Infatuation isn't unusual for him, he knows, but it's been difficult to accept that, after a year and a half, infatuation might be the wrong word for it. It's a distraction, a splinter niggling at the back of every thought, sending him vivid dreams when he needs to sleep, shattering his focus in practice. It feeds new life into his programs, but it doesn't stay on the ice; is something he's been carrying around like a backpack, digging into the back of his neck and tying knots in his shoulders for too long. Frustration a metallic taste in his mouth, when there is no hard enough or far enough to push himself.
His train of thought is interrupted for a moment by the clatter off to the side, but when Yuri doesn't fall on his head and need immediate assistance, he shrugs it off and turns his attention to Yakov, while reaching for his water bottle.
What's going on with him? In the end, it isn't the annoying non-presence of Katsuki Yuri that's troubling his days and kicking him out of sleep. The much more immediate problem is that of his own career, and that is something Yakov will understand. "I can't afford to become predictable," is what he says, finally.
Years of all rise. Of being on top of the game. Records shattered and new jumps unveiled. Every year a little harder, each new birthday a warning that this might be the year everything changes. "They expect surprises, but I don't know if these new pieces will be enough. Maybe nothing I do will be."
no subject
He wishes he knew, himself.
Infatuation isn't unusual for him, he knows, but it's been difficult to accept that, after a year and a half, infatuation might be the wrong word for it. It's a distraction, a splinter niggling at the back of every thought, sending him vivid dreams when he needs to sleep, shattering his focus in practice. It feeds new life into his programs, but it doesn't stay on the ice; is something he's been carrying around like a backpack, digging into the back of his neck and tying knots in his shoulders for too long. Frustration a metallic taste in his mouth, when there is no hard enough or far enough to push himself.
His train of thought is interrupted for a moment by the clatter off to the side, but when Yuri doesn't fall on his head and need immediate assistance, he shrugs it off and turns his attention to Yakov, while reaching for his water bottle.
What's going on with him? In the end, it isn't the annoying non-presence of Katsuki Yuri that's troubling his days and kicking him out of sleep. The much more immediate problem is that of his own career, and that is something Yakov will understand. "I can't afford to become predictable," is what he says, finally.
Years of all rise. Of being on top of the game. Records shattered and new jumps unveiled. Every year a little harder, each new birthday a warning that this might be the year everything changes. "They expect surprises, but I don't know if these new pieces will be enough. Maybe nothing I do will be."