It might be too late in the program to gather up all of the threads of the story he'd meant to tell, but here at the end, Yuri can push himself through the steps and spins by drawing on that sentiment he'd articulated so hesitantly all those months ago: Even if it's not perfect, even if it hurts, he feels better for trying. He won't give into despair or regret, because this is all for something bigger than himself, so much more important than these scant few minutes under the flash and glare of lights and cameras. And although he feels like that last combination spin is threatening to fray his nerves at the edges -- damn it, it shouldn't be this tough, not now -- he can pull himself through with his own power, into the rising spirals, reaching for the peace and joy that he alone can represent here in the city of his birth.
(As he strikes the final pose and the high, clear music fades away, the sensation of the cooling sweat on his face invokes the thinnest of memories, the fine mist of a freezing-cold waterfall somewhere more than a thousand miles away.)
Crude muscle memory often takes over in these immediate ending moments, when the higher thought processes are still somewhere else and post-performance fatigue is on the point of commandering everything above the brain stem. Drop the pose, partial turn, acknowledge the crowd. Start moving again before your joints lock up; avoid whatever's landed on the rink surface so you don't break your kneecaps tripping over a wrapped flower or a random plush object. And usually, all of this is enough -- except that one of Yuri's fans has an aim that should qualify her for her country's Olympic marksmanship team, because the cat-eared headband that she tosses out onto the ice lands squarely on Yuri's head, giving him a pair of pointy white ears that couldn't match his Agape costume better if they'd been part of the ensemble all along.
Bad enough that the crowd's cheering gives way to the kinds of fevered squeals that had greeted him at Sheremetyevo. Still worse that the final skater on deck to see all of it in real time is Jean-Jacques Leroy. And when he greets Yuri at the gate with loud applause, a sweeping bow, and a drippingly faux-polite 'Oh, ladies first', Yuri has to dig deep into his dignity to fight the urge to emasculate the asshole Canadian on the spot with a toepick to the groin. I forgot there was someone even more annoying than those two...JJ!
Yet he still has the judges' verdict to come, and so he storms off to get his skate guards and jacket. For whatever reason, Yakov doesn't start in on the lecture the second they're in the kiss-and-cry. But when Yuri plops down to sit in the most inelegant pose he can come up with on short notice -- leaning back, arms tucked behind his head, feet propped on the table, knees up and spread wide, giving the main camera a prime view of his crotch -- his coach has to at least make the effort to enforce decorum, where the microphones won't pick up.
('Sit up straight,' Yakov snaps. 'I'm stretching,' Yuri snaps back, not entirely a lie.)
As the scores come up, it's hard to say whether the 98.09 or the 2nd place designation is more irritating. Because the first day of the Rostelecom Cup isn't over for him just yet. Right outside the rink's main entrance are the press and the sponsors and the skating federation, all circling like sharks who've scented his blood in the water. He'll have to make it through tonight alive before he can face whatever awaits him tomorrow.
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(As he strikes the final pose and the high, clear music fades away, the sensation of the cooling sweat on his face invokes the thinnest of memories, the fine mist of a freezing-cold waterfall somewhere more than a thousand miles away.)
Crude muscle memory often takes over in these immediate ending moments, when the higher thought processes are still somewhere else and post-performance fatigue is on the point of commandering everything above the brain stem. Drop the pose, partial turn, acknowledge the crowd. Start moving again before your joints lock up; avoid whatever's landed on the rink surface so you don't break your kneecaps tripping over a wrapped flower or a random plush object. And usually, all of this is enough -- except that one of Yuri's fans has an aim that should qualify her for her country's Olympic marksmanship team, because the cat-eared headband that she tosses out onto the ice lands squarely on Yuri's head, giving him a pair of pointy white ears that couldn't match his Agape costume better if they'd been part of the ensemble all along.
Bad enough that the crowd's cheering gives way to the kinds of fevered squeals that had greeted him at Sheremetyevo. Still worse that the final skater on deck to see all of it in real time is Jean-Jacques Leroy. And when he greets Yuri at the gate with loud applause, a sweeping bow, and a drippingly faux-polite 'Oh, ladies first', Yuri has to dig deep into his dignity to fight the urge to emasculate the asshole Canadian on the spot with a toepick to the groin. I forgot there was someone even more annoying than those two...JJ!
Yet he still has the judges' verdict to come, and so he storms off to get his skate guards and jacket. For whatever reason, Yakov doesn't start in on the lecture the second they're in the kiss-and-cry. But when Yuri plops down to sit in the most inelegant pose he can come up with on short notice -- leaning back, arms tucked behind his head, feet propped on the table, knees up and spread wide, giving the main camera a prime view of his crotch -- his coach has to at least make the effort to enforce decorum, where the microphones won't pick up.
('Sit up straight,' Yakov snaps. 'I'm stretching,' Yuri snaps back, not entirely a lie.)
As the scores come up, it's hard to say whether the 98.09 or the 2nd place designation is more irritating. Because the first day of the Rostelecom Cup isn't over for him just yet. Right outside the rink's main entrance are the press and the sponsors and the skating federation, all circling like sharks who've scented his blood in the water. He'll have to make it through tonight alive before he can face whatever awaits him tomorrow.