yuri_plisetsky: (be what I see in you)
Yuri Plisetsky ([personal profile] yuri_plisetsky) wrote2017-03-21 08:09 pm

Moscow: Pirozh-katsu!...and the Rostelecom Cup Free Skate (1.09)

To say that Yuri had been able to go back into his room and go to sleep after leaving Milliways was an accurate but misleading statement. He had indeed gone back into his room, spent ten minutes staring out the window at the Moscow lights as he iced his aching hip with the bag of fresh ice he'd grabbed at the bar, half-assed some stretches, taken a shower in water turned up as hot as he could stand it, pulled the blackout curtains over the windows, checked his phone alarms, and flopped into bed. Between the day's physical (and mental, and emotional) exertions, the scalding shower, and the several cups of mint tea he'd consumed, it was only a few minutes before his eyes closed. But the sleep that came over him was less like sleep and more like simply not-being-awake: it was a heavy, overwhelming sort of blankness that wasn't particularly restful or refreshing.

When his alarm goes off, shrill and disorienting in the darkened hotel room, it takes a moment for him to resurface from the blankness into a groggy half-awareness as he paws at his phone to shut off the noise. As consciousness trickles in, it brings with it a steady flow of memories of everything that had happened the night before -- Viktor, Yakov, Katsudon, the hotel, the bar, the door -- and Yuri grinds his teeth hard enough to hurt as he rolls over and pounds the lumpy hotel mattress twice with his fist.

Idiot. You idiot. Could you have fucked things up any more than they already were?

On any other day, he'd pull the covers back over his head and give himself five more minutes to wallow in his own misery before hauling himself out of bed. But Lilia is expecting him at her door in fifteen minutes, with all of his gear and a polite good morning for her. He can't sit around and sulk. Besides, there's still an asshole Canadian who needs taking down a peg or two or twelve -- and considering how badly he'd screwed up yesterday (on and off the ice) he can't afford to think about anything else.
theglassheart: By Laura (Don't waste time)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 04:31 am (UTC)(link)
The six hours between are long, grueling and grinding. Time won't pass. Passes. Passed too fast.

Just before two everything gets tense, as it all heads to the peak, and everything goes quiet for a few seconds when the first piece of free skate music signals the first competitor for the Ladies Freeskate, and the first judged skate of the last day, that opens the floodgates that won't close, for any of them, until eight, and even, then, not entirely until nearly ten.

(Though he'll know where he stands -- or falls -- before that.)

He finds somewhere quiet to stretch. Out of the way.
Where people's stares don't linger too long still, and he's not waving comments that he's fine (it's fine, he's, he'll just, they've).

It's midafternoon, while he's using a foam roller, when his stomach decides he's starving, that he's never eaten so much as a crumb in his life and he's dying, and he just presses his hands to his jacket. He doesn't even think about food entirely, so much as some strange, warped relief that he hasn't lost track of exactly how it is he falls apart in the last seven days, too. It's the first time, in the Sports Arena, he turns to tell Victor something ... only to realize.

The thing that paralyzes him the longest the decision about his music or earbuds. Victor isn't here to make sure he doesn't get in lost in his head, away from the clock (and Yavok and Lilia are with Yuri, somewhere, as they should be). He keeps picturing Victor's panicked face once those hands had closed over his ears. (Sometimes neither of them are particularly good at what they both refuse to give up doing. His heart squeezes at the whole concept of anything but.)

He checks his phone. Tries to avoid anything with current updates.
But there's no message from any of those three.
(He can't imagine Victor without Maccachin now.)

There's a sigh, too heavy, like he's conscripting himself to his own hell when he pulls out his earbuds and stows them in his jacket pocket with his phone and gloves. He is his only keeper today. The only person to tell him what to do, where to be, when, how to handle it all. (He'll just have to be strong enough. For Victor, and Maccachin. And himself.)

The tv's are on, and Nekola lands four quads before he falls in the middle of combination, and then couldn't bring it back. Crispino's piece is ... different from any of his earlier videos. There's something ... sad about it. It makes him more fluid. Grabs the heart. Like he'd found the heart of his piece ... and broken it. For the better. People are yelling about how flawless it was.

Victor would have loved it;
(and, of course, Yuuri just start sweating, profusely,

fingers tapping on his thighs, pacing, the clock is screaming in his veins).

He puts his earbuds back in.
But stays in the main area.

It's worse when Seung-gil returns in tears. Seung-gil. Always apart from everyone. Reserved. Above.
Tears sliding down his cheeks, even as he walks with his back straight, shoulders out, beside his coach.

Yuuri knows that feeling. He's terrified of it. It's under his skin right now, staring at the mirror of itself. Of his past.
There's no one to look at, look to. To tell anything, not tell anything to. To ground. He pulls his phone out to change playlists.

And stops, stuck on the front of his phone, where it has two bubbles.

He reads it once. Twice. Pulls his ear buds back out, leaning against the wall. Willing himself to hear Victor.
Heart thumping in his chest. Demons trying to tear into in his head. Reads it twice more, before he hears it;

Yuri's Allegro Appassionato starting, fierce and fast,

and he pushed off the wall, walking back towards the crowd before even realizing he is.
Edited 2017-03-25 05:24 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Waiting to be told)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-25 04:23 pm (UTC)(link)
The phone stays forgotten (never forgotten) in his hand, at his side, he's swallowed up in definitiveness of Yuri's movements. Bold and demanding. The explosive reaction to the impact of his work yesterday, the sullen anger and internal biting voice for slipping up on the stage. He owns the ice, today, from the first second he glides out onto it. Every turn. Every cut.

His jumps are confident. He turns knife-sharp, and fast. If Yuuri's hand can't stop squeezing the phone (and it can't, can't, can't) and he needs to get back across the room (he'll be on actual literal minutes now, next, almost right now), to a wall, to keep stretching, trying to keep his muscles loose (while every other part of his is tightening and strangling and begging to snap), he can't look away from Yuri either.

Yuri's steps are faster, clearer, more precise than Yuuri can remember them ever being.

It's defiant. Triumphant. Written in blood, in the hard, beating tempo.
It's not easy. It's stealing his (already thin) breath just to watch.

And if it's hard for him to breathe, then it's a hellish step sequence without even time for a breath for Yuri.

But the timer is counting. Counting. Counting. Yuri crosses the halfway limit for his allotted time, and Yuuri goes back to the wall. He needs to breathe. He needs to focus. He has to be ready. It's only minutes away, and his chest feels like his ribs are trying for all their worth to hug his spine. Minutes. He has only minutes. He keeps looking back to the screen anyway. Heart beating so hard, he swears it's only the music keeping everyone from hearing it.

I believe in you, Victor wrote.

He hopes,
desperate against the feeling of drowning,
Eyes hooked over his arm and shoulder, again,

That Yuri's grandfather can see him. Is here. With him.
At least one of them shouldn't be alone today.

Someone else -- someone else who can still think, is doing the math faster than Yuuri can force his mind to work. He's putting six jumps in his second half? -- and even to Yuuri that sounds insane. Dangerous. Looking for distaster.

Or glory.

It sounds just like Yuri. Desperate for perfection. Recognition. The Gold.

Yuuri is moving, again, but this time it's on purpose. He's pushing past the curtains. Earlier than he needs to, almost all the way to the railing. He shouldn't be out here. It'll get stuck in his head. He'll replay it even more, with the crisp ice in his nose, while he's out there (in minutes, minutes, minutes). But he has to see it for real. Someone has to be watching for Yuri, even if his grandfather isn't. (Especially then.)

Somehow, he thinks Victor would have agreed. Would have done the same thing.
theglassheart: By Existentially (We were changing)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 12:15 am (UTC)(link)
He stands there. Eyes wide, mouth softened open. His heart is thundering, fear and surprise. For himself, for Yuri. Is this really Yurio? Is this everything he really is? Once he finally sets his mind to it? It's just as fierce and fearless as the music he skates to. Even the signs of wear as he skates, the edges of crumbling flames, they only set him on blazing more, drive him harder.

They only make him more beautiful. More perfect.
Like he's burning up before them. A blinding, glorious light.

He's nothing like the boy who first skated the Agape in Hasetsu.

The audience goes mad, and Yuri isn't positive he's going to be able to breathe (going to be able to beat that). Forget whoever holds the spot now. He knows before Yurio skates off the ice. He knows before he ever makes it the kiss-and-cry. The audience does, too. The cheer goes on and on and on. While Yuri drops to the ice, skaing and spent, by a performance beyond his limits.

Because that's what it must be when his gasping for air and holding his body,
like he's having to hold it together unless all that he is come flying apart after that.
theglassheart: By Existentially (we entertain these people we created)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 01:41 am (UTC)(link)
Yuri has to wait for the announcement of the numbers, and these last few seconds - minutes - seconds are the ones that drive him most insane. He usually has something to hold. Something to do. Someone there. (Victor at this side. Words. Directions. Hands helping. The poodle tissues.) He takes care of his own jacket. His own skate guards. Yakov is there. But Yuri can't look at him. (He wonders, absently, pressing his lips. But it fades before truly forming.)

He watches the score he already knows and tries to remember what Yurio's last personal best was.

How far he's climbed. But can't. It's reaching into a thick haze. It's only what he can see now.

His hands on the open wall sides. Yurio suddenly jumping to his feet, smiling.
The crowd losing it, again, as Yurio is awarded first place, with only two to go.

Cementing his road to The Grand Prix Finale.
Edited 2017-03-26 01:57 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Plastic (I can barely see the shore)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
They call his name, and start the clock that isn't up.

The one that would give him seconds to hear whatever he was supposed to hear last, before making it to his place.
But Victor's not there. No tie. No whisper. No joke. No orders. No promise. There's nothing. He's alone, and he has to go.

So, when he steps on the ice and his blades go from clunking objects on solid ground, to whisper smooth, he doesn't even look to his side. There's no reason to look. No reason to wait. His feet don't even need the direction. The only way is forward. The only thing to do is go. Which puts him in the center before he absolutely needs to be. Not looking outward at anyone.

He blew a kiss at the judges yesterday. (Was it yesterday?) He can't look above his shoes. (He can't keep his shoes in focus.) His chest feels like there are ropes tied around it. He's trying to remember. He's trying. The cheering, giving way to a hush, while he tries to focus. Tries to unblur his feet. To raise his eyes. To remember. He can remember. He closes his eyes and tries, desperately to,

I believe in you, Victor said.

Dream of me right next to you,
and that’s where I’ll be, Victor said.

Even if I’m not there with you,
I’ll always be with you in spirit, Victor said.

The music starts and his hands come up, prostrate grace that doesn't even feel fluid enough, but his hands, his arms, his shoulders remember it anyway. In the silence there is only him, and the music, and the movements. Then, the hundreds and thousands watching, here and all over the world. To see what he'll do, who haven't stop whispering Victor's name all day either. The questioning looks. If it'll all end here, and it can't. (It can't.)

He doesn't want them thinking everything Victor taught him went to waste. (That he is if Victor isn't there.) He had to prove that by winning. If he failed here, everything was over. (Everything.) Training. (Everything.) The Grand Prix Finale. (Everything.) Victor.

His crossover shifts, turns, and he's air born for his quad toe loop, but then he loses the tension of his rotation, and pops the combined double that should have followed.
Edited 2017-03-26 03:21 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Til there remains no trace)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 01:22 pm (UTC)(link)
He can't pause. (Crap.) He can't stop. (Crap.) He has to keep going. (Calm down.) It replays, even as his body follows that movements he knows better than his own breath. He shouldn't have -- What can he -- (Calm down!) The turnouts are still slow enough here, his arms doing more than his feet, that he has seconds if he doesn't get stuck. (How, how, how.) How does he recover from that? (Why did he let that happen?)

From nowhere, or everywhere, the music and his head, the glide of his feet, he hears what he asked for, what he was looking for only seconds before; Yuri, you tend to flub your jumps when something is on your mind, Victor says.

Victor. Victor. Victor.

The name sliding into the panicked extra beats of his escalated heart.

Victor, who showed up that day and declared, without any hesitation, Starting today, I'm your coach. I'll make you win the Grand Prix Finale. Victor, who never doubted himself, or Yuri, from that first day, in the hot springs. Looking at Yuri like he'd alway known, and how could he have known. How did he know how Yuri felt? Every time he'd fallen at the end, everything that had spun apart. That he failed. Splintered entirely.

Until Victor, he could never openly say he'd win gold, but he'd never skated with the thought in his mind that he wanted to lose. Not on the ice, falling at the Prix, with Celestino, in that bathroom apologizing to his parents. He'd lost, everything even, but he'd never skated thinking he wanted to lose. It was different.

The air was in his hair, arms tight against his chest. Too rigid, too hard, throwing himself into the air like he had to fight each inch of air (of himself) between here and there, but the quad salchow lands. Even if it feels like it slams through him for the one foot, more than it's him slamming the ice, owning it, or the landing. Truthfully, when his fingers wrap behind his back and he spins, he'd wanted to win gold at last year's Grand Prix Finale, too.

(Before Vicchan. Before he crumbled. Before ... Victor.)

But it was Victor who made him see it, again. Victor who believed in him, enough for him to believe in himself, again.

Victor who instead of leaving him behind, that morning on the beach, met him where he was. (Yuri, you're not weak. No one else thinks that, either, Victor said.) And he'd answered, he always did. Maybe it was months later. Maybe it was slow, but it glides, connecting as smooth as though he was his skates and Victor was the ice. Declaring, to the world, that he knew what love was, that he was stronger for it, that he would win the gold medal.

He was able to come this far, to find that in himself, again, and for the first time, because Victor believed in him.

Yuri chases that wind, still, demands purchase, from the air, from the ice, capitulation from his body, from his mind.
The triple flip doesn't land as well as the salchow. He feels it when his second foot touches down, but he pushed on.
theglassheart: By Existentially (Of what they stand for they could)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 03:38 pm (UTC)(link)
No. Don't think right now. (Don't think.)

Victor's voice echoes, blurs with his, about flubbing when he does.

He can do this. (He can.) They've done this before. (He has.) Even if Victor were here, it would still only be him, alone, out here on the ice. The only one who could skate this program. He can do this. (He can ; has to.) He'll push through. Yurio look like he'd kick the bucket on his last three-jump combination. (Idiot!) He has more stamina than Yurio.

He's in the air, again, and this is breathless. The right way. Just for a second.

He knows this like it. Breathing. The triple axel. Almost effortless.

How many times has Victor told him that? A joke, a laugh, a complaint about his stamina. Hours early, hours late, more and more and more, not wanting to stop until his body or Victor makes him. Because Victor sees him. Victor always sees him. Whether Victor were with him or not, it would still feel this tough. On the ice. On the clock.

The triple flip passes that same as the axel. Not easy, but better. Leaning into the movements, giving himself to it. To the music. (To Victor.) Nothing else. Simple. Keeping it simple. He is the only person who can skate this program with this much appeal. This much feeling. Everything lengthens, even as the speed never changes. The music winding through his arms and his legs, body following.

Another triple axel. The single loop. A triple salchow. They all burn, his muscles, but the transition is smoother. There is no pop. There is no use of the wrong foot at the wrong time. He'll hold a death grip on the tension of his rotation. He does. There's no time for more than the briefest glance at relief, the briefest flicker of pride. (He knows where he's going.) Another triple axel, and straight into another triple flip, and.

These steps. (These steps he loves.) This story he loves. (This story of his love.)

He is the only one who loves this program Victor and he made most in the world, and he's not finished yet. (The air is gone, and it's just the music, just his hands in symphony with his feet, just his feet in symphony with the music.) Making it. Meeting it. Demanding it. Of all he has left. All he was, and ever will be. This isn't where it ends. This isn't where anything ends. (He'll only be done when he gets the gold with Victor.) Then. Only, then. Only then.

It fills him, floods him, sends him, chasing hard (harder ; then harder still) through his next combination. Stays, even when he overbalances, when he catches himself on his fingers (and refuses to fall any further). No further. No. He's not done. (He's not.) Not even as the music is pulling him toward the end, he way his sit spin sends him upward, and the music is dying as the crowd gets louder.

The blur over his fingers, when his arms flies out and stops, holding, is wrong (wrong shape, wrong color ; somewhere else Victor is watching him, Victor said), but the pounding in his head doesn't keep it. He holds the close seconds that feel longer than any of the ones he just skated. (His body shaking everywhere.) Harder to hold still suddenly than the war to keep moving. The hardest program he'd ever skated. (Ever.)

Before falling to his knees, one elbow and forearm, the other hand, face nearly meeting the ice itself.
Edited 2017-03-26 15:42 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Rules say our emotions don't comply)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-26 06:04 pm (UTC)(link)
When he can stand, and skate toward the opening, again, he does. Yakov coming into focus in the same posture he think Yakov was in when he left. Or maybe it's that it's the same posture Yuri think he's seen almost everytime he's seen the man. Hat brim down, impassive face, and crossed arms. He could be a statue of himself, if it weren't for the judgment already there, active and alert, in his eyes.

He's not Victor, because Victors not here. The winded breaths forcing air into his lungs remind him.

Which makes it a little more surprising that he doesn't say anything at first.He gets his skate guards and jacket from where he left them before heading out, while Yakov hovers like an impending cloud. No. Like a barely held in volcano. That Yuri just keeps expecting to start and doesn't, and he has to wonder if he did that. It he's going to get nothing from Yakov, because he's given precisely nothing to Yakov since this day started. He can't think clear to know what he should think of that.

They end up walking toward the Kiss-and-Cry and a juice box is pushed into his hands and he can't focus really expect on breathing and drinking. Isn't entirely certain when he ends up sitting down even. The grey and spotted edges of blurred vision, his muscles still screaming at most every moment, gulping his drink, even though his stomach is threatening to send it shooting right back out, but the cool liquid on his throat is the only relief he can feel. Can't stop.

"Привет." Yakov's voice is the same cracked whip of earlier. Making Yuri blink, and look over. "You totally failed to take advantage of the program Vitya made for you!" And there's the intensity, bulging eyes and slashing words, even in faulty English, Yuri was expecting, has seen on cameras, focused on him, through the blur of grey and spots and down a long hallway, even two feet away. "Why didn't you practice for the possibility that you might flub a jump?"

He's just like Victor. Which is a strange thought when Yakov is saying, "Victor never did, either." Comparing them instead, the same, while Yuri isn't sure he has more in him than to just sit there and stared, dazedly, barely even able to feel his thoughts, no less the words shot at him (and Victor). "I guess he never learned differently as a coach."

Yuri's still staring, at Yakov's rapidly moving mouth, more than hearing, when the crowd goes into a roar and they both have to turn to look up the screens. Where the mirror image of themselves, along with his results pop up. His free skate pulling up a 172.87, which seems to start the shock, and ends it with his, still staring, at the fact it says he got third place. With everything that happened ... he got third place?

Yakov grumbles, "That's a higher score than I expected," putting Yuri's feelings into words faster than Yuri can. Like Victor, he thinks. Victor who gave him to Yakov. (He's in third place.) Who isn't that terrible. Wasn't. (He didn't come in last.) He should have listened better to what Victor had said. "What's wrong?"

Yuri turns to Yakov, seeing, and not seeing, and still not quite able to, and he does what Victor told him to do first. (He's in third place. He might--) Last night. In the lobby. (The thing he wouldn't have even hesitated from doing, from knowing was coming next, at the end of his skate, if Victor had been there, the right blur at the edge of his fingers, but never blurred in his head.

In his heart.)

He throws his arms around Yakov and hugs him, hard, burying his face in that rough jacket and scarf. "Спасибо."

(He's in third place. He made it. He did it. Maybe it'll only last the next five minutes. But he did.)
theglassheart: By Jewelry (Promise I'll be kind)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
If he was certain last night was the most shocked he'd ever seen Yakov, when Victor asked him to take Yuri, it almost has nothing on the face Yakov is making when he pulls back. Faster than he would have any other time. Because. Because why. Because something is off. And it slips under the sand, back in the grey spots and cheering crowds, as Yakov is looking down at him and maybe they are two different animals.

Maybe the shocked confusion on his face last night
is the one reserved for Victor,

and the one looking at him now,
like he's utterly foreign and alien is his.

The rest is still too much of a blur. An interviewer ask him how it feels to be in third place ... and he says something. He barely has the acuity to clarify that he's aware he is and isn't. JJ is going on next, JJ who won gold yesterday, and he knows what that could mean, but he can't touch it. It's hazy. When his answer isn't declarative enough for them, they ask for Victor would feel about it, and Yuri blinks.

Yuri gets so far as putting Victor's name in room with JJ, his thoughts about his score comparing to JJ, and --

Suddenly Yakov is snapping something so sharp, short, and blunt it can't be more than ten words, that makes even Yuri jumps from the crack of the first word. But it's the reporter still looks like he just got hit in the face with a ruler for implying something dirty. Swallowing and trying to play it off as a joke. That, of course, his coach must be proud of him wherever he is. There was never a question.

Yakov gives the man a look Yuri is sure he never wants to be on the receiving end of and says he's leaving to find Yurio.

Where Yuri ends up will be settled within ten minutes, but where Yurio will be already is all but set. He'll medal no matter what JJ manages to pull off. It's understanable, and he's Yurio's coach. He hadn't even gotten to congratulate him on getting first place, because he had to be there, at Yuri's side, for his skate. Yuri doesn't watch him go, because there are still more reporters, other reports asking him questions now, and JJ's performance is starting, too, behind them all.

His jumps are flawless right out of the gate, and his confidence is loud in every single movement he makes, and Yuri feels clarity coming to him with the weight of the building starting to drag down his stomach. Churning with the still unhappy juice, and siezing around it, like it's an invader. When JJ even makes his hydroblade look majestic, the tips of wings on his fingers that barely grace the ice itself, Yuri wants to slink off towards where the curtains to go backstage are.

He doesn't want to be out here to watch the rest of it.

(He doesn't need anyone to tell him how this part goes.
He knows this part better than he knows this whole year.)

The audience is going crazy. The way it did for Yurio, and Michele. Which makes it even more confusing when, right off stage from them, he, and everyone near him, stop to listen to the people who are speculating up about his scores to go with these, and for a moment he can't even comprehend the words he hears. Until he does. Until he looks back to JJ. (JJ will take first, take gold, in the freeskate.) Posing on the ice. (Which would slide him into fourth.) The stylized double J's up. (Yurio still in second, bound for the silver, again.)

And Michele still in third.

And. But. His brain doesn't want to wrap even when it grasps the words being spoken.

He's in fourth today, but with his second place yesterday, his total score maps him the same place as Michele on the board.
He hasn't been able to breath, but it sinks, and sink, and sink, suddenly, through his head, chest, stomach, to his feet.

Five-hundredths of a point difference. So slim ... and it changes e v e r y t h i n g .

Because Michele will get the bronze today,
to stand on those boxes, to skate the exhibition --

-- but Yuri, Yuri who took silver in Shanghai,
outranking five-hundredths of a point

is going to go to Grand Prix Finale.

It falls through him, hitting every rubbery bone and screaming muscle, like he might hyperventilate if he breathed in.
He's going. (He's going.) He's going. (On the narrowest slice of a blade.) He's going. (He made it.)
Edited 2017-03-27 01:12 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Existentially (Waiting to be told)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
He should go somewhere. He should do something. He isn't sure how to think, or move, or breathe. He just stays out there, after his interviews finish, taking twice as long because suddenly no one is asking him about the third or fourth place. They are asking him about The Grand Prix Finale, and he's not sure he remembers a single word he chooses to say once it's out of his mouth.

He's nearly grateful for the existence of JJ coming off the ice, because it means he can clear away from them.

Anyone else would call it running. But he can't move fast enough to run yet. His body is still in shock. He walks back to the curtained off areas, and slips into them. Finding himself a chair and when he's sitting down, he's planning to get some water, and find tissues, when he can get back up. But back up is an exhausting thought, and down, not moving, is almost sheer bliss, even with everything throbbing, in comparison to the standing, and moving.

He never does get them, because he ends up watching the broadcast of the medals from backstage.
The chair is close enough for that. Yurio looks about ready to take JJ out the whole time, but he doesn't do it.

Yuri pushes himself back up to his feet a minute or two after the broadcast ends. His legs are angry, but at least he doesn't feel like a spinning top. Sloshy. It's a better word. It never made sense. It does now. Everything is slipping (he lost) and shifting (but he won). He should find Yakov. He should -- his finger rest on his phone, over the pocket in his jacket, but don't slide in.

He lost, he won,

only narrowly.

He isn't expecting Michele's sister to suddenly coming running at him, Michele in the background, medal-decked and flower-holding, to congratulate him. It's all he can do to just stare at her face, while she says suddenly, "I knew you'd make it."

It's so unexpected and so completely what Victor would have said, and suddenly he's leaning forward, and hugging her. A hand on her shoulder, and one wrapping her back, thanking her. (Even at the odd thought that she is so very small, and her hair is everywhere.) Which starts Michele yelling behind her, and when Yuri looks up, he's not even surprised. It's not a surprise. He remembers. He does. Two years ago. And for five heart-pounding minutes earlier. He knows what Michele is feeling.

He remembers, and he throws his arms around Michele next. (Even when he screams, hands up, not touching Yuri.) All but fainting and falling, dramatically, like his flowers. Which brings the next loud voice into the area, with Nekola, shouting about Mickey, and he just throws himself there.

It feels like jumps. Jumps in combination. Airborn, one toe touching down between. One to one to one to one to one--

Nekola is taller, his face fits right, but the goatee scratches, even if his giddy readiness about hugging is closer;
Seung-gil, he hugs even harder, even startled and hands up, too, he remembers the tears, his own, how it felt;

When JJ comes in, too much swagger, it's just one more impossibly-possible leap, as the medal bites back;

And when the door opens on Yurio, Yurio, Yurio, who took him to Milliways last night --
Edited 2017-03-27 03:17 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Niedola (Lets be winners)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-03-27 12:17 pm (UTC)(link)
That Yurio tries to run doesn't preclude him from pursuit anymore than the earlier screaming. They know about speed, don't they? Even jumps require enough speed to get the proper landing, and desperate certainty kicks off bursts of energy, that send his legs powering down the hall. Hands still out in front of him. Ready for the moment he's close enough.

(Something about the voice is as right as it is as wrong. Something about the hair ... shouldn't be?)

But it's more like the backfiring of a car. A relieving, golden glorious burst, and then sputtering.
Sputtering. Sputtering. His legs don't have this in them yet. They gave it all away already. Start shaking.

He finds the world gummy and uncertain. The floor holding his feet to long. The air stealing his speed from him.

It's not defeat (he won, but lost, but won), but still he loses sight of Yurio, and his steps slow until they are disjointed sways between his weight having to shift between his feet when he takes steps. Did he know that happened when he walked? He must have. He ends up wobbling down the hallway, arms still up, he thinks for balance, or was it for something else? Looking for ... something.

Something ... just out of reach.