The truth, even when spoken softly by Viktor still managed to cut through him, to make his eyes sting for a moment. But nothing broke. He swallowed the lump that threatened to form back down again, and took a deep breath. What Viktor was asking was neither abnormal nor unreasonable. Prove yourself. That was all. But the thought still made his breath shorten.
How could he prove his worth when he himself when he had nothing to show? Even after weeks of sneaking back to the rink, trying to force his limbs to mimic even an ounce of Yuuri’s gracefulness all he had to show for it was a few successful crossovers and bloodied feet. That would not inspire the Russian’s confidence. He had to show him, he had to try to show him that even if he wasn’t worthy of a second of their time, he had still absorbed what he could, learned.
Or he would lose Yuuri and Viktor in the process. No fall could ever hurt worse than that.
“… Um, okay, mr. Nikiforov,” he said quietly. His eyes lingered on the ice, body failing to push forward when he willed it. He would have to jump. He would have to try to jump, but this time there was no padding to save him or kind words as he pulled himself back up. Blue eyes glanced back at Viktor for a moment. Calm, professional as ever.
He expects me to fail. Black skates slowly repositioned themselves. I guess I do too. Another breath, a futile attempt to calm his pounding heart. Although.
The last time he had been this afraid was in the cockpit of an Eva. This? He managed a small, lopsided smile. This was nothing. Finally, he pushed off. The cold air cooled the sheen of sweat that had already formed on his forehead. The turn, he needed to do the crossovers, it would be the only way he could build up enough speed. One foot, in front. . . Of the other… His leading skate threatened to veer off the path and send the boy flying into the barrier, but it didn’t. You will fall, but at least jump first. The turn gave way to straight ice once more, this was the time to jump. One skate lifted, the other allowing him to pivot, once, twice, it was enough. At the very least he was thankful he kept his balance, but that was the gift of momentum. Counterbalance. Both skates met the ice again, moving backward. He held his breath, and jumped.
It as difficult enough trying to bring his limbs inward. His body was a humorless parody of a proper jump, before his limbs were forced to unfold in the air again, feet prepared to touch the ice, but while the top part of him had been moving, the bottom part had been moving faster. His skates touched the ice for a brief moment before sliding out from underneath him,
and sending him tumbling on the ice.
When his body had stopped moving it still took him a moment to get his breath back, to remember how to breathe but he did. He could already feel the sting of the bruises that would appear on his shoulder and hip, but he could live with that. Unsteady arms grabbed the barrier and forced him to stand again. A combination of adrenaline and embarrassment forced his mouth into a smile.
Please God, let it be enough.
“I haven’t practiced jumping very much.”
Viktor is no stranger to desperation and worry; he has seen it paint the wrinkled features of young skaters countless times throughout his long, aging career, and he is no exception to the emotions that would crinkle his smooth visage in the dead of night, long after the rink had closed. Familiarity and recognition may bloom in the back of his mind as he watches the boy stand on the ice, but sympathy isn’t something the older man has a talent for (never has), but that doesn’t mean the hostility in his eyes doesn’t drop just a bit.
Years ago, back in Russia, and surrounded by wide eyes and attention-seeking hearts his lips would have curled with distaste, because this isn’t a sport for weak-minded people with misled visions of grandeur they can never hope to attain. But standing here, on golden blades that are almost as worn as he is, there is a certain degree of fondness that creeps into his winter-kissed eyes. He can still remember the one in the morning tumbles he took in the vast darkness of skating rink he once called home; the bruises and blisters that would rub and pop and bleed until he felt like he was walking on bones instead of the calloused pads of his fleshy feet, and the sleepless nights he spent staring, too young and wide-eyes at the bland ceiling above his head because he once had such high hopes for himself.
Shinji reminds him of those too early and too late practices in the empty dead of the rink; of the lectures Yakov had drilled into his brain (a part of him can still recite them from memory), and of the looks of hatred and disgust that would mar the pretty features of older skaters that looked at him with nothing but envy. The words, this isn’t enough and please don’t leave me behind had always been on the tip of his tongue back then, but he’s grown so numb to their sound now that they had been discarded somewhere in his aching muscles years ago.
And he knows he’s cruel; knows he’s pushing too hard and asking for too much in return, but he’s not entirely a monster. He wants to see Shinji bloom, and the near-spill when his lead skate almost tossed him straight into the barrier had Viktor’s forehead creasing in concern he would have mostly certainly dismissed had he been called out for it. There’s the part of him that’s so terribly cynical, though, that knows Shinji will fail; that he can never in his life soar to the hefty standards Viktor holds, and it chews at him as he watches the boy. Viktor is aware he’s some sort of convoluted mess (even to himself).
When Shinji leaves the safety of the ice, Viktor already knows he’ll fail. He’s seen too many sloppy, misguided jumps to not know one when it’s presented to him so clearly. There are countless mistakes twisted in the boy’s unfolding limbs, but Viktor doesn’t try to correct him; doesn’t try to shout words of encouragement he’s certain Yuuri has fired at his student a thousand times already because Viktor is capable of such mercy. When Shinji can’s regain replace; losses control of the wild rotations, and collides with the ground to the beat of a loud thud, Viktor doesn’t even so much as shudder.
It’s only when Shinji picks himself up that Viktor maneuvers over to him like he’s walking on air, a sheepish, lopsided smile slipping onto his chapped lips as he reaches out a frigid hand to ruffle Shinji’s already messy hair. “Clearly,” He beams like he’s reciting some well-established fact, but there’s an airy laugh that tickles the ends of his words. He’s not Yuuri; he isn’t a saint that will stand here and whisper sweet words, and he’s not some well-crafted angel that’s capable of virtue and patience; Shinji isn’t some gifted talent either, but Viktor supposes he can humor the boy for a bit. He won’t admit, but it was good enough for him.
“Your form is repulsive,” He chides, “Yuuri isn’t the best instructor, is he?” He allows his hand to fall to his side. “ I won’t teach you the toe-loop; it’ll be a waste of my time. You’ll never be capable of landing it if you don’t improve your foundation.” He knows he should choose his words more carefully, but he’s never been for sugar-coating. “I will help you perfect your salchow and spins, though.”
“Perhaps, if we can manage that much I’ll teach you how to do a proper toe-loop next time.”
