fivetimechamp: by me (a sharp-dressed man)
Виктор Никифоров ([personal profile] fivetimechamp) wrote2017-02-19 01:26 pm
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GPF Banquet, 9 December, 2012 – Sochi, Russia

He's never quite sure how long he should stay at these things.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy the banquet – he does. After winning his fifth consecutive Grand Prix Final, the champagne tastes all the brighter, and the company around him is more delightful than ever. He enjoys seeing his peers and companions, sharply-dressed and relaxed for the first time in months, the strain of competition dropping away, even if only for a single evening. The food is tasty, the attention warming, the evening sparkling, the room filled with all the brightest stars of their world. Yes, he enjoys the banquet.

But there's a part of him that itches to make his excuses, and leave. To trade out this suit for a loose part of pants and a warm shirt; these polished shoes for the clean glide of his skates.

He can make the program even better. He can perfect it.

So there's an element here, too, of detachment. He notices it with the others, too – with Chris, who fell short of him, again, and JJ, full of boundless confidence. Eventually abandoning polite small talk and gossip to dig into their craft, to discuss music selections and jump compositions, to compliment and rag on each other. No one used to being off the ice for long.

He talks less, but thinks more. Already working through the choreography in his head, even as he laughs over champagne, and greets his friends.

It is who he is. The champion. And tomorrow will be more of the same.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (EVERYTHING IS OVER)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-19 09:24 pm (UTC)(link)
He didn't want to be here.

If it wasn't for the propriety of the banquet and mandatory attendance to it, and it not being possible to move up his flight back to Detroit, or anywhere else in the world, anywhere else, to any minute now, he'd rather have stayed in his hotel room. Under his blankets. And his pillow. All of them scrunched hard into his face. All night. Until he could drag his suitcase and whatever was left of his season, and his life, behind him, wherever they went next.

Except it wasn't wherever. It was the Japanese National Championships.
It might as well have been a death sentence now. That's what it really was.

Celestino has said no. Celestino has said he had to be here. In his suit.

So, he was.

Here. In his suit.

In a room of people he hadn't been able to figure out how to speak to before, when he'd been a contemporary and proving his was able to hold his own against them, the pride and hopes of his whole country resting on his shoulders. Before --

Before what had happened. Before all he could convince himself to do was watch the crowd, the swirling dancers, unable to move, except to keep taking a champagne glass from each waiter who walked by offering one. He knew where the other skaters were. Watched them in the room. Lost Celestino at some point. Somewhere. He never drank during a season.

But the reasons why didn't matter as he downed the newest countless one,
starting to realize that champagne glasses themselves were actually far too small.
theglassheart: By Laura (I've had a little bit too much (much))

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-19 10:53 pm (UTC)(link)
The night wears on, and on, and on, seeming to never end, while he grows a garden of clear glass. First one, then two together. Then, the third makes a triangle. Six makes a really indelicate clump. Enough that he can't set the seventh glass down from his fingers because it's just an affront to his eyes.

His head tilts and he thinks about blade lines and ice, and how nothing is cleaner than those straight cuts, and he can't quite remember which waiter asked and handed him an eighth, while he was lining them up perfectly. He hadn't looked up. He'd said yes, and no, no, don't take his glasses. These were his. He might not have anything else to his name, even have his name anymore, not after today, who wanted the name of a failure, but these were his now.

An island of glass, in the back corner, before the lights of the world that would go on.

Just like him. Like that name they gave him. A glass heart making a glass line.

The line keeps growing, and his hypothesis about champagne glasses only gets truer and truer, until he almost asks a waiter to just stand there, joking that it's easier than waiting, before turning red while the man walked on nodding. Because it is, true. A champagne glass is really only so much. You take one large swallow, the world explodes in sparkles and bubbles on your tongue, nothing like beer, and even further from saké, and then one gulp later it's gone entirely suddenly.

The world kaleidoscopes if he moves too fast, but that's fine, because he doesn't have to move too fast. Movement is like music. It's own language, and it's own grace. You can play its game, like there are invisible strings in the air, connected to every part of you, that make you glide. It's fine. It's good. The dancers are still dancing. The drinkers are still drinking. The talkers are still talking. The laughers are still laughing. Everything is still good.

Except he's honestly reaching a second problem with the champagne glasses now, too.

Not the one that is the strained face the waiters keep making. The face that blur into the fans outside the ice ring earlier.
Not that face. Not that problem. No, this is a bigger problem. A much, much, much worse problem than whatever that was.

He's running out of table.

Enough that the next time he's asked he says no.

At least he thinks he does. But it might have been in the wrong language. (いいえ) Japanese, without thinking. Though, it's harder to remember suddenly what the German for the word he's thinking is (flas...he?), until it twists back to English. Bulkier but just as fluid as his skates, just as long trained. "No?" Right, yes? Yes. Yes, that's the right word. He leans. Totters a little. "No. I think no more glasses. Does it come in those bottles?"

There's a point, tilted dangerously, impossible balance, like a lurch semi-stuck in freeze frame, as he points at one of the doors they keep coming from.
Edited 2017-02-20 01:08 (UTC)
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Beneath the landslide)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-20 06:01 am (UTC)(link)
By the time the girl walks off, Yuri can't remember exactly what he told her, or maybe it was told her to tell him, them, whoever. He thinks he might have had his hand on her shoulder or maybe he just thought about it.

Maybe he just thought it.

The dance floor is starting to dance.
Not the dancers. The dance floor.
But he narrows his eyes at it.

Given how much this is their party, almost none of the skaters are the people out there. Which seems. That must be wrong, right? He's terrible at these things, remembers the horderves more than the people, and even he knows that is wrong at this kind of thing. This is a party -- no, a celebratory banquet. It is supposed to be for those people is this room who slaved and wasted, trained and traveled, everywhere to end up on those boxes. Not in chairs.

It's supposed to be a night to celebrate all the broken toes and scraped-up faces, every ruined pair of practice skates, pulled muscle that had you counting the minutes you were behind, the debuts of new costumes, new successes never tried before. One more well-earned step. It might not be his. But somehow, none of them were making it theirs either. Which seemed.

Just. Wrong.

That was wrong. Right?

It must be.

Yuri jumped and swayed, when the world rudely unoriented, for a hand waving in front of his face. Some girl. She looked familiar even. Just barely, before his focus shifted entirely again. To the bottle she shoved into his frame of vision and then into his hands.

"Danke schön," he said with a little too much determination, as he watched his fingers, having to focus, to curl them in the right place. Looking at the floor, and back to the bottle, before lifting it to his mouth, and deciding to push off from the wall. No. No, not the wall. He wasn't on the ice. The table, it was the table, right? Same difference. Someone had to stop these people from being dead, before their time.

Only one person in this room had the right to be cloistered away, moping, and it wasn't them.
Edited 2017-02-20 06:35 (UTC)
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (The world's still spinning)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-20 10:22 pm (UTC)(link)
The people are moving, with gasps and hushed whispers, pointing or nodding his direction, but moving all the same, and all Yuri can think is good. Good, they don't belong here. Sure, they held doors, and arms, and cheered, and clapped. Supporters of every standing from friends to backers, coaches to fans. But they don't belong out here. In the room is fine, but they are clogging up the space.

They are suffocating this room, and it's been suffocating since he walked in, hasn't it?

They could even be on the edges of here, but it shouldn't be owned by them. Nothing is owned by them.
They weren't standing on the boxes, and Yuri survey's the rocking waves of people around him, pushing back from him.

In their demur dresses and suits, and that's suffocating, too. None of them live in these either, and he pulls at his tie, while still stepping forward, and while his mouth and the mouth of the bottle meet again, with a long gulp of champagne that doesn't end as fast as a flute. Heavenly. Longer. Deeper. Richer. Bubbly and sharp, a waterfall on his tongue instead of a trickle. Boldness in a bottle. He doesn't care when he opens his eyes and there's basically a ring of space. A hush of near-silent whispers and more people turning, but he doesn't care. He really doesn't. Not even when they edge back every step he goes forward. ( it sideways?)

Because they are quiet enough he's hearing the music more than them. Seeing it in the air. Feeling the count begin to tangle with his own pulse. It's the wrong music, but it doesn't matter either. Music and ice are the twins that made him, even in the wrong key and the wrong clothes and he has no skates, or even flats, it pulls at him. A jittery electric need screaming in his muscles, that don't feel anywhere near as exhausted as they were earlier, somehow, pushed on by the heady feeling of everything else.

Enough that his eyelids flicker half-hooded for a second, listening to the music.

The music and nothing else, only the beat under the song,

before one knee comes up and the arm with the bottle goes out, and his body, turns fluid to follow it.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Determined)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 12:02 am (UTC)(link)
Better. Just a little better. The faces blur. They always do. Like on skates, both one with you and not there at all. They don't matter, just as much as they can never be erased or forgotten. One with the minutes, before and during and after. Another color, scent, and feeling in the air, you navigate. And maybe it's not completely graceful when his dress shoes slides on the first landing.

None of the resistance in a toe pic or a pair of ballet flats. Made to be soft and smooth. Clipped steps. He'd almost rather be barefoot. But that would take more caring than he had at hand. Especially, given his hands were busy. One gliding over his head and around his shoulders, bottle still in hand, and actually ending up with some champagne on himself in the process but not enough to care about that either.

Falling on ice, skating on ice, living on ice, got you used to being constantly wet and pushing through it, too.

It's the sudden screech of a voice that blast through into his reverie of movements. Familiar, but also, sharp as a blade, shattering glass, and when he finds the face of the bellower it's the first time he blinks. A young, aggressively agitated teenage boy, who looked .... he looked familiar, too. One of the junior skaters? One of the medal ones, yes?

There was something biting at his heels, in the too tight cling of his jack, even loose at his side, on his arms. Something he should have said, would have said, should have felt, it was trying to creep up his spine at that yelled question, cold and familiar, but then Yuri's eyes had shifted to the two men next to him. Victor Nikiforov. Christophe Giacometti. Perfect. Poised. Standing there. Watching him. Commenting to the boy. Looking .... interested, as well?

And somehow, somewhere,

even not sure entirely what it was,

with its icy fingers in his guts, still unnamed,

he pushes back. Refuses.
That unnamed thing driving up, dissolving against him.

He points out with the mouth of the bottle at the boy. Gold hair. (Gold medal?) His words cutting the whispers, direct gaze unwavering, "Dancing." Not pausing, for his affronted face to being spoken to as though he was slow, Yuri adds. "I haven't seen you doing any better." As though earlier today was nothing. Yesterday was nothing. Everyday before now is nothing. Every hour, and minute, and second, before this one, right here, was nothing.

The boy scowled in a way that seemed to take up more space that his face, into all of the space around him, outraged at the insult. "I can do better than anything you're doing!"

Yuri didn't know where it came from, but he stopped checking the sign posts. It came without thinking, without caring, broad and wide. His arms were thrown open, wide from his chest, the bottle still dangling from one, and hands fingers wide on the other, gesturing to the space that had been widened all around him, space enough to well hold another person, or even five or six with their won space. A challenge in gestures of all this space, and no one else but him stepping up to it.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (The world's still spinning)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 03:59 am (UTC)(link)
He's not surprised to see the kid come charging out at him, and he actually laughs.

No clue where it comes from either, but it feel good. Across his warm cheeks and down his shoulders, and then he catches part of what Victor is screaming behind the man and his eyes wide, and then narrow, confused. About his name, and the kid. And his name. And, seriously, if they are taking this seriously, he has too much on to move the way he wants to move, and he want to move.

More than he thinks he's felt driven to move in so long. It's strange to be certain of that while looking at Victor Nikiforov. Victor Nikiforov whom he own almost every poster, and article on, has seen every interview and skater piece on, but could not for the life of himself bring himself to say more than a passing mumbled hello at the floor more than his face at any of their competitions. Not even this one. Somehow never. Not once. And can still hear his name in the man's voice. That strange, high-pitched, excitement. It's an electric skip in the music that still isn't right.

That voice cheering for him for some reason, and it actually sends him tottering toward him for a second.

Even if by the time he's taken three or four steps, and has made half the distance towards the man, the boy behind him is yelling again. Screaming about where he's going and making him turn in a far too fast twist, to raise a finger, to tell him -- but there's a bottle there, and for a second, he almost loses his hold on the neck, and the end of his sleeve tightens the fabric at an elbow, also, no helping, but he has a finger up, clumsy and true, and he's saying, "Hold on."

Before spinning back, not quite sure why. What was he going to say? He needed his hands-free, right?
Right, that was it? He needed his hands free to be able to move.

"Take this!" He thrust the bottle at the champion, of the world, and his day, with the camera out, but his hands free, freer than Yuri's, before he was already yanking his jacket off one arm.
theglassheart: By Laura (What'd going on (on the floor))

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 04:53 am (UTC)(link)
The boy is yelling at him. All fuming fire, or maybe there's something else where he's from. Something scary and...Russian. Yes, Russian, because he was with the Russians. But isn't he related to some kind of house pet? There's an odd, smooth smile that goes serene on Yuri's face and only seems to enrage the kid even more. On his toes, trying to yell, well, he is yelling, but most of it is bouncing off Yuri's chest and shoulders, even with the boy on his toes, and the rest.

Well, nothing is stick, all together too fully. The room has turned a warm, sort of golden, and the crowd has changed. There are some people cheering and yelling their names now, sporadically clapping even though they haven't started, and no one's got rules, when Yuri actually puts a hand on the kids' shoulder and spins him toward a different piece of space, not in his face, and he searches for the beat again, finding it just as the music stops.

"Nani?" It's slipped out of his mouth as he's turning toward the DJ, because they can't stop now. They haven't even started.

But his eyes get there, and he kind of laughs, again, even as he can here the kid grinding his teeth, because they both get there at the same time. There's a man at the computers for music, but he's accompanied now. Christophe Giacomet. Arm slung over the man's shoulder, and leaning in, over, around him, cheek to cheek, as though he's helping himself to the man's system through the man, himself,, and it feels like the whole mood of everything shifts. Heightens.

He's not the only one. Or at least they're all going to make it worth their while to watch this now.

When the music comes it's thundering. The base is hard, beat electric, and it's faster. So much faster. Something wicked sparking at the edge of Yuri's mouth, that isn't a smile, but is, it really is, before he starts moving. He can't remember the last time he got to just dance. Not skate. Not ballet moves for skating. Dance.

He'd learned every single kind of dance he could from Minako, when he was training with her. Every single way that he could learn to move his body. He'd been ravenous for it. Got lost and found in every single new piece and style she showed him. Music, movement, new things he could take from his feet and her lessons and put to use once he was back on the ice. But this, this was its own type of enjoyment.

Like his body had never forgotten. Like he'd learned yesterday. Every muscle and bone felt more fluid than even water.

Like he was becoming one with the air, and the music thumping through it, through the floor, through his blood.

And if the kid looked like he was starting to sweat, like he hadn't quite expected this, Yuri couldn't help smiling right back.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (I love this record (but I can't see anym)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 06:01 am (UTC)(link)
The kid isn't bad at all, and they end up mirroring each other from time to time. There are dances everyone knows, moves everyone knows, moves that go to the song, and the beat of the one they are listening to, that happens to not actually be a song, but end up being a mix. Which he thinks he might have cared about somewhere, somewhen else, but here and now, he loves it.

He can pull out other things he hasn't done in years. The floor is slick for some reason, but he slides with it, instead of reacting from it. Lets his body move in ways he wouldn't dare on the ice. Not even in the Ice Castle, back home, when he was alone and it was early morning, and there was little possiblity anyone would see him. His knees going too wide, body long lines and sliding bounce, the burn in his calves and lower back muscles glorious, like a tribute more than a hindrance. Shoulders, back, wide, lost in the beat thundering in him.

It comes in clip shots, and it's almost surprising sometimes that when he opens his eyes it's still the golden ballroom of a reception area, and not somewhere else. Somewhere darker. That the lights aren't strobing. He actually almost applauds the kid on a move he does. He has to give it to him for getting out here. For staying out here. For looking challenged, looking angry, and never giving, only bringing more and more of himself to the dance floor.

Even harried, even blonde hair everywhere, and his tie flying in all those directions that aren't in his jacket. It's fun, though. To be out here. The two of them. Together, and apart. Both at once. Two different spaces, two different dances, bluring, matching, mimicking, opposing, a constant roll toward the mode of one-upping each time they look over and the other is doing something more complicated.

The clapping and calling of his name. The way they should have been earlier. He should have made them.

But he'd show them now. He'd shown them all. No one was going to beat him at this tonight. No one.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Keep it cool what's the name of this clu)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 01:22 pm (UTC)(link)
Camera's are snapping.

That's not even surprising, but the occasional flash makes him blink, the occasional suddenly realizing someone's calling his name, trying to get him to open his eyes, to look at them, smile even broader, bolder, smugger, daring, crouched down, or tackling trying to stay with him in the perfect circuit of existing somewhere between the music and the applause, which was just a second strain of music, mixing in and under and around, another beat, another part of the floor and the song.

He doesn't remember quite when he decided to do a flip, and then to up it even from there, all of his weight shifting to one hand, fingers sticky on the floor, when he decided -- even though he was already well shot into beating the kid, who was young and couldn't, who was red in the face and running on sheer, impressively impossible, determination to not be left behind, not be shown up, even as his tension and his expression showed the anger at knowing he was and exhaustion of keeping up, tripping up his moves, making them too sharp, fast, sloppy -- that he wanted more than to win.

He wanted to own this floor. These people. That boy. The skaters watching. The music. The air. Everything.

He wanted his name stamped on every breath of air going into and out of them. The memory of this song. Night. Everything.

It's a stagger of confusion, when the song comes to an end, and even his shoulders are shaking.
A smaller twin mirror to the boy with his hands on his knees, looking like he'd rather hit the floor than stand.

While Yuri's body weight is reacquainting itself with his feet, adrenaline on a spike, almost blackout dizzing like something else is wrong, spots in his vision, body parts suddenly not certain entirely how to move as the music stops and the small crowd is pressing in, going insane, and he can't stop grinning. It's plastered across his whole face, every muscle, and how he doesn't even wait for the spots to end. He twists, again, with a flash, throwing his arms across himself, elbows stacked, one hand flat above his shoulder and the other to his side.

Always an ending pose. Always. Dramatic and dynamic and never forgotten.

Leave them with something to remember, Celestino always said.
Edited 2017-02-21 13:25 (UTC)
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Determined)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 04:42 pm (UTC)(link)
Yuri's still gasping, and it's sweet, even if the air is not bitter cold in his lungs, not electrifying the inside of his body into more shock and certainty the air coming in is too thin, too crystallized, not going to hit his blood stream fast enough. Here and now, it's a light headedness, blurring, blending, with the lights bending, rainbow arcing, circle around everything, especially upward, and the noise.

Throwing his arms up with the kid stalks off, not even enough left in him to make a salvageable insult or dirty face. Just slinking away, like he might need something to hold him up just a for a second, until his next wind comes to him, too. While Yurio's is pulsing alive, like the rush, the drain, the sway of everything is only amping up the electricity in his body, thundering and thumping as the music goes into the next song, with little pause.

The crowd starts shouting something that isn't his name, first layered in with his, confusing him momentarily. Then, he catches it.

Victor. And his head swings, his vision blurring the faces across the space betweeen where he was looking and where he ends up. The smiling champion. The world's silver haired prince. He's laughing. His hair fluttering in the air as his head turns to look at different parts of the people cheering his name. He's eating it up. His too perfect smile. Like he has no clue what's being aske--


Is that his jacket? And his bottle of champagne?

All collected in Victor's arms like the most awkward bouquet ever?

He's not sure if it's the face or the champagne bottle he's coming for, when those cheers feel like they are a tide rising, louder and louder, pushing him right back to Victor Nikiforov. Both. Both is just fine. His throat is dry and he's not about to give a single inch anymore. To anyone. Not even Victor Nikiforov.

With his perfect hair and collection of shining medals, that have nothing on his face in Yuri's vision.

His mouth is saying, "Well?", even as his hand is just reaching out to yank his champagne bottle back.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Determined)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 06:38 pm (UTC)(link)
The roaring isn't for him, and Yuri doesn't like that.

Victor soaking it up, right in front of him, like Yuri's only been warming up the spotlight for Victor to decide to finally get off the sidelines and wipe the ground with everyone in there all over again. For the second time today. It's riding the line of Yuri's shoulders, when the world suddenly spins, upending everything.

Victor turns him, and Yuri's eyes would narrow but at first nothing that is anything is standing still, the only thing even remotely in focus those bright, brilliant blue-green eyes, made to cut glass with a glance. He refuses to reach out and stabilize himself on the slender, but taller, Russian man, who is suddenly the only thing not dancing before his eyes. That clarifying smile, a taunting line of acceptance and challenge, arrogant, like Yuri is that boy who just slunk away, tail between his legs.

Which matches his words, when they come and Yuri steps in. Not away.

"Good." A hairsbreath from right into him, even three inches shorter. "I won't either."

A hand comes up and he pushes Victor back and it's more cut-slashes. The hand on Victor's shirt, jack, tie. The bottle at his lips. Sparkling, smooth, easy and light as water now. Several gulps more than breaths. Then it's gone, maybe on a table, maybe in someone else's hands. It's just gone. Jitters. He knows. He knows he isn't as good on the ice as Victor of the four medals, aimed for five and the one contender everyone is expecting.

But. He won't lose again. Not again. Not today. Not again.

He steps on to the floor, listening for the new song, pushing aside the swishing, swirling world, to find the music already playing through the first verse of its new piece, and there's the pulse. Like his blood has been trying to drag him back out here the whole time. Screaming at him for stopping at all. If his eyes slide too easily first to the man on the other part of the floor, and his mouth is a little firmer, that's just fine. His arms rise, and his back curves and he just goes into it.
Edited 2017-02-21 18:50 (UTC)
theglassheart: By Laura (How)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-21 09:14 pm (UTC)(link)
There's a hushed sort of pall against the something that isn't silence at all.

The music is loud. The music is vibrating the air, the floor, the world. But there's a hush all the same. Scattered shouts of both of their names, but with pockets of space, as they are watching, and if Yuri's surprised anyone in this room is on his side, shouting his name, cheering him on, Victor's name is still just as loud. Louder. In this small ring of familiar faces and their companions.

Everyone else has retreated as slowly as was still proper to those corners Yuri, himself, had been in earlier. Their places changed. Almost none of them anywhere near here, and none of the faces that fly through his vision in that circle restraint to a demur politeness and the whisper of expected conversations, topics. Their hands are up. Their faces are animated.

He's perfect grace --Victor-- in the seconds that Yuri finds himself turned in a way he can see Victor.

Made to move. Everything Yuri has always loved beyond the idea of love, reached for, wanted to be like, reach for even the shadow of, in every copy of every routine with Yuu-chan's laughter in his ears, smile in his eyes. An idealization encased in childhood awe of glory and deepest desire of self.

He was made to move. Made to win. And something aches in some place Yuri can't even place.

It's a nebulous cloud like the golden-white light of the room.

The ache. The light. The music. The stubborn fire.

The other part. The part he doesn't realize quite until a good four or five things later, is that Victor is following him. Copying him. Not exactly. Not entirely. But close enough, it'd be impossible for anyone else to miss it outside, where the cheering and whistling hasn't stopped. Only rising for moments one of the other them edges something faster, smoother, more drastic.

In those moments where something is different. Where the flare or choice for exact posture, where their hands up, the bend of a knee, the flat or point of a foot, the landing between legs, is different. He's not sure he likes it. This mirroring. Even if it's not all that different from the first time either. He can feel it like a strange tingle on the back of his neck.

Something else. He needs to unfoot his opponent, again. Somehow.

Stop giving him the ability to take whatever Yuri starts and change it, spring board it for himself.
theglassheart: [ Fanart ] : { Google Images } (Keeep it cool (what's the name of this c)

[personal profile] theglassheart 2017-02-22 12:24 am (UTC)(link)
It's the first time Yuri has stuttered at all since coming out.

It's not a lost step, or wobble. He doesn't miss up a move. It's more like a pause of a moment that he stares too hard at Victor, brow forming in bafflement, s he's suddenly whipping his jacket our and calling out those two words, with a face that looks so happy it's almost childlike. It's nothing at all like war cry of every single second he connected gazes with Yuri. Who was burning down his every atom with every look.

Victor is . .. happy? Smiling. Acting like a fool. Like this wasn't set up as a competition of prowess and precision.

Which might be the very last thing Yuri ever expected after those words on the side. From the man was all of both, and more.

There's a wrinkle in his brow and there something in the roll to his shoulders, that might be the most graceful shrug only a dancer might recognize, because nothing about it moves up and down only and he just goes with it. Hands coming up and forming horns, chest puffin up, foott in a brushing step on the ground, that would be more perfect in flats, that is twice sided with something almost like a leap, before Yuri goes straight for him. In a move that is decidedly and absolutely nothing like it had been earlier. In their own boxes.

Ducking under against the snap of fabric brushing his forehead, and shoulders, and the way he doesn't think about.

Pulling in tight in an arc, the graze of fingers, and heavy palm like an announcement or a warning, running whisper quick, but solid, across the back Victor's waist, the well defined, if hidden by his shirt, curve of the small of his back. There for only the breath of the twist he executes. Not a thought, as he's rounding Victor from behind and half guessing the man is going to end up twisting to face him someway again, too.

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