The phone plugged in, Yuri waits on Victor hanging things up before taking down the first of the two returned garments bags hanging in the closet and brings it back to his bed. Sitting on the end and pulling first the laundry tag off, from Victor sending them both out for a quick pressing before they'd gone out, and then pulling the costume itself out.
His hands are careful and studied, even if there might have been a moment he got momentarily distracted. Eyes mostly on the slippery black eel of fabric in his lap. But. Also, Victor not far to his side changing, and the faint tightness deep at the bottom of his spine, and his stomach. That urge to just let his gaze slip to the side, even still fixed on his lap. Or. Even. To just look up and over. Even if maybe he shouldn't, or maybe because he could, because Victor has said that some many times about so many things, he just can, all of it gummed up warmer toward his ears.
At least his fingers move deftly trained, even without all of his thoughts behind them. Checking at the sturdiness of all the fastenings. Every sewn and situated piece. Every added gem. Testing every seam in cloth and mesh and skirt, for any loose string or give more than it should be in any place. Even his now -- or, perhaps, just, his for now -- he can't help but hold a reverence for it. Tomorrow he won't have time to think about it like this. There will be too much else.
It's another part of Victor's legacy passed on to him. His costume, and all of his training. Extended even further into the flip this week. He'll never be Victor, and maybe this winter is the first time he's thought of that, even occasionally, as though it weren't a cutting failure. He doesn't want to be. When he can think clearly, he knows he doesn't want to be. A copy. To be seen as anything or anyone else.
Pulling it back on a hanger. It's half of his own age, and it still makes him feel lucky just looking at it. Makes him feel half his age again, fingers pressed to a grainy tv, in awe of its contrast against the ice.
But something completely else, too. Something that's a heated chase and all of him, and only him, in motion.
He doesn't have to be Victor, if he can continue to show Victor that it is worth his time, that he can continue to reach higher. That he can show the world that he's was worth it. Being chosen. Trained. That's what he needs to make them see tomorrow.
Yuri blinked, at the words, and looked toward the wall, and the light coming from the bathroom where Victor had gone and water was running. He zipped the bag back up slowly, making sure not to catch anything. Then, stood back up to walk back toward the closet. He could change out the one for his skates next.
"I would have thought you'd be used to it." Victor, of all people. Used it. Possibly barely noticing it. This had been his life. Every year, and every competition, of every season, for near long as Yuri could count.
no subject
His hands are careful and studied, even if there might have been a moment he got momentarily distracted. Eyes mostly on the slippery black eel of fabric in his lap. But. Also, Victor not far to his side changing, and the faint tightness deep at the bottom of his spine, and his stomach. That urge to just let his gaze slip to the side, even still fixed on his lap. Or. Even. To just look up and over. Even if maybe he shouldn't, or maybe because he could, because Victor has said that some many times about so many things, he just can, all of it gummed up warmer toward his ears.
At least his fingers move deftly trained, even without all of his thoughts behind them. Checking at the sturdiness of all the fastenings. Every sewn and situated piece. Every added gem. Testing every seam in cloth and mesh and skirt, for any loose string or give more than it should be in any place. Even his now -- or, perhaps, just, his for now -- he can't help but hold a reverence for it. Tomorrow he won't have time to think about it like this. There will be too much else.
It's another part of Victor's legacy passed on to him. His costume, and all of his training. Extended even further into the flip this week. He'll never be Victor, and maybe this winter is the first time he's thought of that, even occasionally, as though it weren't a cutting failure. He doesn't want to be. When he can think clearly, he knows he doesn't want to be. A copy. To be seen as anything or anyone else.
Pulling it back on a hanger. It's half of his own age, and it still makes him feel lucky just looking at it.
Makes him feel half his age again, fingers pressed to a grainy tv, in awe of its contrast against the ice.
But something completely else, too. Something that's a heated chase and all of him, and only him, in motion.
He doesn't have to be Victor, if he can continue to show Victor that it is worth his time, that he can continue to reach higher.
That he can show the world that he's was worth it. Being chosen. Trained. That's what he needs to make them see tomorrow.
Yuri blinked, at the words, and looked toward the wall, and the light coming from the bathroom where Victor had gone and water was running. He zipped the bag back up slowly, making sure not to catch anything. Then, stood back up to walk back toward the closet. He could change out the one for his skates next.
"I would have thought you'd be used to it." Victor, of all people. Used it. Possibly barely noticing it.
This had been his life. Every year, and every competition, of every season, for near long as Yuri could count.