Étoile | Yuri Plisetsky

Chapter 2 | Écarté

Yuri's condition was worsening as days went by. His mind was like a blank canvas unable to revert the situation he was dragged into after losing his inspiration. Nothing felt right, not when he wasn't moving, not when his body was idle, when his mind was foggy like a mirror in the winter after a burning hot shower, incapable of showcasing any form of image besides a hazy blend of faded colours and a sense of uncertainty. Yuri refused to believe he did everything just for it to end up like a misty mirror.

One Saturday, he got up late; 9.11 am, that is. The feeling of waking up while the sun was already shining, bringing a bit of warmth to the usual cold mornings of Moscow, was unusual for him. Although the sunlight had sparked a certain feeling of minor ease within him, he couldn't deny that he felt guilty knowing Mila, Popovic and Viktor were working relentlessly while he was here waking up by the time they had finished their morning session. Frankly, he never experienced anything like this before.

In that same morning, he knew he had a ballet class with Lilia at 10 am. He thought of whether he should attend or not, and he thought for a while. It was now 9.34. If he had finally decided on going he would have to get ready quickly. So, he picked up his dance bag and checked if his canvas soft-shoes were inside. He took them out, examining them for a second, noticing the worn-off fabric and the greyish colour that stemmed from the soles and reached out to the canvas around them, tainting the vibrancy of the slippers that used to be white. He shoved them back in the bag with animosity.

He stripped quickly, leaving his clothes lying wrinkled on the floor. Slipping into his white ballet tights, he noticed his body had changed. A portion of which he remembered clearly as muscle was appearing a tad bit indefinite today. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him though, but the feeling of frailty was beginning to feel genuine. He pulled a casual t-shirt over his naked torso, short-sleeved and of a deep purple colour. He checked his phone; 9.42 am. He still had a moment. He grabbed his bag and a jacket and went outside, pulling the door shut and locking it carefully.

The studio was about ten minutes away from his house. He hurried and made it a six-minute jog, reaching the site at 9.50 am, just ten minutes earlier than the class. He stepped inside, dropping off his things in the lounge before removing his sneakers and wearing his ballet slippers. The white elastics hugged his high arch accentuating his perfect cou de pied. He glanced at his feet for a moment. The harsh bruising from skating slowly faded into lighter marks that peeked between the elastics.

Lilia immediately recognized Yuri. With her usual egocentric demeanour, she stepped towards him calmly. Her elegant poise granted by the countless years of training as a prima and the stern look in her eyes had Yuri subconsciously enter a state of vulnerability.

"Quite the nerve is what you have, Mr. Plisetsky. And what is this? May I know?" She pointed at his hair, pulling on a blond strand before harshly letting it go with a whip that reached his cheek. The woman seemed oddly calm, yet furious. She couldn't bear to look at his sorry state, although these feelings weren't rooted in care, but in a sick form of perfectionism.

"Tie it up, right now" she ordered, narrowing her eyes at the sight of her student.

"Yes, ma'am" he mumbled, his gaze pinned to the ground without a hint of confidence to uplift his tired eyes. He took a hair tie and pulled his hair up in a ponytail.

"Good" the prima nodded approvingly, without a trace of affection or satisfaction in her high-pitched voice.

"You quit skating, I heard" she added, raising a brow and crossing her skinny arms in front of her. Her skinny fingers tapped restlessly against her forearm as she waited for his answer.

"I did"

"Irrational decision. Did you at least talk it out with Yakov?" She questioned, closely examining his face. His features remained still, unmoving and lifeless. He spoke as though he was a walking corpse.