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Yuuri's staring at himself in the mirror again.
It's a bad habit. He knows that, he's not dumb. Just picky. Scrutinizes everything. Shreds it to pieces, checking, checking, over and over again for perfection -
and yes, although he doesn't dare admit it anywhere but the veil of comfort that is his bedroom, when it's shrouded in the silky darkness of early morning and he's sure everyone else is sleeping - this whole... body image thing... has gotten a little worse since he started training with Viktor. But just a tad. He can't fathom any more than that, or a sickening wave of guilt begins churning in his gut, and with no one to stop him as the milk light of dawn starts seeping through the window... he tends to break down.
If it's not one thing, it's another. Always another. He's too fat (that's a common one, usually thought as he digs his nails into the skin of his belly hard enough to leave crescent moons in the delicate flesh). Too skinny maybe, too scrawny - he watches as people like Yuri glide effortlessly across the ice, sewn together with sinewy muscle, so light it seems a gentle breeze could catch them in the air, and carry them into the wind.
He's not like that. He's just useless, skates as if weight is strapping him down. Even at his lightest, it was all wrong. Not perfect. Never was. Viktor would never have even given him the time of day if he knew him then, spending sleepless nights throwing dinner up into the toilet, positioning rulers across the jut of his hipbones to see if they finally stuck out enough.
His whole life is a sick balancing act.
Or maybe he's just too feminine. His hips curve out ever so slightly, his lips a constant pout, blush dotting his cheeks at the slightest praise. Jeez. No wonder people think he's a fag. He wants to curl into himself and let the earth swallow him whole when people say that, dumb shit spouted all over the newspapers about him and Viktor, how proud they are, how inspiring it all is.
And he isn't. Swears he isn't. It's a special relationship, theirs... can't be defined. Viktor's only affectionate because he wants Yuuri to be motivated. To succeed. He won't let himself think of any other possibilities. Especially not the nights spent staring at his posters, on the verge of childish tears with overwhelming admiration for his idol...
and he stops himself. He won't think thoughts like that anymore. They're dirty. Wrong.
So he tucks himself into bed, wipes a tear away and purses his lips. He won't break down tonight. He can't.
And yet, still, he knows that come tomorrow, he'll be doing the exact same thing again.