It's silent in the rink against the rasping of his breath, and Yakov's disapproval feels more like a relief than anything else he's thrown at himself today. It's a constant he can depend on: the world spins on, the sun rises and sets, and Yakov is never satisfied. Hands on his knees, breathing in clean cold air that feels like a steel blade once it hits his suffering lungs, gulping at water that isn't there, his hair a sweat-matted mask stuck over his left eye. That question coming like a command, and it makes him frown.
What he wants is nowhere on the ice, not here, and certainly not at any competition, on any podium, or even in any rink that he knows of. What he wants won't be sitting for him at the end of the program, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow or a sleeping princess in an ivy-twined tower.
What he wants is so stupid and childish that he can't even stand the thought of it. He's stupid, stupid, it means nothing, would mean nothing to anyone else, certainly means nothing to ... well. Idioty a vicious snakebite in his head, as if a sharp enough, annoyed enough thought would distract from the pang in his chest that has nothing to do with being out of breath.
Destroy, create. He's not even sure where the line between the two is, anymore. If he pulls it apart enough, allows it to pull him apart at the same time, won't he be able to build it all back up stronger than before? Why does it feel like he keeps pulling bricks from a wall that only repairs itself, growing taller and stronger, when he's not looking? "It's angry. He's angry. The ... character."
I'm angry, he doesn't need to say. "It's not a happy story, Yakov."
Was it ever supposed to be? He can't remember.
There's a glance at Yuri, watching him from over the rink wall, and he straightens, making it look as easy as his complaining muscles and tired back will allow, running a palm over his hair to sweep it back out of his face and directing his next question back to Yakov. "Don't you think it destroys, to fall in love when you don't want to?"
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What he wants is nowhere on the ice, not here, and certainly not at any competition, on any podium, or even in any rink that he knows of. What he wants won't be sitting for him at the end of the program, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow or a sleeping princess in an ivy-twined tower.
What he wants is so stupid and childish that he can't even stand the thought of it. He's stupid, stupid, it means nothing, would mean nothing to anyone else, certainly means nothing to ... well. Idioty a vicious snakebite in his head, as if a sharp enough, annoyed enough thought would distract from the pang in his chest that has nothing to do with being out of breath.
Destroy, create. He's not even sure where the line between the two is, anymore. If he pulls it apart enough, allows it to pull him apart at the same time, won't he be able to build it all back up stronger than before? Why does it feel like he keeps pulling bricks from a wall that only repairs itself, growing taller and stronger, when he's not looking? "It's angry. He's angry. The ... character."
I'm angry, he doesn't need to say. "It's not a happy story, Yakov."
Was it ever supposed to be? He can't remember.
There's a glance at Yuri, watching him from over the rink wall, and he straightens, making it look as easy as his complaining muscles and tired back will allow, running a palm over his hair to sweep it back out of his face and directing his next question back to Yakov. "Don't you think it destroys, to fall in love when you don't want to?"