Yuri can feel it, the way he can feel the music sinking into his skin, with his eyes closed, when his hands raise and then fall, before his eyes and his hands come up. It's a different direction, but this is the performance. Seduction. Like Victor had said last time. Using his own charm, and nothing between it and the performance.
His eyes shoot on the judges table and he blows a kiss, watching all their eyes widen before he slides into faster steps and turns, giving himself to his step sequence next. Fluid and loose, but strong and smooth. It's still there. One daring moment doesn't mean those hooks aren't still in his chest. That the tension isn't a taste crawling up the back of his throat, plucking at each stretched muscle. That his thoughts stop spinning as fast as his feet, or his arms.
The knowledge only sharper and colder out here. If he loses this weekend, the Rostelecom Cup, the last Qualifier for the Prix, this two minutes of his life, right here, right now, slipping seconds as he thinks of them, may be the last time he skates this program with Victor at his side as his coach. That maybe no one in the sports area, or this country, or even the whole world watching right now, that wants him to win. The chill that lances up his spine in a turn. Makes the clap over his head, harder. Defiant.
He's the only one who can change that. He's the only one who can make that happen.
He can't think so much. He can't get caught in his head. He stretches his torso and his leg straight and long as possible through his camel spin, closing his eyes again, counting the turns, fingers locked tight. Flows through all the twists and arm movements before dropping into the flying spin. First combination sit. Again. Fingers curved around his calf, back curved, face parallel to his knee, while momentum kept him turning.
Yuri's hand switching their hold. Long enough to be clear. Then leg position, for his one required shift. One set of fingers catch and curl around his blade, to his side and his back, still crouched, still spinning. Until he pushes up with the last of his rotation and demands more speed on the first step back into the crossover coming out of it. The crowd is loud, but he can't listen to them either.
Just the music. Just the movement. Just every part of his body and training here.
Knowing where he's going. So clear he can see it, could almost reach out and sink his fingers into it, if he wasn't so focused he just blows straight through that thought, too. There's no time, and he doesn't want any. Just enough speed to throw himself into the air for the beginning of the second half of his program. The jumps that always start with his favorite. A burning clarity for a familiarity and fire that give him no doubt there.
The spread eagle that ups the difficulty because of it's required pause for holding, before he throws himself forward over his own shoulder for the triple axel. All of it sending him up and up and up, off his left outward edge, three and half times the world spins, faster than he could count or see them, and then down once more. Clean, without a wobble on his right foot and forward still. No pause for a breath. No need or want for either.
no subject
(He knows, somehow, Victor is watching him.)
Yuri can feel it, the way he can feel the music sinking into his skin, with his eyes closed, when his hands raise and then fall, before his eyes and his hands come up. It's a different direction, but this is the performance. Seduction. Like Victor had said last time. Using his own charm, and nothing between it and the performance.
His eyes shoot on the judges table and he blows a kiss, watching all their eyes widen before he slides into faster steps and turns, giving himself to his step sequence next. Fluid and loose, but strong and smooth. It's still there. One daring moment doesn't mean those hooks aren't still in his chest. That the tension isn't a taste crawling up the back of his throat, plucking at each stretched muscle. That his thoughts stop spinning as fast as his feet, or his arms.
The knowledge only sharper and colder out here. If he loses this weekend, the Rostelecom Cup, the last Qualifier for the Prix, this two minutes of his life, right here, right now, slipping seconds as he thinks of them, may be the last time he skates this program with Victor at his side as his coach. That maybe no one in the sports area, or this country, or even the whole world watching right now, that wants him to win. The chill that lances up his spine in a turn. Makes the clap over his head, harder. Defiant.
He's the only one who can change that. He's the only one who can make that happen.
He can't think so much. He can't get caught in his head. He stretches his torso and his leg straight and long as possible through his camel spin, closing his eyes again, counting the turns, fingers locked tight. Flows through all the twists and arm movements before dropping into the flying spin. First combination sit. Again. Fingers curved around his calf, back curved, face parallel to his knee, while momentum kept him turning.
Yuri's hand switching their hold. Long enough to be clear. Then leg position, for his one required shift. One set of fingers catch and curl around his blade, to his side and his back, still crouched, still spinning. Until he pushes up with the last of his rotation and demands more speed on the first step back into the crossover coming out of it. The crowd is loud, but he can't listen to them either.
Just the music. Just the movement. Just every part of his body and training here.
Knowing where he's going. So clear he can see it, could almost reach out and sink his fingers into it, if he wasn't so focused he just blows straight through that thought, too. There's no time, and he doesn't want any. Just enough speed to throw himself into the air for the beginning of the second half of his program. The jumps that always start with his favorite. A burning clarity for a familiarity and fire that give him no doubt there.
The spread eagle that ups the difficulty because of it's required pause for holding, before he throws himself forward over his own shoulder for the triple axel. All of it sending him up and up and up, off his left outward edge, three and half times the world spins, faster than he could count or see them, and then down once more. Clean, without a wobble on his right foot and forward still. No pause for a breath. No need or want for either.