If there’s a thing Katsuki Yuuri is really, intimately used to, that must be falling. He’s been doing just that all his life, has learned the pains and the joy of a well executed fall, has been drilled on which way to turn and how to get up. He’s prepared to rise again, every time, higher and higher, tumbling down a step just to climb two.
They say the higher you fly, the harder you fall. Failures are recognizable, merciless, because they’re messy and big, always more easily remembered than success.
By this line of reasoning, you’d think spectacular falls would also make a great noise. And sometimes, they do. But not here, not now: that’s the irony of the unforgiving ice. No matter how hard you fall, the sound of your skin scraping against the cold surface is ridiculously faint. A hollow thud, and that’s it.
No matter if you ruined your whole life or just gained a new painful bruise for your already complete collection, the noise will be the same, measly and inconspicuous. Because the real sound is the one you make, grunting or screaming or crying, and the ice doesn’t ever want to steal the spotlight.