fivetimechamp | GPF Banquet, 9 December, 2012

He's never quite sure how long he should stay at these things.

It's not that he doesn't enjoy the banquet – he does. After winning his fifth consecutive Grand Prix Final, the champagne tastes all the brighter, and the company around him is more delightful than ever. He enjoys seeing his peers and companions, sharply-dressed and relaxed for the first time in months, the strain of competition dropping away, even if only for a single evening. The food is tasty, the attention warming, the evening sparkling, the room filled with all the brightest stars of their world. Yes, he enjoys the banquet.

But there's a part of him that itches to make his excuses, and leave. To trade out this suit for a loose part of pants and a warm shirt; these polished shoes for the clean glide of his skates.

He can make the program even better. He can perfect it.

So there's an element here, too, of detachment. He notices it with the others, too – with Chris, who fell short of him, again, and JJ, full of boundless confidence. Eventually abandoning polite small talk and gossip to dig into their craft, to discuss music selections and jump compositions, to compliment and rag on each other. No one used to being off the ice for long.

He talks less, but thinks more. Already working through the choreography in his head, even as he laughs over champagne, and greets his friends.

It is who he is. The champion. And tomorrow will be more of the same.

Threaded | Flat

He didn't want to be here.

If it wasn't for the propriety of the banquet and mandatory attendance to it, and it not being possible to move up his flight back to Detroit, or anywhere else in the world, anywhere else, to any minute now, he'd rather have stayed in his hotel room. Under his blankets. And his pillow. All of them scrunched hard into his face. All night. Until he could drag his suitcase and whatever was left of his season, and his life, behind him, wherever they went next.

Except it wasn't wherever. It was the Japanese National Championships.
It might as well have been a death sentence now. That's what it really was.

Celestino has said no. Celestino has said he had to be here. In his suit.

So, he was.

Here. In his suit.

In a room of people he hadn't been able to figure out how to speak to before, when he'd been a contemporary and proving his was able to hold his own against them, the pride and hopes of his whole country resting on his shoulders. Before --

Before what had happened. Before all he could convince himself to do was watch the crowd, the swirling dancers, unable to move, except to keep taking a champagne glass from each waiter who walked by offering one. He knew where the other skaters were. Watched them in the room. Lost Celestino at some point. Somewhere. He never drank during a season.

But the reasons why didn't matter as he downed the newest countless one,
starting to realize that champagne glasses themselves were actually far too small.

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