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Blue light shined into Yuuri’s eyes, his glasses reflecting a miniature version of the laptop screen in front of him. He was on his bed underneath the comforter, intently watching himself perform a new program he had been practicing. Absorbed by the video, he didn’t notice how hot it was getting beneath the blanket. It was nearly midnight and he had practice early the next morning, but he couldn’t stop watching the recording of his practice program.
Nearly everything about his performance in the video was perfect: he landed all his jumps, nailed his step sequences, his outfit was stunning, and his movements were elegant. In fact, he was surprised to think it may have been his strongest technical performance yet, but something about it—no matter how many times he watched it, focusing on the strength of the technical details—was glaringly absent.
He hugged his stuffed brown poodle tighter to his chest as he pressed the repeat button on the video.
The next day, exhausted, Yuuri practiced the routine again. Though he loved the one from the video, he tried on different outfits to see how they might affect his perception of the performance. He also tried more emotive facial expressions and different arm motions to make a more convincing display.
These changes did make a difference in the performances, but they were subtle and likely imperceptible to the average viewer, not filling in the gaping hole that Yuuri saw in every recording of him practicing it. It was in the way he looked: there was some inexplicable missing element, one he couldn’t put a word to, but knew would enhance the performance, and likely all his subsequent ones.
Days passed with Yuuri unable to find what was missing from his routine. He became obsessed, studying the looks of other skaters he thought had what he was missing and recording practice after practice for him to study later. The frustration in failing to find the missing element slithered into his practice routines, and he was suddenly failing jumps he always landed.
Pulled up on his laptop was another video of him practicing the program—one of the few he now performed free of mistakes. He was sat on the bed in his friend Phichit’s room, a skater from Thailand he made friends with in the two years he so far spent training in Detroit.
When the recording finished playing, Yuuri turned to Phichit who was sat next to him on the bed.
“So,” Yuuri said, an edge of agitation to his voice. “You see it right? Or I guess, don’t see it? I think there’s something missing about the routine. Not technique-wise, but something about me looks… off.”
Phichit hummed with uncertainty. “I don’t know Yuuri, you look great in this to me. Beautiful even!”
“Oh haha, thanks,” Yuuri said, scratching a spot on his head that wasn’t itchy. “But I’m missing something, I know I am! I just don’t know what.”
He got up and began pacing the room.
“I’ve tried different outfits, changing my expressions, and even streamlining my movements. But those aren’t it! Ah! It’s bothering me so much.”
Phichit looked at Yuuri and patted the spot on the bed that he just left from. “Come on Yuuri, lets watch again.”
After finishing the video a second time, Phichit thought for a moment, humming again, less with uncertainty but with consideration.
“Hmm,” he mused. “You know, Yuuri, I haven’t ever put this feeling to words before, but its something I’ve felt watching your past performances and its what I’m seeing now. It looks like you’re hiding every time you perform! You look so nervous and… rigid! I think you performed this routine beautifully, but I think what is missing is confidence. How to bring that out, I’m not sure, but that’s just what I think.”
Yuuri sighed with frustration. “I was afraid you would say that. I never do feel very confident in my performances, or anytime actually. I try not to think about it, which is probably why I didn’t see it.” he scrunched his face, tapping his finger against his chin. “I think I look too much like I do outside the rink. I look... boring and... flat. The movements and expressions are making up for some of it, but not all.”
He put his arms up and ran his fingers through his hair, slicking his normally messy, undone hair back and revealing his forehead.
Looking over at Yuuri, Phichit perked up.
“Yuuri!” Phichit yelped with a puppy-like excitement. “Wait, wait! Stay just like that.”
He ran out of the room, returned a minute later with a spray bottle of water and a tin of pomade. Without warning, Phichit began spraying water at Yuuri’s hair, getting some on his laptop.
“Phichit!” Yuuri yelled, throwing his laptop to the side and covering his head from the spray. “Hey! What are you doing? Stop that!”
“Trust me, Yuuri!” Phichit said, pulling Yuuri’s arms down from his hair and spraying more water on it. Once Yuuri’s hair was damp, Phichit pulled him by the arm and stood him on the side of the bed, then knelt on the bed behind him. Phichit grabbed the tin and opened it, revealing an untouched mound of pomade.
“Uhh, Phichit, what are–“
“I don’t know why I have this,” Phichit interrupted, fingering out a very generous amount from the tin. “I don’t even style my hair, but let’s try it on you!”
Phichit rubbed his hands together, spreading the vague-smelling gel all over his hands, then, with a delicate touch, raked them through Yuuri’s damp hair. He did this several times, slicking Yuuri’s hair back and out of his eyes and forehead, making sure to evenly spread the pomade through his hair and set each strand back. On the last run through, Phichit gently ran his fingertips across Yuuri’s scalp, causing a shiver to run up Yuuri’s spine.
“Turn around, Yuuri,” Pichito said softly into Yuuri’s ear. When Yuuri turned, Pichito gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. “Ah, Yuuri!” he shouted, bouncing up and down on his knees. “Look! Look in the mirror!”
“Yuuri, a pensive expression on his face, walked over to the mirror hanging on Phichit’s closet door. He looked at himself, his hair slicked back like a movie star. He blushed, his pensive expression melting from his face, and a slight smile taking its place.
Phichit stopped bouncing. “Wait, one more thing!” he said, jumping off the bed. He snatched Yuuri’s glasses from his face, then, leaning back to get a good look, said “Perfect.”
Yuuri looked back at the mirror, his slight smile spreading over his face and up to his eyes.
“This is it,” he said.
Phichit stood by the side of the rink, still catching his breath from the performance he just finished. Falls from two of his jumps led to a score he wasn’t happy with, but the results of competition weren’t critical. It was a minor local competition, so he had taken some risks that didn’t pan out. The rest of the routine he knew he did well, and now he could focus on his weak points in practice.
Now, with his performance done, he was anticipating Yuuri’s, which was next after his. Even Yuuri himself—someone Phichit knew struggled with self-perception and confidence—was excited for this performance. After discovering what was missing from his performance, Yuuri stopped being as nervous for the upcoming competition, had perhaps even developed an eagerness to perform, a characteristic Phichit had never seen in Yuuri ever since he first met him.
“Now, we are pleased to introduce a skater from Japan,” a voice rang out from the PA system. “He has been training here in Detroit for the past two years. Performing a new routine, Katsuki Yuuri!”
The lights dimmed, and the sparse crowd of friends and family littering the stands like an in-progress game of Guess Who went silent. With a metallic shudder, a spotlight opened up from the ceiling and trained in on Yuuri skating towards the center of the ice. His outfit was composed of a white, gray, and burgundy top that dazzled in the light, and black tights over which hung a feathered skirt, held up by a burgundy belt with a golden medallion glistening in the middle. Phichit gazed at him with awe. It was undeniably Yuuri: his name was just announced, that was his face, and that was the outfit Phichit had seen him record practice routines in. But this was a new skater on the ice now. That characteristic stiffness that always seized his limbs as he glided to the middle of the rink was absent, replaced by an effortless grace Yuuri usually only managed to muster as he moved through his routine. But before the performance even began, Phichit could see it in his eyes, radiating from his skin: confidence. With slicked back hair and a bare face, exposing features always obscured beneath messy bangs and a pair of glasses, Yuuri had nowhere to hide. Without that barrier standing between himself and the audience, the audience basked in his magnetism, and he pulled them in. As he settled into the center of the ice, assuming a sensual pose, silence arresting the audience with anticipation, the music began, and Yuuri launched into his most inspiring performance yet. Phichit's eyes teared up as he watched Yuuri glide like an angel over the ice, looking closer to his idol Victor Nikiforov than he ever had before.