In spite of what he'd said to Lilia, Yuri can't help but hesitate before he steps out onto the ice of the main rink for the first time.
Even when he'd lived in Moscow, he'd never trained here. It's a far cry from the outdoor public rinks he first skated on, wobbling through swizzles and testing out shaky crossovers on blades that were nearly as worn and fragile as the ice itself. It's bigger than the rinks he'd done his earliest training on, before he'd chosen to leave home for St. Petersburg in order to dedicate himself completely to the sport. It's the Small Sports Arena, where in a matter of hours he'll be skating as a contender for one of the four remaining men's Grand Prix Final slots.
Once he's on the ice, there's no turning back. This is where he'll rise or fall.
When he pushes away from the wall, he lets himself glide almost to a complete stop before he picks up the pace again and considers his plan of attack. Above all else, at this first warm-up he needs to take the muscle movements of his work with Lilia and translate them into an almost exaggeratedly slow run-through of his steps and turns. The technical tests of his jumps can wait for the immediate pre-skate warm-up; it's the transitions and the performance elements that he needs to lock in completely, those critical PCS points that so frustratingly elude him when he focuses too much on nailing the required jumps and spins. He can't risk thinking too much about the story itself just yet -- for now, he needs to remind his body of what it has to do to let that story shine through.
Smooth moves. Clean lines. The bright calm and unshakable serenity that come with unconditional love.
Even when it's time to leave the ice, they still have several hours to go before the first group of men's skaters go on. Yuri knows that his grandfather won't even have left home yet -- but again, he can't seem to help pausing before he steps off the rink, letting his eyes scan the innumerable rows of seats just for a second in some sort of twisted anticipation.
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Even when he'd lived in Moscow, he'd never trained here. It's a far cry from the outdoor public rinks he first skated on, wobbling through swizzles and testing out shaky crossovers on blades that were nearly as worn and fragile as the ice itself. It's bigger than the rinks he'd done his earliest training on, before he'd chosen to leave home for St. Petersburg in order to dedicate himself completely to the sport. It's the Small Sports Arena, where in a matter of hours he'll be skating as a contender for one of the four remaining men's Grand Prix Final slots.
Once he's on the ice, there's no turning back. This is where he'll rise or fall.
When he pushes away from the wall, he lets himself glide almost to a complete stop before he picks up the pace again and considers his plan of attack. Above all else, at this first warm-up he needs to take the muscle movements of his work with Lilia and translate them into an almost exaggeratedly slow run-through of his steps and turns. The technical tests of his jumps can wait for the immediate pre-skate warm-up; it's the transitions and the performance elements that he needs to lock in completely, those critical PCS points that so frustratingly elude him when he focuses too much on nailing the required jumps and spins. He can't risk thinking too much about the story itself just yet -- for now, he needs to remind his body of what it has to do to let that story shine through.
Smooth moves. Clean lines. The bright calm and unshakable serenity that come with unconditional love.
Even when it's time to leave the ice, they still have several hours to go before the first group of men's skaters go on. Yuri knows that his grandfather won't even have left home yet -- but again, he can't seem to help pausing before he steps off the rink, letting his eyes scan the innumerable rows of seats just for a second in some sort of twisted anticipation.