Victor's laugh carries as easily across frozen water as it would a pond or pool; clearer, for their being only the two of them here.
(And Yuri, sitting reading his book and thereby disappearing from Victor's frame of reference or zone of interest, for the time being.) "If anyone was bored, I'd think it was you, Yakov. What does that make -- your hundredth Olympics?"
Of course Sochi was more of the same. This whole year, it's been more of the same: train, perfect, perform. Everyone knows his routines by now almost as well as he does: the only way he can surprise them any more is by bringing a new depth to them. Sochi was a bygone conclusion, and so is Worlds, and next year is likely to be the same, unless someone new comes along to shake things up.
Unless he can't find inspiration. Unless he can't find motivation.
"Anyway, who was surprised at Sochi?" No one. Not fans, not other skaters, not even the audiences who tune in for the Olympics and no other skating events. Even they know his name, expect to see him win. Being predictable is the most aggravating thing to be, but he doesn't know what direction to take, where to go next. Shaking his head as he skates back towards Yakov, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt and letting it drop, rumpled, back against his stomach. "It's not Worlds I'm worried about."
Voice quieter, but over ice and in a large and echoing chamber like this, it stills carries.
no subject
(And Yuri, sitting reading his book and thereby disappearing from Victor's frame of reference or zone of interest, for the time being.) "If anyone was bored, I'd think it was you, Yakov. What does that make -- your hundredth Olympics?"
Of course Sochi was more of the same. This whole year, it's been more of the same: train, perfect, perform. Everyone knows his routines by now almost as well as he does: the only way he can surprise them any more is by bringing a new depth to them. Sochi was a bygone conclusion, and so is Worlds, and next year is likely to be the same, unless someone new comes along to shake things up.
Unless he can't find inspiration. Unless he can't find motivation.
"Anyway, who was surprised at Sochi?" No one. Not fans, not other skaters, not even the audiences who tune in for the Olympics and no other skating events. Even they know his name, expect to see him win. Being predictable is the most aggravating thing to be, but he doesn't know what direction to take, where to go next. Shaking his head as he skates back towards Yakov, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his t-shirt and letting it drop, rumpled, back against his stomach. "It's not Worlds I'm worried about."
Voice quieter, but over ice and in a large and echoing chamber like this, it stills carries.