<b>Me when other people bind:</b> Always be safe. Don't use ace bandages. Stretch every couple of hours. Take it off if you experience any discomfort or pain. Do not bind for more than eight hours at once.<p/><b>Me when I bind:</b> Eight, thirteen, saME DIFFERENCE RIGHT<p/></p>
Viktor telling Yuuri to not stop with asking him to coach for one more year, that he wants him to become a five-time world champion - this him once again telling Yuuri he hopes he never retires so he can be his coach forever.
This is Viktor once again reiterating that he wants to stay with Yuuri always.
This is a statement of lasting devotion that they both know goes well beyond the rinks in Barcelona and Hasetsu and St. Petersburg.
Oh! And that ask said something and I forgot to say - Damian is doing better! He’s calmed down and slowly getting back to himself. He’s come back to laying on the bed and getting back to talking. (I think my neighbors finally came home too and took care of the poor puppy.)
Thank you for your nice thoughts! Damian used his magic in the bathroom candle to send you all good luck.
he’s still good nature, and wild, reckless abandon, like his bones are flexible and he has nothing left to give but his spinal cord and the nerve endings in his fingertips. he can do something. and that’s the biggest motivator. that he’s not afraid of thunderclap and rainwater, or blind to opportunity and possibility. also, superpowers. he could have been a sheep, locking windows and sitting sandbags at the doorway, just in case. instead the cape fiber is stuck to him, and he’s long past trying to keep the wind out of his eyes. if this is the damp doomsday to normality, then to billy kaplan, it’s a kid on the street corner with holes in their rain-jacket, and he’s holding an umbrella. or, that’s how it should be anyway. flight is just a hazard, he’d be collecting dirty raindrops in the corners of his eyelids if he even tried to focus long enough. so in the unscheduled downpour, he escorts the vulnerable to safe-houses, and works menial supply runs. he’s a volunteer. twice, he’s stopped sparks of haywire lighting strikes from clipping trees in city parks. he’s a hero.
right now, he should wish away the whirlwind armaggedon, but along the sidewalk is some overturned garbage bin, clattering like the weather wants to play kick-the-can with the cities broken pieces. and the hurricane cat-calls him, unending, full of itself and clamoring for all of his attention. both his sight, and mind are out of focus. and who carries something domestic, like earbuds, in a freak thunderstorm?
he could have been at home instead, he could have been sitting on his window ledge, and thinking of how cozy it all felt there, but no, he’s on the defense from someone’s unhinged garden gate ( he’s pretty sure that’s what it was ). it had clanged down his high-street and he’d acted like some shield-less captain america, the bar metal bouncing off the cosmic barricade he just has at his palms. not the most dangerous ‘fight or flight’ he’s been in, but the concrete got the injuries, not him. and now nature hates him too, some waterlogged city garden laughing at him when it tries to fell a tree into a glass office building. it’s heavy in his hands, even from here, on the other side of the road. if mother nature is a real person, he wants to hit her.