Yuri couldn't explain if he tried how much it helps that Victor is there. That there isn't a reason to be elsewhere quickly for other any people, because Victor has no one else to see to except him. It's been that way for all of this time, and there are still days it catches up like it's new all over again.
Victor has the long list of what he wants Yuri to work on, and they do that, but at the sametime he prattles about other things, too, and Yuri doesn't know that he could explain how much that helps. It's, maybe, not even the words. Victor talking about Russia, all of which and whom will want Victor, today today today especially. Reminding him of every gasp of his name, and the sign on the building, and being told, so close to his ear it was singed in with shock, it was a sin to keep Victor to himself.
Even when everything, it circles, settling, making his heart speed up too often, he waits for it to start tripping him up, to bite in and start shaking him in place, shattering his thoughts to shredded startling jumps -- and it doesn't, which only makes him quieter, more sure that it's about to start every next minute, next second, jumpy at the shadows of shadows that haven't fallen on him yet. Because it is yet. It's always yet.
Which doesn't stop Victor's voice, whether it's instructions or commentary, and somehow that helps. Moors him against falling away, drags him into focus every other step from what drags him right out of it. They play a teeter-totter game, and maybe Yuri has short sentence answers less often than nods, or agreements to do whatever he's supposed to next. But it still helps. In ways, he has no words for.
As does finally getting to go to the rink. As much as he doesn't want to start this day, he wants to start it, too. It's a nauseous restlessness knotting in his stomach, wanting to run both forward and backward, even when it's not yet an insane spiral. (Yet.) Not even when he's in the building (yet), in his clothes (yet), and handing Victor his guards (yet), listening to Victor tell him, again, what he thinks Yuri should work on (yet) and what he should avoid overdoing (yet).
Outside the ice, the crowds are already filling more than half the stands. The warm-up itself feels too short, and too long. Looping circles and easier moves that won't be complicated by the close skate of four others while on the outer circuit. He waits his turn through the three people in the order before him -- watching more than he should, he knows, it's not about comparing, it's about showing, but he still watches them all, marks what they work on, where it fit into the things they'd done before, and what's new -- before taking his turn in the center.
Five minutes that feels more like one, but he practices his combination. He considers hard at it but doesn't do the flip. Even if there's a temptation in it, and he swears he catches more than one or two people watching him closely. Something to throw to the wolves in his bones. Yuri throws himself into his closing spins and drops. His other quads. There are turns and long switches, giving himself into the speed he can't take with others right by him. His axel is a given, and he does it even when he knows it won't falter.
He does it because it gives it to himself. Last. Like breathing.
Before gliding out at back to the edge when he should. It's only ten minutes more and those go just quickly.
Ten minutes, before the bell is ringing, and the bite under Yuri's skin isn't about performing, isn't about eyes, it's a banging need telling him to do more, push harder, now, now, now, not to stop. Even though he does. Stop. Or at least follow the group of those closer, when the bell had sounded, back to the gate between the ice and the walk around the arena. Where Victor is waiting, and he takes a tissue first to blow his nose and fold over twice, then rub at the sweat on his cheeks and forehead.
"That wasn't too bad." He'd definitely had worse warmups. At least he hadn't fallen down this time.
no subject
Victor has the long list of what he wants Yuri to work on, and they do that, but at the sametime he prattles about other things, too, and Yuri doesn't know that he could explain how much that helps. It's, maybe, not even the words. Victor talking about Russia, all of which and whom will want Victor, today today today especially. Reminding him of every gasp of his name, and the sign on the building, and being told, so close to his ear it was singed in with shock, it was a sin to keep Victor to himself.
Even when everything, it circles, settling, making his heart speed up too often, he waits for it to start tripping him up, to bite in and start shaking him in place, shattering his thoughts to shredded startling jumps -- and it doesn't, which only makes him quieter, more sure that it's about to start every next minute, next second, jumpy at the shadows of shadows that haven't fallen on him yet. Because it is yet. It's always yet.
Which doesn't stop Victor's voice, whether it's instructions or commentary, and somehow that helps. Moors him against falling away, drags him into focus every other step from what drags him right out of it. They play a teeter-totter game, and maybe Yuri has short sentence answers less often than nods, or agreements to do whatever he's supposed to next. But it still helps. In ways, he has no words for.
As does finally getting to go to the rink. As much as he doesn't want to start this day, he wants to start it, too. It's a nauseous restlessness knotting in his stomach, wanting to run both forward and backward, even when it's not yet an insane spiral. (Yet.) Not even when he's in the building (yet), in his clothes (yet), and handing Victor his guards (yet), listening to Victor tell him, again, what he thinks Yuri should work on (yet) and what he should avoid overdoing (yet).
Outside the ice, the crowds are already filling more than half the stands. The warm-up itself feels too short, and too long. Looping circles and easier moves that won't be complicated by the close skate of four others while on the outer circuit. He waits his turn through the three people in the order before him -- watching more than he should, he knows, it's not about comparing, it's about showing, but he still watches them all, marks what they work on, where it fit into the things they'd done before, and what's new -- before taking his turn in the center.
Five minutes that feels more like one, but he practices his combination. He considers hard at it but doesn't do the flip. Even if there's a temptation in it, and he swears he catches more than one or two people watching him closely. Something to throw to the wolves in his bones. Yuri throws himself into his closing spins and drops. His other quads. There are turns and long switches, giving himself into the speed he can't take with others right by him. His axel is a given, and he does it even when he knows it won't falter.
He does it because it gives it to himself. Last. Like breathing.
Before gliding out at back to the edge when he should.
It's only ten minutes more and those go just quickly.
Ten minutes, before the bell is ringing, and the bite under Yuri's skin isn't about performing, isn't about eyes, it's a banging need telling him to do more, push harder, now, now, now, not to stop. Even though he does. Stop. Or at least follow the group of those closer, when the bell had sounded, back to the gate between the ice and the walk around the arena. Where Victor is waiting, and he takes a tissue first to blow his nose and fold over twice, then rub at the sweat on his cheeks and forehead.
"That wasn't too bad." He'd definitely had worse warmups. At least he hadn't fallen down this time.