That's not even surprising, but the occasional flash makes him blink, the occasional suddenly realizing someone's calling his name, trying to get him to open his eyes, to look at them, smile even broader, bolder, smugger, daring, crouched down, or tackling trying to stay with him in the perfect circuit of existing somewhere between the music and the applause, which was just a second strain of music, mixing in and under and around, another beat, another part of the floor and the song.
He doesn't remember quite when he decided to do a flip, and then to up it even from there, all of his weight shifting to one hand, fingers sticky on the floor, when he decided -- even though he was already well shot into beating the kid, who was young and couldn't, who was red in the face and running on sheer, impressively impossible, determination to not be left behind, not be shown up, even as his tension and his expression showed the anger at knowing he was and exhaustion of keeping up, tripping up his moves, making them too sharp, fast, sloppy -- that he wanted more than to win.
He wanted to own this floor. These people. That boy. The skaters watching. The music. The air. Everything.
He wanted his name stamped on every breath of air going into and out of them. The memory of this song. Night. Everything.
It's a stagger of confusion, when the song comes to an end, and even his shoulders are shaking. A smaller twin mirror to the boy with his hands on his knees, looking like he'd rather hit the floor than stand.
While Yuri's body weight is reacquainting itself with his feet, adrenaline on a spike, almost blackout dizzing like something else is wrong, spots in his vision, body parts suddenly not certain entirely how to move as the music stops and the small crowd is pressing in, going insane, and he can't stop grinning. It's plastered across his whole face, every muscle, and how he doesn't even wait for the spots to end. He twists, again, with a flash, throwing his arms across himself, elbows stacked, one hand flat above his shoulder and the other to his side.
Always an ending pose. Always. Dramatic and dynamic and never forgotten.
Leave them with something to remember, Celestino always said.
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That's not even surprising, but the occasional flash makes him blink, the occasional suddenly realizing someone's calling his name, trying to get him to open his eyes, to look at them, smile even broader, bolder, smugger, daring, crouched down, or tackling trying to stay with him in the perfect circuit of existing somewhere between the music and the applause, which was just a second strain of music, mixing in and under and around, another beat, another part of the floor and the song.
He doesn't remember quite when he decided to do a flip, and then to up it even from there, all of his weight shifting to one hand, fingers sticky on the floor, when he decided -- even though he was already well shot into beating the kid, who was young and couldn't, who was red in the face and running on sheer, impressively impossible, determination to not be left behind, not be shown up, even as his tension and his expression showed the anger at knowing he was and exhaustion of keeping up, tripping up his moves, making them too sharp, fast, sloppy -- that he wanted more than to win.
He wanted to own this floor. These people. That boy. The skaters watching. The music. The air. Everything.
He wanted his name stamped on every breath of air going into and out of them. The memory of this song. Night. Everything.
It's a stagger of confusion, when the song comes to an end, and even his shoulders are shaking.
A smaller twin mirror to the boy with his hands on his knees, looking like he'd rather hit the floor than stand.
While Yuri's body weight is reacquainting itself with his feet, adrenaline on a spike, almost blackout dizzing like something else is wrong, spots in his vision, body parts suddenly not certain entirely how to move as the music stops and the small crowd is pressing in, going insane, and he can't stop grinning. It's plastered across his whole face, every muscle, and how he doesn't even wait for the spots to end. He twists, again, with a flash, throwing his arms across himself, elbows stacked, one hand flat above his shoulder and the other to his side.
Always an ending pose. Always. Dramatic and dynamic and never forgotten.
Leave them with something to remember, Celestino always said.