He's pushing it too far: even as warm as he is, he can feel the chill of the air cooling his sweat too quickly, the light tremble in his fingers that means his muscles are nearing exhaustion. If he tried to do even a double right now, he might wind up collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut, but it's not just physical, and that's what confuses him, and confusion is a thing he hates.
Everything has always been so simple, so clear-cut and obvious. Every year spun out in the same pattern of training, Grand Prix, Nationals, Worlds –– this year with the Olympics tossed in again for good measure, so it would make sense if his body was simply worn out. He's not as young as Yuri, over there, with his rubber joints and burning ambition.
Maybe he does need a night off. Maybe he needs more than that.
But that's as annoying a thought as any other, and he huffs exasperation through his nose, hands on his hips as he traces a slow circle and then an idle figure eight, just to keep moving. Maybe it is punishment. Perhaps it ought to be, for allowing himself to be so foolish.
No matter what Yakov says about choices and having no say in how these things happen, he knows he could have stopped it. Should never have even let the thought cross his mind. "It has to be perfect."
Nothing less is expected of him, and he'll deliver nothing less. He can't afford to be merely good, or even great. It has to be exceptional, every time. And if he has to break his heart to do it, well ––
His won't be the only one shattering.
But Yakov's right that he can't let it stay like this, either, so his shoulders lift and fall in a sigh, and he cracks his neck, head tipping from one side to the other, before lifting a hand in capitulation, with a flashing hint of his usual careless smile, even if it, too, feels a little forced. "Don't worry, Yakov. I'm not going to break anything important. I've been ordered to rest tonight, remember?"
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Everything has always been so simple, so clear-cut and obvious. Every year spun out in the same pattern of training, Grand Prix, Nationals, Worlds –– this year with the Olympics tossed in again for good measure, so it would make sense if his body was simply worn out. He's not as young as Yuri, over there, with his rubber joints and burning ambition.
Maybe he does need a night off. Maybe he needs more than that.
But that's as annoying a thought as any other, and he huffs exasperation through his nose, hands on his hips as he traces a slow circle and then an idle figure eight, just to keep moving. Maybe it is punishment. Perhaps it ought to be, for allowing himself to be so foolish.
No matter what Yakov says about choices and having no say in how these things happen, he knows he could have stopped it. Should never have even let the thought cross his mind. "It has to be perfect."
Nothing less is expected of him, and he'll deliver nothing less. He can't afford to be merely good, or even great. It has to be exceptional, every time. And if he has to break his heart to do it, well ––
His won't be the only one shattering.
But Yakov's right that he can't let it stay like this, either, so his shoulders lift and fall in a sigh, and he cracks his neck, head tipping from one side to the other, before lifting a hand in capitulation, with a flashing hint of his usual careless smile, even if it, too, feels a little forced. "Don't worry, Yakov. I'm not going to break anything important. I've been ordered to rest tonight, remember?"