Blonde
He always got lost in the story when the boy spoke,
He got lost in the way his hands move, the way his eyes sparkle;
It was mesmerizing. The whole of him.
The emerald green gaze gleaming he could see himself reflected in,
The much exaggerated gestures of his mouth, the bluffed disgustment,
The blond soft (he was sure they were, he would give so much to find out) locks falling over his eyes.
The boy stopped when a hand reached to pull his hair aside.
He scoffed and said nothing, keeping up his chatter.
(and he was so right)
Caterpillar
An ever evolving monster, they called him.
He keeps on breaking up, shedding every piece of himself
To come back again, tougher, stronger.
There's beauty on his strength, they say, and he wonders
If they can notice the pain on it too.
The blisters, the bruises, the sleepless nights.
How does it feel to be a champion?, they ask.
Lonely, probably. Hurting.
Tell us you're different than us. Unreachable.
Untouchable.
The cold tone of cold people with cold voice recorders pointing at him.
"Deserving. Worth every scar."
A beautiful ever evolving monster.
He wonders when will his last metamorphosis be.
Distancing
He has been alone most of his life.
Mostly alone.
They were always coaches, trainers, doctors. But they don't count.
They yearn for his medals, not his company.
He's been idolized, perched on an altar, far from the real world.
Until a few months back.
Suddenly everything changed: like a whirlwind scrambling all he knew about life.
And yet, he had to leave him. Just for now.
But one day away felt like an eternity.
Waiting in an airport for him felt like an eternity.
Clashing into him…
He has been alone until him.
He knew he never would again.
Treasure
He has left it all before in favor of his career.
Travel the world on his own, never settling up.
Changing coaches, styles. Always yearning for one thing.
The name of his country on the map:
The Hero of Kazakhstan would finally come back home one day,
With gold around his neck.
And he tried, he broke his own mark;
He skated his heart out, and did it for them,
For his family and peers watching him,
For the gaze of the soldier he knew was encouraging him,
Yet he didn't get the gold.
But he did get the treasure.
Aroma
He was thrilled, ecstatic:
He hasn't seen him in forever
He was the first face he could think feel he would fight for
He would protect through every storm
Inside a beaten up twenty years too old car on the corner.
It was hot, and noisy, and was probably dying at some point along the way.
But it was something he didn't know he missed so much.
That, and his grandfather. The first name he could think of
To skate for, to make proud.
And the smell that seemed to fill up the confined space
"I made you some pirozhkis"
Injury
He got so worked up he couldn't think clearly:
The bastard knew how to push his buttons,
Answer to her so innocently, like she wasn't throwing herself at him.
He jumped, he landed, he fell face first on the ice.
The stinging on his ankle. Damn it.
He heard him skating towards him; he could recognize his embrace anytime.
He took him home, tucked him in, stayed.
All night he stayed.
He might have a sprained ankle,
But he had the best company he could ever hoped for.
He curled on his chest.
Maybe the time off wasn't so bad.
Victory
They are screaming his name:
He broke the living legend's mark.
His first senior championship, his first gold.
He should be happy, he should be proud.
Even when the guy he followed is retiring
Because he feels he's too weak for it,
Or maybe because breaking one world record is enough,
Maybe because he's peaked.
And anger bubbles through him.
You're not allowed to retire,
Not until you can be a proper rival,
Not until I can beat you, fair and square,
After you've done your best.
That will be the gold I'll cherish.
I know you'd be proud,too.
Excess
He was defeated. Humiliated.
They took everything away from him in a second.
He could see it in Viktor's eyes.
He's lost even before the battle started.
But he wouldn't let it pass. He'll teach that pig his place.
It'll take sweat, and blood, and tears, but he will.
He will defeat him.
"Plisetsky, stop! You need a break!"
He could feel his whole body aching under the pressure,
His legs struggling to keep him standing.
But he couldn't just stop now, Not yet.
He won't let him win again.
The world suddenly went black.
He crashed against the ice.
Braid
He's sick and tired of it all.
The "russian punk", they used to call him.
And as soon as he enters the seniors the other nicknames start falling.
The russian fairy. The prima ballerina.
And that fucking braid.
It's like they're trying to make him kick their faces in.
He stares at his own reflection on the dark screen on his phone,
Sprawled on the hotel room bed, tugging threatenly on the still secured locks of hair,
A text comes in:
"By the way, I liked your hair."
His hand stops. He smiles
Dammit, Beka.
"You can't even flirt right."
Burn
Overwhelming. That's what it was.
All of them younger. All of them better.
What the hell was he even doing there?
The coach kept on scolding him. He thought on just leave. Give it all up.
And he saw him, perfectly positioned on the barre.
Bright green eyes, cold, determined.
He felt something inside of him catch fire. A warm violent tidal wave washing him over.
He wouldn't quit, he'll get better. Much better.
He will reach out to this kid; he'll prove his willpower can overcome anyone else's sheer talent.
He will find him. Thank him.
And hold him.