Виктор Никифоров (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
fivetimechamp) wrote2018-01-07 09:36 am
Entry tags:
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."