"I did." It an easy enough response, while he still doesn't stop Victor from taking the skates from him. "Before you came up."
It's not quite to sheepish. This backward admission that he knows it did look rather like he'd done nothing since arriving, when Victor had made it, and he had done close enough to that in truth. But he had managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before giving into the urge to just fall down and do nothing before Victor had shown back up. His bathroom bag still sitting there on the counter, probably not far from where Victor would have left his own.
Yuri went to his rolling bag, overlooking the rest. Making sure the two double copies of each of his music pieces were there, from being burned newly again two days ago. The backup cable for the sound system in case of further emergency from there. Double checked the pockets with compartmented pockets of extra laces, extra soakers, extra performance tights. The waterproof plastic document folder with copies of the papers covering all times for the next day for all those competing. His entry confirmation. His badge. Another section with water, juice, and snacks.
Checking the insides of his guards for any stray build up that might touch his blades while walking or after skating, and wiped down the space they slipped into even without anything apparent to the naked eye. It wouldn't be visible until it was too late. One vanity bag for make up for against blinding spotlights, one for the extra product for his hair. It's all there. Everything where it's all supposed to be. His hands restless when they become still with nothing else he needs to be extra sure is in the bag.
He doesn't opt for anything even partially strenuous, though he eyes his rolled up mat and considers pulling it out.
He's already worked his body for the last four days harder than any coach, short of Victor -- Victor Nikiforov, who never saw a record he couldn't smash yet, a surprise he couldn't give -- would have agreed to in any amount. Not the day after coming off a competition at this level, and not right up to the day before going right back into one. He shouldn't have, and yet they had. He wouldn't take it back. He knew and he'd chosen, and Victor had been right there with him in it. From the first second, when he accidentally blurted those words, in the Kiss and Cry in China.
He was proud of it and grateful. Even uncertain of capability. There wasn't any regret in the bundle of nerves around staring at the mat.
None of these four days should have been spent as hard, as many hours, over and over and over, on something harder than he was already capable of and well into performing. He wouldn't take them back, but he knows better than to push it even more. Not this far into already pushing too hard, not this close to pushing just as hard and even harder on the ice tomorrow. It's a fine line between doing too much, and not being able to come out strong enough tomorrow.
Even if it's starting to bite outward from his bones, and inward at his stomach. Less than twenty-four hours. He's either ready or isn't. He either tries for that flip again or he doesn't. He either makes it or he goes home for good. He either keeps Victor are his side, or he loses him entirely. There's a sigh out of his nose, leaving his mouth closed, loosening his shoulders and pushing them right back down before he zips everything up.
From there he grabs his headphones, from their compartment on the outside and turns back to Victor on his bed, watching him. Distant space and sometimes not entirely readable expression, though Yuri can see the faintest shape of concern and maybe else weighing on that face. There's the press of his mouth before he finds his phone and comes back to his bed, slipping into his covers. He doesn't open a browser or any app for social media, instead going to his music. There's a temptation to listen to his music, no matter how well he knows it, but he knows he shouldn't do that either.
Instead, he opens the playlist he'd been using earlier this year, for pieces he'd been picking from before Ketty had gotten back to him and Yuri on Ice had been made. He settles on a Dvorak piece in minor and puts in one earbud. The one on the other side from where Victor is laying. He closes his eyes as the symphony opened and then vanished to give way to violin of the Op. 53 start.
There was a reason it was still considered one of the, if not the very, best violin concerti of all time.
It's not sleeping, but he doesn't expect sleep this fast and he knows himself well enough to know he probably won't sleep well regardless of whether it takes him fast or slow. Though Victor so very many feet away does mean it'll probably be long before it was last time. There's a strange pang under that and maybe he looks at the other bed through the dark, with the strange urge to reach out, and make sure it's real. The bed. Or Victor.
Or to touch Victor. Not that he moves, and he possibly wants to put his head under his pillow for the thought.
Instead, he listens to the violin take over the whole piece again, sharp, clear draws, and starts counting backward. Cementing the timetable in his head, over and over, to the notes. This is when he starts skating. This is when he does his on-ice six minute warm up. This is when he needs to put his boots on to have the leather warm enough for his on-ice warm-up. This is when he'll start his off-ice warmup. This is when they go to the Luzhniki.
This is when he gets a shower and dressed. This is when they eat. This is when he'll do the lion share of his warm up without skaters, or coaches, or judgment announcements as a distraction. This is when he wakes up in the morning. This is where he wakes up two or three times, in a sweat, from his subconscious fears, biting into soft skin with no control, no way to press them back. Before that, somewhere, in the dark, this is when he falls asleep to start the list happening.
Though, he goes over it a number of times, before all of that does finally start with the falling asleep.
no subject
It's not quite to sheepish. This backward admission that he knows it did look rather like he'd done nothing since arriving, when Victor had made it, and he had done close enough to that in truth. But he had managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before giving into the urge to just fall down and do nothing before Victor had shown back up. His bathroom bag still sitting there on the counter, probably not far from where Victor would have left his own.
Yuri went to his rolling bag, overlooking the rest. Making sure the two double copies of each of his music pieces were there, from being burned newly again two days ago. The backup cable for the sound system in case of further emergency from there. Double checked the pockets with compartmented pockets of extra laces, extra soakers, extra performance tights. The waterproof plastic document folder with copies of the papers covering all times for the next day for all those competing. His entry confirmation. His badge. Another section with water, juice, and snacks.
Checking the insides of his guards for any stray build up that might touch his blades while walking or after skating, and wiped down the space they slipped into even without anything apparent to the naked eye. It wouldn't be visible until it was too late. One vanity bag for make up for against blinding spotlights, one for the extra product for his hair. It's all there. Everything where it's all supposed to be. His hands restless when they become still with nothing else he needs to be extra sure is in the bag.
He doesn't opt for anything even partially strenuous, though he eyes his rolled up mat and considers pulling it out.
He's already worked his body for the last four days harder than any coach, short of Victor -- Victor Nikiforov, who never saw a record he couldn't smash yet, a surprise he couldn't give -- would have agreed to in any amount. Not the day after coming off a competition at this level, and not right up to the day before going right back into one. He shouldn't have, and yet they had. He wouldn't take it back. He knew and he'd chosen, and Victor had been right there with him in it. From the first second, when he accidentally blurted those words, in the Kiss and Cry in China.
He was proud of it and grateful. Even uncertain of capability. There wasn't any regret in the bundle of nerves around staring at the mat.
None of these four days should have been spent as hard, as many hours, over and over and over, on something harder than he was already capable of and well into performing. He wouldn't take them back, but he knows better than to push it even more. Not this far into already pushing too hard, not this close to pushing just as hard and even harder on the ice tomorrow. It's a fine line between doing too much, and not being able to come out strong enough tomorrow.
Even if it's starting to bite outward from his bones, and inward at his stomach. Less than twenty-four hours. He's either ready or isn't. He either tries for that flip again or he doesn't. He either makes it or he goes home for good. He either keeps Victor are his side, or he loses him entirely. There's a sigh out of his nose, leaving his mouth closed, loosening his shoulders and pushing them right back down before he zips everything up.
From there he grabs his headphones, from their compartment on the outside and turns back to Victor on his bed, watching him. Distant space and sometimes not entirely readable expression, though Yuri can see the faintest shape of concern and maybe else weighing on that face. There's the press of his mouth before he finds his phone and comes back to his bed, slipping into his covers. He doesn't open a browser or any app for social media, instead going to his music. There's a temptation to listen to his music, no matter how well he knows it, but he knows he shouldn't do that either.
Instead, he opens the playlist he'd been using earlier this year, for pieces he'd been picking from before Ketty had gotten back to him and Yuri on Ice had been made. He settles on a Dvorak piece in minor and puts in one earbud. The one on the other side from where Victor is laying. He closes his eyes as the symphony opened and then vanished to give way to violin of the Op. 53 start.
There was a reason it was still considered one of the, if not the very, best violin concerti of all time.
It's not sleeping, but he doesn't expect sleep this fast and he knows himself well enough to know he probably won't sleep well regardless of whether it takes him fast or slow. Though Victor so very many feet away does mean it'll probably be long before it was last time. There's a strange pang under that and maybe he looks at the other bed through the dark, with the strange urge to reach out, and make sure it's real. The bed. Or Victor.
Or to touch Victor. Not that he moves, and he possibly wants to put his head under his pillow for the thought.
Instead, he listens to the violin take over the whole piece again, sharp, clear draws, and starts counting backward. Cementing the timetable in his head, over and over, to the notes. This is when he starts skating. This is when he does his on-ice six minute warm up. This is when he needs to put his boots on to have the leather warm enough for his on-ice warm-up. This is when he'll start his off-ice warmup. This is when they go to the Luzhniki.
This is when he gets a shower and dressed. This is when they eat. This is when he'll do the lion share of his warm up without skaters, or coaches, or judgment announcements as a distraction. This is when he wakes up in the morning. This is where he wakes up two or three times, in a sweat, from his subconscious fears, biting into soft skin with no control, no way to press them back. Before that, somewhere, in the dark, this is when he falls asleep to start the list happening.
Though, he goes over it a number of times, before all of that does finally start with the falling asleep.