Yuri isn't sure how he feels at Victor's words about him looking at home here, but it's something disquieted, something that crawls up his throat with a denial so flash bright certain that can't be right it's amazing it keeps itself behind his teeth, in head and his chest. He doesn't belong here, and here isn't home, and nothing about this place will claim him, or want to claim him, not when he's taken the best thing they ever had, right?
Aside from Victor throwing out words like that, like somehow it's as simple as that, and Yuri knows he's thinking too fast. Maybe even breathing too fast. That it's conveniently spiked at the end of half an hour of warming up, on the day when everything is a hundred ratchets tighter and higher. But. Still. He works as sipping his water slower to try and make his heart find its way back to beating at anything like a normal speed. Victor goes on, not seeming to even care -- or register? -- what he said, and at least it does give Yuri something else to respond to.
Shaking his head as he finally lowers the water bottle. Caps it, so that he can tuck it under his arm, up near his armpit, where he can use the most muscle to hold it and still move enough of his arms, to use his fingers to take one skategaurd at time in one hand, using the other to slide the snow off his blades, before hooking his guard over his blade. Answering as he reached for the second, "Nothing feels loose."
He would have been able to tell out there, because of the speed, the movement required by his turns, or the inability to take his weight in landing his triples and quads, especially, but nothing had felt off. (Nothing more than himself. Occasionally, and that was normal, too.) His boots were well worn in. His blades were still sharp enough for deep edges, so long as he took the time, even if it was only one second, all in, to do them right. Didn't get caught up in his head.
Didn't try to race too fast to correct mistakes. Didn't make too many mistakes to not be able to come back from.
(Didn't lose Victor entirely when, or if, he lost this last round of the entire Qualifier to the Prix.)
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Aside from Victor throwing out words like that, like somehow it's as simple as that, and Yuri knows he's thinking too fast. Maybe even breathing too fast. That it's conveniently spiked at the end of half an hour of warming up, on the day when everything is a hundred ratchets tighter and higher. But. Still. He works as sipping his water slower to try and make his heart find its way back to beating at anything like a normal speed. Victor goes on, not seeming to even care -- or register? -- what he said, and at least it does give Yuri something else to respond to.
Shaking his head as he finally lowers the water bottle. Caps it, so that he can tuck it under his arm, up near his armpit, where he can use the most muscle to hold it and still move enough of his arms, to use his fingers to take one skategaurd at time in one hand, using the other to slide the snow off his blades, before hooking his guard over his blade. Answering as he reached for the second, "Nothing feels loose."
He would have been able to tell out there, because of the speed, the movement required by his turns, or the inability to take his weight in landing his triples and quads, especially, but nothing had felt off. (Nothing more than himself. Occasionally, and that was normal, too.) His boots were well worn in. His blades were still sharp enough for deep edges, so long as he took the time, even if it was only one second, all in, to do them right. Didn't get caught up in his head.
Didn't try to race too fast to correct mistakes.
Didn't make too many mistakes to not be able to come back from.
(Didn't lose Victor entirely when, or if, he lost this last round of the entire Qualifier to the Prix.)