March 2014 – Sports Champions Club, St. Petersburg, Russian Federation

[fivetimechamp]

There is no slowing down the sweeping minute hand that ticks implacably about the face of the clock which marks out their season: Grand Prix, Nationals, Worlds, break that never really is a break, as much as it is a chance to delve into everything that had been wrong the season before.

And this year, the Olympics. Putting Victor back in Sochi.

(Back in that hotel, the source of so many frustrations.)

Commentators falling all over themselves to discuss how much his routine has changed in the last year: it has a new dimension, he thinks one of them called it. 

Idioty.

A bare month between the Olympics and the World Championships, but he wouldn't want a break, even if one magically appeared in his schedule. A break would only mean time to think, or time to wander around social media and annoy himself by not finding what he's looking for (and then being annoyed at getting annoyed) and he doesn't want that.

He wants to skate. He wants the gold. He wants to win. Everything else is an annoying distraction.

Like how Worlds are in Japan, this year. 

(He didn't qualify. Didn't even try, this last year. Hasn't been anywhere since the crushing defeat at the Japanese Nationals.

Not that it matters.)

More pressingly, his current annoyance is Yakov yammering in his ear while Victor sips water at the wall and tunes him out. All the same thing: worry about next year's programs after World's, Victor! You never listen to me, Victor! My grandmother could land that triple axel better than you, and she's DEAD, Victor!

Boring.

Yakov's not even finished, but Victor is finished listening to him, and pushes back off the wall, but instead of picking up where he left off with Stay Close to Me, he calls up a memory of the music he's been listening to, trying to decide between.

The seductive strings of Eros, or the unearthly beauty of Agape? 

Just another annoying distraction. No matter how many times he listens to them at night, with Maccachin curled at his feet, and pretends he's just planning ahead.

Comments

[yuri_plisetsky]

Is there anything else, he asks.

(Alarm bells should be going off all over the rink, because they are certainly going off in Yakov Feltsman's head.)

'Take your time cooling down,' he says firmly. If Viktor is in this strange pushing-back mood, he can be the wall to push against. It would not be the first time that his main purpose in his skaters' lives is to plant his feet as if there were solid ground instead of ice beneath his blades. 'Full strokes, deep breaths, clean extensions, all of it. And keep your arms loose; if that shoulder of yours tightens up, you'll need an hour on the massage table to put it back to rights.' He drums his fingertips on the folded edge of his arm. 'Don't just go running off to pretend that you're following my instructions to the letter. You couldn't get away with it when you were the brat's age, and you damned well can't get away with it now.'

Speaking of the brat, he briefly glances back again at Yuri, who by this point has vanished once more below the wall of the rink...with the exception of his left leg, which is pointed straight up in the air, ankle rotating slowly, as he does something repulsively flexible with an advanced bridge pose. Shamelessly showing off, of course, but soon enough it will take all of Yuri's stamina to simply stay upright, so Yakov ignores the sympathetic ache in his own hips at the sight. A pause, one last moment to think things over, and then:

'Everything else can wait until tomorrow.'

[fivetimechamp]

Yakov's expression is the settling, deepening lines of weathered granite, as if he is the foundation beneath Saint Isaac's, creaking and groaning under the weight of the cathedral, but, like that foundation, he remains firm. His back may be older now, but it is no less ramrod straight, and strong enough for his skaters to lean on, if they need it.

A weakness which Yakov's expression suggests is evident here, but Victor doesn't feel weak, or tired, even if he'd been exhausted only a quarter of an hour and two run-throughs of his step sequence before. He feels jittery and restless, like he'd indulged in too many sweet treats and tea, even if he's been on the same bland, boring, nutritious diet for what feels like centuries. "Fine."

Everything feels a little off. He's distracted, and it's showing. Yakov is unsettled, sharp eyes piercing through him, seeking the source of all their troubles, but he doesn't feel like giving a detailed account of something Yakov would only find sentimental and absurd, and Yakov has Yuri there to focus on for the next few hours.

All of which sends him pushing off from the ice to take his cooldown, strokes long and smooth, breathing in deep to feel the bite of cold rink air, arms extending as he traces wide loops and figures around the ice.

(He wonders how loudly Yakov will yell if he uses this time to work out some of the smoother kinks in Agape.)

[yuri_plisetsky]

Viktor pushes off, and Yakov watches him go. His critical eye notes that the first few strokes are not quite as smooth and full as they could be; he is trusting that the simple deep breaths and long, repetitive motions of the cooldown period will gradually ease the tension that has been building up in Viktor over the course of practice -- and for some time before today, it seems.

There's movement at the edge of his vision, and he sees Yuri tapping the toe of his skate on the rubber matting, making a final adjustment to the fit before he too steps out onto the ice. What a pair, these two; barring some utter catastrophe involving fractured kneecaps or food poisoning, they'll both take gold at their respective Worlds. No one else in the field comes close to them. And even at the end of a too-long season, when they're all exhausted and snapping at each other's heels, Yakov still hasn't lost his interest in seeing what his skaters will do in the next one.

(The day he loses that interest is the day he'll hang up his own skates and find some high-windowed place overlooking the Black Sea to fade quietly from view.)

'All the way through on your left leg there -- you're pulling it up short,' he calls out to Viktor (I'm watching you, so you'd better not try anything, is the unspoken warning), and turns to glance at Yuri as he steps away from the wall. 'Now then, do you still feel like running off your mouth at your coach? Get on with those laps, and if you lose count you start over again from the beginning.'

'Yes, sir,' Yuri says, the polite response not at all matching with the sour look on his face, and he launches out into his first lap. But he can't quite resist a parting shot at the old man, so a quick dredge of his memory produces one of the sappier lines he remembers from Pushkin, the drippy, melodramatic poem written by Lenski right before Onegin shoots him in their duel: '"Oh! Whither have ye winged your way / The golden days of my young spring?...."'

He hears Yakov growl something, but he doesn't really care what it was. It's all he says before he puts his mind back to his task; the laps won't skate themselves, and if he has to do thirty of them forward and back then he can't afford to miscount any of them. And Viktor's still there, cooling down. Too much to hope that he'll deliberately distract Yakov for him, but any time on the ice with Viktor is worth it. In fact, maybe he can show Viktor how his own skating has improved -- he's definitely built some strength and speed since that competition, so it'd be good to show off what kind of form he has now. Give him a sense of what kind of raw material he'll have to work with for the choreography.

So Yuri lengthens his strides, letting his arms hang loose, and falls into a calm, steady rhythm. A proper warmup, for all that it has an ulterior motive.