Yuri is stretching, of course, but his grip loses some of its tension as he watches the step sequence unfold. To think that Viktor choreographed this whole thing himself, pulling all of the elements together -- this never, ever fails to captivate him. What must it be like to decide what to keep, or what to exclude? To understand that this gesture works better to convey that feeling, to move a hand or an arm to accentuate the flash of a blade or change of foot? It's so different from the rote steps and jumps and mimes he does in ballet class, precise but predictable, every movement already planned out in advance.
It's powerful. It's bold. It's a little scary, like watching someone caught in the middle of a fight. And he wants it so badly that his fingernails are suddenly digging into the underside of his fingers, where he has his hands clasped behind his back.
As Viktor's movements slow, Yakov doesn't immediately start needling him right away. He doesn't have to. He could point out one or two small things that had caught his eye, but he knows Viktor's body language on the ice better than perhaps anyone else alive, and his immediate silence will do as critique in a way that actual words cannot.
That sense of frustration and anger bleeding out into his steps and turns...it isn't an act. It's painful to watch, as a skater and as a coach. He might not know what has his Viktor so restless, but it is infinitely better to watch him work out some of that frustration here in his performance, rather than turn to somewhere outside the rink for relief.
(Skaters' hearts are fragile as glass, and Yakov have been around long enough to see how the lights that burn brightest can shatter without warning. The world might see the strain when it turns public and violent -- that nasty business with the American ladies' skaters before the Olympics a few decades ago, for instance -- but the struggles that never leave the ice are no less visceral.)
It isn't often these days that he can read Viktor's thoughts in his movements so clearly, but this is one moment where he can take the risk of sounding clairvoyant. 'If you do it again, will it give you what you want?' Low and even, carrying across the ice in a way that a shout could not. 'Will you let it be destructive? Or will you allow it to be constructive?'
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It's powerful. It's bold. It's a little scary, like watching someone caught in the middle of a fight. And he wants it so badly that his fingernails are suddenly digging into the underside of his fingers, where he has his hands clasped behind his back.
As Viktor's movements slow, Yakov doesn't immediately start needling him right away. He doesn't have to. He could point out one or two small things that had caught his eye, but he knows Viktor's body language on the ice better than perhaps anyone else alive, and his immediate silence will do as critique in a way that actual words cannot.
That sense of frustration and anger bleeding out into his steps and turns...it isn't an act. It's painful to watch, as a skater and as a coach. He might not know what has his Viktor so restless, but it is infinitely better to watch him work out some of that frustration here in his performance, rather than turn to somewhere outside the rink for relief.
(Skaters' hearts are fragile as glass, and Yakov have been around long enough to see how the lights that burn brightest can shatter without warning. The world might see the strain when it turns public and violent -- that nasty business with the American ladies' skaters before the Olympics a few decades ago, for instance -- but the struggles that never leave the ice are no less visceral.)
It isn't often these days that he can read Viktor's thoughts in his movements so clearly, but this is one moment where he can take the risk of sounding clairvoyant. 'If you do it again, will it give you what you want?' Low and even, carrying across the ice in a way that a shout could not. 'Will you let it be destructive? Or will you allow it to be constructive?'