thoughts on my first season as a figure skating fan + favorite skates
With the 2016-17 figure skating competitive season firmly behind us, I’ve had the time to look back and reflect on my first season as a figure skating fan.
Like many newly turned figure skating fans this season, I got into figure skating fandom thanks to Yuri on Ice. A recommended Youtube video–and a world-record breaking free skate in Barcelona later–I had crossed fandoms entirely and unwittingly signed up for what was to be the most nerve-wracking, heart palpitating Experience™ ever. I even started writing fic to cope with the trauma. (How do you veteran figure skating fans last? I deduce that figure skating fans must either have nerves of steel or a streak of masochism to cope with the emotional highs and lows of the season.)
My figure skating fan journey officially kicked off in Marseille at the Grand Prix Final. It’s a little mind blowing to look back and see how the first figure skating competition I followed became an exercise in absurdity (#frencheventplanning). Next stop was my first livestreaming experience at 4am in the morning (#greatlifechoices) for Four Continents in Gangneung, a reputedly low-key competition transmorgified into a terrifying, heart-pounding prelude to the World Championships in Helsinki where history was made, hearts were broken, and some of the most inspiring skates were recorded.
[Hey it’s me back with a small lil ficlet, once again with that Parasite AU, and this time with some people other than your usual suspects. Hilariously enough, this wasn’t even conceived as part of the Parasite AU at first, but then I realized I could rework it to fit. So here we are.]
Though Yoshikage was not tethered to the alleyway as Reimi was, he always felt guilty for leaving her behind whenever he went out to venture, and stayed with her as long as he could before he was tugged away by duty to keep vigilant among the rest of Morioh. Reimi, wanting for company, didn’t turn him away.
They were on their god-knew-what lap around the ever extending, ever-the-same corridor. They took it slow; the dead had no need to rush. Reimi’s trailing, pale ribbons whipped against the air as Yoshikage’s quiet, measured steps tapped beside her, with Arnold–snuffling about at the scent Yoshikage had dragged in from the outside–bringing up the back. The shadow of the brim of Yoshikage’s bowler, tilted jauntily downward, attempted its best to cover the gruesome chunks taken from his face, to no avail. The slow dripping blood of Arnold’s neck wound added to the solemn portrait.