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fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
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9 - 10 December, 2014 - Barcelona
There's a swift, fleeting moment, between his toes breaking the water's surface and the waves he'd created closing over his head, where he imagines himself on vacation. On a break from the hectic stresses and mundanity of everyday life, floating high above a sea of lights. Free to be himself, to relax. To lose himself in those self-indulgent fantasies only possible when daily training and errands, practice and diet, aren't demanding every second of his undivided attention.
He floats on his back, spread-eagled in the water, letting it buoy him, letting his thoughts trickle along whatever path they most wish to take –– which, these days, means they wander along a well-worn path from sleepless nights and newly-opened gates. Life and love –– two words he's neglected for over twenty years, that suddenly knock at the door of every thought, nudging him further down the path before he even recognizes he's headed that direction.
Whispering, for the first time, in glimpses and sidelong glances, of a tomorrow past today.
"Ah-choo!"
A sneeze brings him out of tantalizing reverie, and he sinks further into the water to sniffle, the moment broken. It turns out even Barcelona's cold in December –– not the bone-deep freeze of St. Petersburg or Moscow, a thin wind biting through coats and scarves and jumpers with ease, but still probably a little cool to be lazing in a rooftop pool, here at the official hotel for the Grand Prix Final. Still, it's peaceful up here, and the water is heated even if the air isn't, and he has no place special to be. Yuri is still sleeping off his jetlag –– that's why they got here early to begin with. They have all of tomorrow to practice and acclimate before the Final begins.
Steps, and the gentle tinkling of crystal against glass, distract him before the words even come, but then, Chris is a prodigy of distraction. He's made it into an art form.
"I thought, other than me, only a Russian would be stupid enough to get in the pool this time of year." That robe is scandalously short, and Victor allows himself an amused moment of picturing Chris, and the accompanying distress, at the baths at Yu-topia. "I guess I was right."
And dark glasses, even at night. Victor can't hide his amusement. "Chris!"
"Hi, Coach Victor." From anyone else, that tends to sound like an insult, but from Chris it only feels like a fond nickname. They've known each other too long and too well to stand on ceremony, so Chris' complaint that Victor is in the way of his skinny dipping rolls right off Victor's back like water droplets.
"Don't let me stop you. I'll even take photos for you."
It wouldn't be the first time.
And just like that, the illusion of a vacation is over, drowned and smothered by the dozens of photos Victor finds himself taking of Chris mugging for the camera like he was born to do it. Sometimes it's difficult to remember that this sex bomb was once an angelic-looking little boy with golden curls, the sort Victor could picture most clearly skipping through a Swiss meadow full of flowers, but Chris has become a force to reckon with in his own right.
He can't imagine a skating season without Chris. They've shared the podium so many times it's almost begun to feel like tradition.
But then, it's already been eight months since he came to Hasetsu, too. How much time does it really take to change the things that can't be imagined?
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Back in Hasetsu, at the Ice Palace, Yuri would be the single point of focus. Not just for his attention, but in the whole rink. It's an almost unheard of luxury, the entirety of the rink belonging only to the two of them. A single coach, with a single skater, and a wide, wide, waiting expanse of ice. A blank sheet of paper holding its breath. A frozen river patient with the potential to erupt under Yuri's blades.
Here, there's no such privacy, but it's not such a bad thing, either. There's Yuri, out of the corner of his eye, looking a little tighter than Victor might like, but within reason.
Yurio, a flash of icy blonde hair and silver blades, now gaining speed in the far end of the rink. Even from here, Victor thinks he recognizes the stubborn set of his jaw, the grim line of his mouth as Yurio focuses, laser-tight. Even in practice, he only ever seems a hair's-width away from snapping under the relentless onslaught of self-inflicted pressure at any given second.
(Yakov is here, too. They haven't spoken yet.
Not really.
Not in any way that counts.)
But the real benefit of being here during the practice times is seeing where all the other competitors stand, while numbers run through his head and he checks Yuri's against the base component score of everyone who skates by. Of all of them, JJ poses the most immediate threat: even if Yuri skates his program flawlessly, JJ's base score is simply higher. With the new scoring system, Yuri's vast artistic ability could still fall against a program backloaded with jumps.
So much for the obvious, but any one of these skaters might pull off a win, if everything goes well for them and at least one thing goes wrong for everyone else. There's no room for error at the Grand Prix Final.
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The real heart of any piece has to wait until the day of the performance.
Yuri knows this well enough. It's not as if he can simply pull Agape out of nowhere and then put it away again like a pair of practice gloves. At the Golden Spin, he'd come closer to it than he'd ever managed before, fuelled by the recent memory of the day he'd had at home after Rostelecom, the silent comfort of being with his grandfather. Not long enough (never long enough), but it had helped enough to give him his first senior gold medal there in Zagreb, even if it came from the Challenger series and not the Grand Prix. And he already has a promise from Yakov -- and an email with his flight reservations to prove it -- that regardless of what happens here at the Grand Prix or later in the month at Nationals, he'll be able to spend eight whole days in Moscow over the New Year's and Christmas holidays. After almost a year of breaking and reforging himself over and over again to find the strength and beauty that will give him what he wants here in Barcelona, he'll have eight days to rest, in the one place where he won't have to prove himself to anyone.
He can hold that knowledge close to his chest, a spark of warmth against the chill of the ice. Keep it safe until he has to perform. Even though his heart is racing with the effort of the practice and the initial flickers of nervous adrenaline, he can remain calm, do what he has to do here --
'I'm done with practice! Off I go!'
-- until the braying voice of an asshole Canadian splinters his thoughts like a wedge driven into his brain.
With a low snarl through gritted teeth, he turns just enough to glare at that prick JJ, who's gliding off the ice and waving to some imaginary crowd as if he's already riding in a victory parade with the President of Canada or whoever. No one gives a flying fuck, you shithead!
Yakov, observing a short distance apart from the other coaches at the side of the rink wall, is only surprised that his skater's concentration hadn't slipped sooner than this moment. Chulanont, Giacometti, and Altin are already off the ice, Leroy has just announced his departure, and Katsuki seems on the point of leaving as well. But Yuri doesn't have to leave right this second.
'Yuri, let's go over it one last time,' he says coolly. At this point, it's less about the program and more about getting Yuri to refocus and redirect his volatile emotions, as they've been working on since Rostelecom.
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Another turn around the rink, another few minutes, lost entirely in the air against his skin and the music memorized so deeply he could hear, feel, all the cords in his sleep. It doesn't need to be playing for him to hear the endless strains of it in his head. It would be better. But the guitar plays in his thoughts, in his blood, in every step, as he turns, as his fingers follow where it would through the air. He slides past another body, without stopping to see who it is, simply weaving and letting his speed take him across the rink, into another jump.
Toward the triple.
The triple that would be the quad.
Not only had he promised himself a medal all those months and months ago. He'd convinced Victor, only weeks ago, to let him change his jump to the quad for his short program. It'd taken so many more hours to get up the nerve to ask, nearly demand it, when his percentage of success was still far too low, and he hadn't expected Victor to be so easily convinced. That he'd push his limit. That it would push him to overcome the 5 point disparity between his base score and JJ's.
He'd trained the quad flip. Over and over and over, in the days between Russia and Barcelona, and it scratched at the back of his head. Now. The need to push for it. Practice is. Now, now, now. The whine that said somehow he'd forget, mess up, mangle everything if he didn't try. But, he wasn't supposed to. That wasn't the plan. Just like it hadn't been the plan to do it in Russia once Victor had to leave. (Back when everything was barely holding on, when he made it, but only barely. But made it.)
No one would be expecting it until his new jump schedule was submitted tomorrow.
He tried to push it out. Focus only on his body. The smoothness of the quad salchow, followed by the step into the triple toe loop, and then the speed, sending him surging across the rink again, that lead up to the triple flip (...that wouldn't be). Landed easily, mostly relief -- and some biting frustration (and a pile of nerves trying to bit in like ants across the back of his thoughts) -- even as he circled back toward Victor. The other skaters were beginning to slow down, to stand around watching more than practicing.
Yuri's eyes flitted across them, before returning to Victor, in the same direction he was headed.
Leaning on the boards, crossed arms, beside the exit. Yuri slowed with precision ease to stop before him.
Yuri reached for his water bottle first, taking a long drink, as Phichit and Chris and Otabek headed off the ice first.
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The quad flip Yuri has planned lends his free skate an aggression it had been lacking, and if he can rotate it fully, he'll scrape out enough base points to catch JJ.
Even if he crashes. Even if he falls.
He just has to go for it.
And he wants to, now. Victor can see it in the way Yuri holds himself, how he's skating through the steps of his program while most of the others have long since trickled off towards the boards or locker rooms. Making Victor's own legs and core tighten, as he heads towards that moment ––
Landing a solid triple, instead, before heading for Victor, and his water, and a moment for Victor to reach out and grip his wrists. "Yuri, I don't want you to over-do it and tire yourself out." The longer he stays out here, the more likely he'll tighten up, instead of loosen, and that is a surefire way to ruin all their careful plans and hard work. "So I want you to practice that last transition once more, and then we'll call it a day, okay?"
A nod, and Yuri's agreement, and then he's off on his cooldown, focusing on edges and weight shifts, the details that get lost in the rush of adrenaline, and have to be trained deeper than bone and blood in order to find their way into performance.
He looks good. He looks perfect, and Victor's pleased when Yuri comes back to the boards and steps onto the rubber mats, leaning on Victor's shoulder to steady himself as he cleans his blades and nocks their guards on. It's still early in the afternoon, but with jet lag and practice, Victor wonders if he's more tired than he looks. "Yuri, what do you want to do now?"
What would Yakov say? Oh, right. "I recommend a good night's rest to prepare for tomorrow's short program."
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He's getting better about control, when he sets his mind to it. Even the flare of irritation at that prick JJ is already fading, because he knows there's a better use for the fire within. But alone at the far end of the rink, looking across the glistening surface scored with numerous blade marks, his gaze falls on the open door and the two figures right beside it. One silver-haired, one dark.
(we won't take it easy on you)
Yuri is alone on the ice, as he will be tomorrow.
(it won't be like last time)
Katsudon might have Viktor at his side right now, but he'll be alone on the ice tomorrow, too.
Just as his momentum peters out, Yuri lets out a long breath through his nose and pushes off again to move into his starting position. He can't be certain what they have planned. There's no point in speculating on it. But he'll have to be ready for it.
No games. His own words echo in his head, solidifying his resolve as he pauses in his opening pose. No excuses.
There's no music echoing against the high, cavernous walls, but in his head a soaring soprano voice beckons him forward, into the first steps of Agape.
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Yuri doesn’t want to come off the ice, but the time is dwindling,
and almost everyone has now, and he knows, he does.
It’s more nerves and drive than it is sense. He wants to stay out there. He wants to do it full out. He wants to stay even in some part, because looking out at that vaster and vaster expanse of carved up ice, and the last people on it, and the open space, and the seats around it, makes everything in his nerves and his bones ice. In his head, in his memories. He wants to fly in the face of it, because it makes everything shake. The flavor of that fear running beside his will.
His past, that could be his future. Can’t be. Might be.
Victor’s right, most likely. That there isn’t much more he can do. Here, and in general. It’s all jumping nerves because it is so close. The actual performances. The actual GPF. It’s all so close, and he’s either ready this time, or he isn’t. There’s no time left to change which one it is.
The last lap and last focus passes too fast and then all there is left is to listen. To come off the ice. To clean his skates of the excess ice carved on to his blades. To cover them, while staying balanced and listening to Victor’s voice over the pace of his heart still slowing. It, too, makes sense. But he’s been thinking about this, too. Last night, while he was the only person of everyone who had stayed in ...
… and he's counted down to this one last weekend. In so many ways. These last few, seldom days after all of these months, from the other side of the year. Slid through his fingers and faded behind them. Crystal pristine and yet still gone so fast. Almost, but not yet. Still the competition, still this weekend, still Barcelona. Still Victor looking at him like this, carefully and considerately — like Yuri is the only concern, the only focus, and like Yuri should be treated gently lest anything break or upset him now, right before.
It’s right, more than right, touching even in being the answer,
but it’s not what Yuri’s been preparing himself for here either.
“Don’t start being a model coach now,” Yuri tosses at Victor as he finally lets go of Victor’s shoulder and settles his weight on his guarded-blades safely. “This is my first time in Barcelona. Take me sight-seeing.”
He knows it’s not what will be expected, and it turns his mouth toward a smile, delivering it without faltering. Like he knows it’s a surprise, and he throws in a wink. One last good (hopefully long) day, full of new (hopefully good) things, things Victor would (undoubtedly) love — of Victor — before … everything else coming, too.
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Yuri isn't normally one for doing much other than worrying himself into an anxious knot the day before a competition begins, and he almost never pushes back when Victor's given his recommendations and advice.
(Not vocally, anyway. He hasn't always been the best listener, even if he's quiet about it.)
All of which makes it doubly surprising when his suggestion is summarily brushed aside in favor of Yuri's determined request. Sight-seeing?
Before a competition?
Just the two of them?
Even with some more responsible, analytical segment of his brain hesitating and cautious, wondering what Yuri's ploy might be, it's not enough to keep the rest of him from leaping whole-heartedly at the thought. Idea. Image.
(It's not skating at the Red Square, but it's still, it's still --)
But there's still that faint, concerned, questioning note ringing like a doorbell in his head. Should he allow it, encourage it?
What could go wrong? It feels like a trap to say yes, but it's harmless enough, surely?
And then Yuri's smiling and ready and what few arguments Victor had are summarily dismissed. He's a fool, perhaps, but at least he's aware of it. "Leave it to me."