off his chin, and his fuzzy vision is blurring even worse against an amount of sudden, agonizing pain that seems to have only finally caught up with his head, his chest, his inability to pull in a breath, or stop the words that escape through his lips, "Why would you say something like that, like you're trying to test me?"
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 04:10 am (UTC)Oh.
Oh.
He's not expecting the thin twin streams of tears that pool and then slip down Yuri's cheeks, and whatever he was thinking a second ago, he takes it all back now. "Ah, sorry, Yuri ––"
Hands lifted in apology, taking a careful step towards him, a little afraid that any sudden movement will just shatter the skater in front of him even further. Well, if he'd wanted to know where his priorities lie, that question has been answered with flashing alarm lights and sirens and a huge banner draping itself over his head. Being the harsh coach is too impossible when breaking Yuri's heart feels like breaking his own, and he should never have offered an empty threat like that, anyway.
Not that any of that is his immediate problem, which is that Yuri is crying, and all Victor knows is he wants it to stop.
"I wasn't being serious ––"
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 04:21 am (UTC)The pain that has no name, no shape, just sudden swelling void, wraps itself around Victor's face, Victor's voice, Victor trying to move closer to him, even though Victor just gave him an exit, an excuse to not try, acknowledgement of not being good enough without even going out there, that stalemate offer to take no responsibility for Yuri himself and this weakness that belonged to no one but him. Told him to take Victor down instead of himself. Like that wasn't already the problem. That wasn't already what he was doing. And just to hear it out loud --
He's talking, but Yuri can't hear it, feels like parts of him are screaming and cracking from that single sentence more than any of the applause from seconds ago, from the hours from this morning or last night. Those were simple stage shows before Victor. "I'm used to being blamed for his own failures!"
It's weak and it's loud and feels like it wouldn't be loud enough if he shouted it and it echoed in the whole place. He knows that better than he knows anything else. He'd gone home on it. To Detroit. To Hasetsu. But this -- This was. He could hardly even contain the idea, and in words, the tears just kept falling, his voice shaking even as they thrust out. "But this time I'm anxious because my mistakes would reflect on you, too!"
On Victor. Victor. Victor who'd done nothing but show up and give him everything, teach him everything, try to help with everything. Victor who was untouchable and perfect, who was graceful and happy, and everything he'd ever imagined, and then more, on top of it, and Victor just wanted him to sully every bit of that with his own failure like it was ever Victor's. Victor who shouldn't have even been here to being with, and who he'd given every reason not to want to be here.
Nothing holding, that comes flying out, too. "I've been secretly wondering if you wanted to quit!"
Even when he knows it's wrong -- thinks, prays, desperately wills against the pain. Because Victor has never.
Not once. Not a look or a word. Never yelled this morning, or months ago. Ever. Never a single threat or word. Until. Now.
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 11:18 am (UTC)But that final confession, the one that's spat out like Yuri's had it in his mouth all day, at least that he knows how to respond to, can relax a little against. Finally, an answer. "Of course I don't."
Quit? Leave? It's never crossed his mind, not even once.
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 12:59 pm (UTC)and there's something almost angry firing them finally.
He knows that.
He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows Victor has never meant to leave him. He knows Victor has only meant him well. He knows that Victor wanted him to eat and sleep and calm down before his body actually fell apart. He knows it the way he knows yesterday was real. That it was his body, his head, his feet, his skating, his best ever.
That doesn't change that it. That he knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows.
When right beside it, in the middle of screaming those two words, hearing Victor's words, knowing both are the truth, that every single other part of him is screaming, that he is, that he does, that he's fulfilling his own prophecy and doubts with proof. Right here. Right now. That he's a ruin and wreck and worthless. That he's handing up to Victor, on a golden platter, exactly why to leave, why to run now, what the worst of the worst parts of him are on the best of a gold medal display.
no subject
Date: 2017-04-09 01:41 pm (UTC)None of this is anything Victor understands or knows how to stop, and the tears streaming down Yuri's face are only making him more uncomfortable, left-footed in a way he hasn't felt since he was a tiny thing just learning how to stay upright on the ice. Yakov was right about one thing: he's never had to worry about anyone's feelings but his own, before, and his have always been as clear to him as running water. Yuri's, though: they keep shifting, clouds to sun to storm to impenetrable fog, and he's never quite sure of the right thing to do or say.
Which is why he turns away, a little, just to rub at his forehead and prop his hand on his hip, frustrated. "I'm not good with people crying in front of me." This is a problem he doesn't know how to fix, because he's not sure there is one, a solution that will set things right. It's not a question of teaching Yuri where to shift his weight to make his landings as strong as his take-offs, or promising not to go and having Yuri believe him. Yuri knows all that, and it isn't helping.
So if he can't fix it –– and make Yuri stop leaking in this deeply unsettling way –– what can he do? Wracking his brain for similar situations and their subsequent solutions unearths nothing of use. It's not like Yakov had ever done much for a sobbing skater other than hand them a tissue and tell them not to dehydrate themselves.
The closest he's ever even come to this situation was a handful of moments at the end of short-lived but intense relationships, and even then, he'd never known what to do, so he'd just kiss them or embrace them and assure them he cared, and go on his way. "I don't know what to do. Should I just kiss you, or something?"
Would that help? It's really the only option left in his arsenal, which he's now realizing is woefully thin on the ground.
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