[ otabek notices yakov before yuri, glancing between them before forcing his attention away to where phichit sways between thumbing at his phone, taking a morning selfie, and preparing to warmup for the day. it makes otabek hungry to start up himself, itching to take to the ice with his routine, almost lazy set of warmups. he'll skate idly with long, slow strides until he's yelled at to start sweating. it's a routine he looks forward to.
he can smell yakov's coffee and feels a twinge of regret at not taking the time to get his own, no matter how difficult it is to obtain a cup here even slightly close to what he prefers.
yakov is strict, yuri needs strict.
he watches as yuri shifts in place, nodding as he flexes his fingers. otabek imagines pulling him in close by his forearm, a quick embrace, a smile hidden in yuri's hair — but like the night before, wanting to lean in and kiss him, he folds the thought neatly away. ]
I won't go easy on you. [ with a grin to match.
and he doesn't, though he starts off as slow as he'd planned, cutting languid figure eights into the ice to ground himself, to clear his head. start off by letting everything else go, feel free, then let inspiration float back in naturally. focus.
he goes from gliding in a backwards skate, mostly aimless, into the rigorous itinerary for the day, ironing out already perfect toe loops when he pops too many jumps and falls too many times in a row. he pushes himself, recovers, and by the end of the day he's nearly landed as much as he hasn't.
nearly.
it also leaves him very fucking sore. after a quick locker room shower and change, he lingers in the rink a little longer to watch yuri, hair damp under the hood of his sweatshirt. pushing himself still as if there's something to prove to those late to practice today, bleary eyed and more wobbly than usual. ]
no subject
he can smell yakov's coffee and feels a twinge of regret at not taking the time to get his own, no matter how difficult it is to obtain a cup here even slightly close to what he prefers.
yakov is strict, yuri needs strict.
he watches as yuri shifts in place, nodding as he flexes his fingers. otabek imagines pulling him in close by his forearm, a quick embrace, a smile hidden in yuri's hair — but like the night before, wanting to lean in and kiss him, he folds the thought neatly away. ]
I won't go easy on you. [ with a grin to match.
and he doesn't, though he starts off as slow as he'd planned, cutting languid figure eights into the ice to ground himself, to clear his head. start off by letting everything else go, feel free, then let inspiration float back in naturally. focus.
he goes from gliding in a backwards skate, mostly aimless, into the rigorous itinerary for the day, ironing out already perfect toe loops when he pops too many jumps and falls too many times in a row. he pushes himself, recovers, and by the end of the day he's nearly landed as much as he hasn't.
nearly.
it also leaves him very fucking sore. after a quick locker room shower and change, he lingers in the rink a little longer to watch yuri, hair damp under the hood of his sweatshirt. pushing himself still as if there's something to prove to those late to practice today, bleary eyed and more wobbly than usual. ]