Moscow: Rostelecom Cup, GPF Qualifer Short Program (1.08)

[yuri_plisetsky]

The Rostelecom Cup is the last event of the 2014 ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating series. In the men's figure skating division, two competitors -- Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan and Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland -- have secured their places in the Grand Prix Final. The remaining four slots will be determined by the final standings of the six skaters competing in Moscow, based on their scores in previous ISU Grand Prix events:

- Michele Crispino (Italy): 3rd Place, NHK Trophy
- Yuuri Katsuki (Japan): 2nd Place, Cup of China
- Seung-gil Lee (Republic of Korea): 2nd Place, NHK Trophy
- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canada): 1st Place, Skate Canada
- Emil Nekola (Czech Republic): 3rd Place, Skate Canada
- Yuri Plisetsky (Russian Federation): 2nd Place, Skate Canada

As the competitors arrive in Moscow, two particular skaters are the focus of much press and fan speculation. Fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky is making his senior debut in his first major competitive event in his home country, after a strong showing at Skate Canada in Kelowna, British Columbia. At the same time, Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki has arrived in Moscow with his coach, the long-reigning world champion Viktor Nikiforov, and based on his remarkable performance at the Cup of China in Shanghai...

...but all of this is only to be expected from the official press coverage.



On the ground, the reality is a little more complicated than that.

Comments

[theglassheart]

The phone plugged in, Yuri waits on Victor hanging things up before taking down the first of the two returned garments bags hanging in the closet and brings it back to his bed. Sitting on the end and pulling first the laundry tag off, from Victor sending them both out for a quick pressing before they'd gone out, and then pulling the costume itself out.

His hands are careful and studied, even if there might have been a moment he got momentarily distracted. Eyes mostly on the slippery black eel of fabric in his lap. But. Also, Victor not far to his side changing, and the faint tightness deep at the bottom of his spine, and his stomach. That urge to just let his gaze slip to the side, even still fixed on his lap. Or. Even. To just look up and over. Even if maybe he shouldn't, or maybe because he could, because Victor has said that some many times about so many things, he just can, all of it gummed up warmer toward his ears.

At least his fingers move deftly trained, even without all of his thoughts behind them. Checking at the sturdiness of all the fastenings. Every sewn and situated piece. Every added gem. Testing every seam in cloth and mesh and skirt, for any loose string or give more than it should be in any place. Even his now -- or, perhaps, just, his for now -- he can't help but hold a reverence for it. Tomorrow he won't have time to think about it like this. There will be too much else.

It's another part of Victor's legacy passed on to him. His costume, and all of his training. Extended even further into the flip this week. He'll never be Victor, and maybe this winter is the first time he's thought of that, even occasionally, as though it weren't a cutting failure. He doesn't want to be. When he can think clearly, he knows he doesn't want to be. A copy. To be seen as anything or anyone else.

Pulling it back on a hanger. It's half of his own age, and it still makes him feel lucky just looking at it.
Makes him feel half his age again, fingers pressed to a grainy tv, in awe of its contrast against the ice.

But something completely else, too. Something that's a heated chase and all of him, and only him, in motion.


He doesn't have to be Victor, if he can continue to show Victor that it is worth his time, that he can continue to reach higher.
That he can show the world that he's was worth it. Being chosen. Trained. That's what he needs to make them see tomorrow.

Yuri blinked, at the words, and looked toward the wall, and the light coming from the bathroom where Victor had gone and water was running. He zipped the bag back up slowly, making sure not to catch anything. Then, stood back up to walk back toward the closet. He could change out the one for his skates next.

"I would have thought you'd be used to it." Victor, of all people. Used it. Possibly barely noticing it.
This had been his life. Every year, and every competition, of every season, for near long as Yuri could count.

[yuri_plisetsky]

There's several degrees difference in temperature between the banquet room and the corridor outside, and both Yuri and Mila let out audible sighs of relief at the feeling of the cooler air. But then Mila shivers, and Yuri lets go of her arm so she can pull her wrap more closely around her.

'Ready for your signature quad axel?' she asks, and smiles at the heavy-lidded glare that Yuri gives her in response. 'Really, you did just fine tonight. You'll do fine tomorrow, too.'

'Mmph.' Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, squinting up at the ceiling. He'd like people to stop telling him that he'll do fine. That's not what he's here for. He here's to win the gold medal, to utterly crush the pig and Viktor, and to humiliate that prick JJ, in that order. (The last two have been battling it out for second and third place in his personal list of priorities all week, but this afternoon officially downgraded that asshole Canadian to the bronze medal slot.) Everything else is just noise.

It isn't long before Lilia appears, without Georgi. Hardly a surprise; he's not skating tomorrow, and with the Russian Nationals coming up at the end of December it's important for him to remain visible to the skating federation and the sponsors until they're all put on parade again at Sochi. But Lilia seems content enough to leave both him and Yakov behind, and so Yuri follows her and Mila to the lifts, fighting the urge to yank off his necktie and loosen the top button of his shirt. (It's feeling a little tight in the shoulders...and that's not a good sign if it means that he's starting to outgrow it.) On their floor, Yuri's room is the first they pass by, and Mila gives him a little wink of goodnight wishes as Lilia pauses, and says, 'Five minutes.'

The room is blissfully dim and quiet, with only the reflected glitter of the Moscow night sky through the window providing any external light. Even before the door can shut all the way, Yuri is sprawled face-down diagonally on the bed with one foot hanging off the end and his face half-mashed into a pillow, muffling his loud groan of frustration and exhaustion. Tempting as it is to simply not move ever again, when Lilia says five minutes you can set your watch by it, so after perhaps another half-minute of his boneless flop he lets out a series of grunts as he wriggles enough to first kick off his shoes and then push himself back to his feet.

The suit and tie come off immediately, everything deposited in a heap on the room's desk chair, and Yuri heads for the bathroom. He doesn't even bother with a glass, but turns on the faucet and bends down to drink directly from the tap, the rush of cool water dripping down his face as it washes the last traces of sour cherry juice from his mouth. Rinse, swish, gargle, and spit, not once but twice, and then he splashes some more water on his face and gropes for a towel. By the time that Lilia knocks on his door with a folded exercise mat under her arm, Yuri has changed into sleep clothes, devoured one of his two remaining pirozhki in three massive bites, and pulled his costumes and skates out for inspection.

[fivetimechamp]

"I was."

There are times when he wonders how well he actually knows St. Petersburg, spending weeks and months in the Sports Champions Club training, only to jet off to Barcelona, Tokyo, Helsinki. The season was spent traveling, until he knew these old hotels better than his own apartment, Maccachin left behind to be walked by a sitter or penned up in a kennel. Living out of a suitcase had never seemed like an inconvenience to him: as long as he had his skates and his costumes and a rink to borrow or rent for a few hours, he was fine. Had it always left him feeling this grimy and tired, or is this something new?

Or is it just being in Moscow?

His reflection in the hotel mirror doesn't look all that different from the one he remembers from last year, but something has changed, whether he can see it or not. Even during the summer breaks, he used to travel: sometimes on his own, sometimes with friends, sometimes with traveling shows, sometimes just for fun. Maybe it's just that this is the first year in more than he can count that he feels like he has something to leave behind.

Still, his voice is cheerful, if muffled beneath the towel he's using to pat his face dry, before he sticks his head out from the door to wink at Yuri. "Maybe I'm just getting old."

From Yurio, it would be a sullen, growled aside, like a cat swiping at someone who was just walking by, and he would find it annoying. (And has.) Yuri would probably find it too rude a thing to suggest, and if it slipped out, he'd turn red and bow his head repeatedly until he was laughed off and forgiven.

Maybe it is true, mused as he turns back to the mirror to finish his toilet. His knees and back don't ache like Yakov's, but they're getting to be a little stiff on cold mornings. The shoulder he'd hurt years ago occasionally reminds him it isn't as flexible as it used to be.

And in the midst of traveling, he's already thinking about returning to Hasetsu.

Well, it probably has more to do with being in Moscow than anything else –– he's looking forward to being in Barcelona again. "How does everything look?"

[theglassheart]

Yuri's back on the bed, with one skate at his side, and another turned sideways in his lap. The boot part itself is still in good condition, but he polishes them to keep up the leather and continue to seal against all of the possible water damage from the ice, spending the most of his attention as needed on the soles. The laces were still fine and in need no need of replacing. But he lingered on the blade, running a thumb against the line of it as Victor popped his head out, winking.

Yuri rolled his eyes. Maybe from anyone else it would sound like an actual complaint and concern. But anyone else wouldn't be sticking their head out the bathroom door, smiling and winking while making that suggestion. Sure, Victor is getting well into the years where skaters did stop, but Yuri's been on the ice with Victor more days of every week than not. There's nothing he seems to be even close to incapable of doing just as well as he was doing right before he arrived in Japan.

That's Victor, too. It always has been. Blowing away every expectation and human restriction for ice skating since he started. Victor not ending up back on the ice, breaking all of his records again as he went on surprising the world, seemed a nearly impossible thought to more than joke about like this. Yuri couldn't even begin to imagine it. It would be a great sadness and loss for the whole sport, and Victor. He couldn't really imagine Victor without it, either. Which tugs at the edge of his thoughts, twisting another new path to send him down.

He's caught up in that thought when Victor asks about his checks. "Everything is good. No tears, and no rust."
A reflection on both of things he'd already looked over, even as he was still completing the second one.

His blades were still sharp from the need for them to be as grippable on the ice as possible during all the flip training, but sometime next week he'd probably need them resharpened again. Either way, win or lose, he'll be home by that time and they'll go into the hands of people he can trust with the task and not someone he doesn't know and doesn't really want holding the chances of giving him more reasons to suffer in a performance. He was bad enough at that, for and against himself, already.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Yuri doesn't say anything when Lilia comes in, but silently lets her guide him through a familiar series of long, slow stretches, deep breaths in and out under her quiet count as he holds each one, wincing only when her firm touch helps push him deeper into a split or encourages him to reach a little further than his body would otherwise attempt on its own. After hours of sitting on an airplane or in a car, or standing cheek by jowl with hundreds of strangers, he can feel how tense his muscles have become even without the effort of exercise. So this simple routine, more than a chance to loosen all the kinks that have developed in his shoulders and back and legs throughout the day and evening, feels a little like piercing blisters to drain the fluid within. Tomorrow, the stretches will be a little more dynamic, aimed at keeping him warm and limber; tonight, they're meant to soothe and heal.

'Your costumes?' Lilia says, once they're finished and the mat is set to one side. Without a word, Yuri goes to look them over as Lilia shakes out and folds his discarded suit -- and again, it's the routine that he knows he's learning, being responsible for examining seams and hems and decorative pieces, that's meant to enforce a calm discipline over his fragmented thoughts. Everything seems to be in order for both Agape and Allegro, so he turns to check his skates. He'd had them sharpened in St. Petersburg, tested the critical R.O.H. with a run-through of all his jumps for both programs; they should be in ideal shape for tomorrow. Both he and Mila have spare sets of pre-sharpened blades secured in one of Yakov's bags, just in case. But he examines the leather and the laces, one final review, and gives them a quick buff with a soft cloth before he wraps them up again for transport.

(Not so different from Lilia's own years of breaking in and maintaining pair after pair of pointe shoes, sewing on the ribbons and loosening the shanks and scoring the soles with a sharp knife. Even though Yuri would never dance en pointe, she had still walked him through the practice as an essential part of a prima's training -- and he'd followed it all with rapt attention, trying to absorb as much of it as he could.)

He packs his bag for the morning, warm-up clothes and water bottle and everything he'll need. Lilia slips the Agape costume into a waterproof garment bag to keep it clean, and as she hands it to Yuri it's time for the final instructions of the evening. 'No more than ten minutes on your phone tonight,' she says, though from the way Yuri's eyelids are drooping she suspects that he won't even bother with that much time. 'Listen to quiet music only -- and not your program pieces. Drink two glasses of water before you sleep, and have one more glass as soon as you wake up. Do you need anything else?'

Yuri shakes his head. The evening routine has helped clear his head somewhat, but the events of the day have left him feeling like a wrung-out washcloth. All he needs right now is the last of his grandfather's pirozhki and eight hours of not having to think about anything. 'Good night, Lilia,' he says, a tired but polite routine of its own. 'Thank you for your help.'

[fivetimechamp]

"Alright."

There's no gear emergency they aren't prepared for – there's that sewing kit, and extra blades and laces – but it's nice to know there's nothing they have to fix tonight. Yuri can just relax: take a hot bath, if he likes, or do some stretching or yoga, or just go to bed. Whatever works best for him: Victor's learned he can usually trust Yuri to do what needs to be done without nagging at him too much, so long as Yuri isn't being swallowed up by his own thoughts and anxieties.

In those cases, he usually needs Victor to distract him, but when Victor studies him as he flicks the bathroom light off and heads back into the room, he looks alright. There's no tapping heel or bouncing knee, no distant stare, no pinched crease tucking between his eyebrows. Getting here early enough for Yuri to walk around and loosen up was probably a good move. "Go brush your teeth – I'll put these back."

Nodding to the costume and skates, and already reaching for them, resisting the urge to worry around Yuri like a mother hen, when Yuri's already told him that his bruised hip and sore muscles are fine. He'll need to stretch them out well in the morning, and maybe have a few knots worked out, but Victor isn't going to interrogate him the way Yakov would, an iron, unyielding stare that felt like it bore into his very soul.

He doesn't love settling back on his own bed, a bare foot of space away from Yuri's but feeling too far even at that distance, but that's for the best, too. What Yuri needs tonight, and tomorrow, is sleep, and Victor knows himself too well to believe that all his good intentions would survive longer than the first few minutes of crawling into that other bed.

So he doesn't.

(Even if he considers pushing them a little closer together.)

Besides, he's tired, too, and when Yuri's slipped into bed, and he's said his goodnights and hit the lights, there are only a few moments of gratitude for the quiet dark and the warm bed and the soft sound of Yuri breathing before he's slipped away from them all.

[theglassheart]

"I did." It an easy enough response, while he still doesn't stop Victor from taking the skates from him. "Before you came up."

It's not quite to sheepish. This backward admission that he knows it did look rather like he'd done nothing since arriving, when Victor had made it, and he had done close enough to that in truth. But he had managed to change his clothes and brush his teeth before giving into the urge to just fall down and do nothing before Victor had shown back up. His bathroom bag still sitting there on the counter, probably not far from where Victor would have left his own.

Yuri went to his rolling bag, overlooking the rest. Making sure the two double copies of each of his music pieces were there, from being burned newly again two days ago. The backup cable for the sound system in case of further emergency from there. Double checked the pockets with compartmented pockets of extra laces, extra soakers, extra performance tights. The waterproof plastic document folder with copies of the papers covering all times for the next day for all those competing. His entry confirmation. His badge. Another section with water, juice, and snacks.

Checking the insides of his guards for any stray build up that might touch his blades while walking or after skating, and wiped down the space they slipped into even without anything apparent to the naked eye. It wouldn't be visible until it was too late. One vanity bag for make up for against blinding spotlights, one for the extra product for his hair. It's all there. Everything where it's all supposed to be. His hands restless when they become still with nothing else he needs to be extra sure is in the bag.

He doesn't opt for anything even partially strenuous, though he eyes his rolled up mat and considers pulling it out.

He's already worked his body for the last four days harder than any coach, short of Victor -- Victor Nikiforov, who never saw a record he couldn't smash yet, a surprise he couldn't give -- would have agreed to in any amount. Not the day after coming off a competition at this level, and not right up to the day before going right back into one. He shouldn't have, and yet they had. He wouldn't take it back. He knew and he'd chosen, and Victor had been right there with him in it. From the first second, when he accidentally blurted those words, in the Kiss and Cry in China.

He was proud of it and grateful. Even uncertain of capability. There wasn't any regret in the bundle of nerves around staring at the mat.

None of these four days should have been spent as hard, as many hours, over and over and over, on something harder than he was already capable of and well into performing. He wouldn't take them back, but he knows better than to push it even more. Not this far into already pushing too hard, not this close to pushing just as hard and even harder on the ice tomorrow. It's a fine line between doing too much, and not being able to come out strong enough tomorrow.

Even if it's starting to bite outward from his bones, and inward at his stomach. Less than twenty-four hours. He's either ready or isn't. He either tries for that flip again or he doesn't. He either makes it or he goes home for good. He either keeps Victor are his side, or he loses him entirely. There's a sigh out of his nose, leaving his mouth closed, loosening his shoulders and pushing them right back down before he zips everything up.

From there he grabs his headphones, from their compartment on the outside and turns back to Victor on his bed, watching him. Distant space and sometimes not entirely readable expression, though Yuri can see the faintest shape of concern and maybe else weighing on that face. There's the press of his mouth before he finds his phone and comes back to his bed, slipping into his covers. He doesn't open a browser or any app for social media, instead going to his music. There's a temptation to listen to his music, no matter how well he knows it, but he knows he shouldn't do that either.

Instead, he opens the playlist he'd been using earlier this year, for pieces he'd been picking from before Ketty had gotten back to him and Yuri on Ice had been made. He settles on a Dvorak piece in minor and puts in one earbud. The one on the other side from where Victor is laying. He closes his eyes as the symphony opened and then vanished to give way to violin of the Op. 53 start.

There was a reason it was still considered one of the, if not the very, best violin concerti of all time.

It's not sleeping, but he doesn't expect sleep this fast and he knows himself well enough to know he probably won't sleep well regardless of whether it takes him fast or slow. Though Victor so very many feet away does mean it'll probably be long before it was last time. There's a strange pang under that and maybe he looks at the other bed through the dark, with the strange urge to reach out, and make sure it's real. The bed. Or Victor.

Or to touch Victor. Not that he moves, and he possibly wants to put his head under his pillow for the thought.

Instead, he listens to the violin take over the whole piece again, sharp, clear draws, and starts counting backward. Cementing the timetable in his head, over and over, to the notes. This is when he starts skating. This is when he does his on-ice six minute warm up. This is when he needs to put his boots on to have the leather warm enough for his on-ice warm-up. This is when he'll start his off-ice warmup. This is when they go to the Luzhniki.

This is when he gets a shower and dressed. This is when they eat. This is when he'll do the lion share of his warm up without skaters, or coaches, or judgment announcements as a distraction. This is when he wakes up in the morning. This is where he wakes up two or three times, in a sweat, from his subconscious fears, biting into soft skin with no control, no way to press them back. Before that, somewhere, in the dark, this is when he falls asleep to start the list happening.

Though, he goes over it a number of times, before all of that does finally start with the falling asleep.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Once Lilia leaves, Yuri lets out a long, quiet breath.

(Before Skate Canada, he'd been so keyed up that he'd barely slept the night before the short program. The contrast between that night and tonight couldn't be more different.)

Two glasses of water before bed, Lilia had said, so he wanders back into the bathroom and fills a glass of water, then downs the whole thing right there at the sink. He refills the glass and carries it out of the bathroom and over to the desk, where the last pirozhok is waiting in its grease-spotted paper bag. He can deal with a few crumbs in the sheets, so he takes the bag and the glass and sits down on the bedcovers, his back against the headboard and his legs stretched out in front of him as he takes the first bite.

Tomorrow. Agape. Telling his story on the ice, the search for that unconditional love that supports and soothes and strengthens. That gives freely, wholeheartedly, and doesn't ask for anything in return. That washes away doubts and fears. That makes people want to be better than they are. He'd tried to show it as best he could at Skate Canada, but it hadn't been quite enough then. This time, it will all be different.

I hope you're sleeping well tonight, Dedka. Yuri takes another bite, chewing slowly to make the moment last as long as possible. I'll show my love for everything you've done for me, everything you mean to me. You'll see how strong I've become...and this is only the beginning, I promise you. So please --

Suddenly, inexplicably, his eyes are burning again, and he lets out an irritated noise as he scrubs at them with the back of the hand that isn't holding the pirozhok. He really should just go to bed already, or his head will start throbbing with the effort of staying awake.

The glass of water helps wash down the last two bites, and Yuri heads back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and refill the water glass for a third and final time. Once he's done and back in bed, he checks his alarms and plugs in his phone to charge overnight -- and after a beat of hesitation, he shuts down his music player and taps open his white noise app. Three pre-selected sound settings pop up: a waterfall, an ocean at night, and a rainstorm.

In the darkness of his hotel room, the last thing he hears as he sinks into sleep is the cold, clear rush of falling water.