The stands are more packed than they were for last night's practice and less packed than they'll be for all of tonight's actual Prix beginning for the Juniors, followed by the Pairs and Ladies short programs. Which doesn't, by any means, keep those stands from being more packed than any of the stands during the practice days of the earlier qualifiers. There's a different kind of buzz in the crowds watching, talking, cheering, picture taking, though. Even though it's another practice. Even though it's only a few hours away from the beginning of everything.
The same way there's a different edge of tension, of focus, every time any of them out here on the ice meet eyes passing in the constant repetition of their routines, or circled laps. Three sets of forty minutes practice, across three days, is the slimmest shiver of ice shaved thin, but they all know they have to have it now or they might not at all when it counts tomorrow night. It's all too familiar, and Yuri tries not to let himself find himself counting just how much as he counts his competitors taking their turns through the center for the full run down each.
(The boards are the same. The seats are the same. The light are the same.)
[He isn't. He isn't. He isn't.]
Yuri closes his eyes the beat of one heartbeat. He forces a breath out. He has to be here. Here. Right here. Turning in a bracket. Not catching the ghost of his shadow falling over this same line he crosses with ease, while breathing in the chilled air and feeling it dry in the back of his throat. A twist and two side steps puts him out of the way of Chris sliding past on his left, and pulls him a sidestep outside his routine that leaves him a second to spot on where Victor is leaning on the far wall and then to the dramatic flare of Phichit's arm movements in the middle. All showman, and all serious.
no subject
The stands are more packed than they were for last night's practice and less packed than they'll be for all of tonight's actual Prix beginning for the Juniors, followed by the Pairs and Ladies short programs. Which doesn't, by any means, keep those stands from being more packed than any of the stands during the practice days of the earlier qualifiers. There's a different kind of buzz in the crowds watching, talking, cheering, picture taking, though. Even though it's another practice. Even though it's only a few hours away from the beginning of everything.
The same way there's a different edge of tension, of focus, every time any of them out here on the ice meet eyes passing in the constant repetition of their routines, or circled laps. Three sets of forty minutes practice, across three days, is the slimmest shiver of ice shaved thin, but they all know they have to have it now or they might not at all when it counts tomorrow night. It's all too familiar, and Yuri tries not to let himself find himself counting just how much as he counts his competitors taking their turns through the center for the full run down each.
(The boards are the same.
The seats are the same.
The light are the same.)
He isn't.
He isn't.]
Yuri closes his eyes the beat of one heartbeat. He forces a breath out. He has to be here. Here. Right here. Turning in a bracket. Not catching the ghost of his shadow falling over this same line he crosses with ease, while breathing in the chilled air and feeling it dry in the back of his throat. A twist and two side steps puts him out of the way of Chris sliding past on his left, and pulls him a sidestep outside his routine that leaves him a second to spot on where Victor is leaning on the far wall and then to the dramatic flare of Phichit's arm movements in the middle. All showman, and all serious.