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.
no subject
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.
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.