He would have argued, if weakly, even a minute ago that he’d done better than he could have. Even with barely passing. Even with not figuring out until the middle of his skate that he wasn’t giving up, that he wanted the Gold, wanted to win the Grand Prix Finale, he still had this in him, Victor. That he hadn’t burst into tears, sobbing, this time and, even if he had hugged half a dozen people, he hadn’t gone off screaming at anyone at any point
But when Victor starts running with him, on the other side of the glass, something impossibly crazy feels like it snaps, feels like it washes all of that and everything else with any sense of logic or order out to sea in the space of a second. In the bright color of those eyes and the tight features that feel like a mirror reflection of the tension in his heart. The one, not releasing in a breath of relief at Victor’s face, Victor’s speed, only tightening harder and harder with the space left, the refusal of the glass between to stop existing.
Yuri has to stay close to the side and dodge people in front of him. Has to round a corner to where the final door will be, and he loses sight of Victor for maybe two seconds, but even that is too long now, after too long before now. He has to pull up hard from his flat out run at the door right in front of him, caught in movement but with the barrier refusing to stop existing, too. Shifting from foot to foot, too fast, and not fast enough, stuck standing as bare seconds slide, trapped in pounding momentum, with Victor’s standing, staring at him, from only five or ten feet away.
It’s too long even waiting the few seconds for those glass doors, with their welcome signs on one side and warnings on the other, to slide open, and Victor stands there, all stillness and perfection, throwing his arms open and Yuri barrels forward. Yuri can hear himself gasping, and it feels like there's no room for air left as the space shrinks to feet, then inches. Then. It’s wonder they don’t go stumbling backward, when Yuri throws himself into those arms, in a way it’s never felt from the ice to Victor waiting rink-side.
He doesn’t care if he does smash his glasses into Victor, doesn’t care if they are about to go toppling over in his haste, in the desperation that is everything, that only seems to crescendo in the second his face pushes into Victor’s chest, and then shoulder, and his arms wrap around Victor, under Victor's suddenly around him, like Victor’s the last thing to hold onto in an endless drowning sea.
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He would have argued, if weakly, even a minute ago that he’d done better than he could have. Even with barely passing. Even with not figuring out until the middle of his skate that he wasn’t giving up, that he wanted the Gold, wanted to win the Grand Prix Finale, he still had this in him, Victor. That he hadn’t burst into tears, sobbing, this time and, even if he had hugged half a dozen people, he hadn’t gone off screaming at anyone at any point
But when Victor starts running with him, on the other side of the glass, something impossibly crazy feels like it snaps, feels like it washes all of that and everything else with any sense of logic or order out to sea in the space of a second. In the bright color of those eyes and the tight features that feel like a mirror reflection of the tension in his heart. The one, not releasing in a breath of relief at Victor’s face, Victor’s speed, only tightening harder and harder with the space left, the refusal of the glass between to stop existing.
Yuri has to stay close to the side and dodge people in front of him. Has to round a corner to where the final door will be, and he loses sight of Victor for maybe two seconds, but even that is too long now, after too long before now. He has to pull up hard from his flat out run at the door right in front of him, caught in movement but with the barrier refusing to stop existing, too. Shifting from foot to foot, too fast, and not fast enough, stuck standing as bare seconds slide, trapped in pounding momentum, with Victor’s standing, staring at him, from only five or ten feet away.
It’s too long even waiting the few seconds for those glass doors, with their welcome signs on one side and warnings on the other, to slide open, and Victor stands there, all stillness and perfection, throwing his arms open and Yuri barrels forward. Yuri can hear himself gasping, and it feels like there's no room for air left as the space shrinks to feet, then inches. Then. It’s wonder they don’t go stumbling backward, when Yuri throws himself into those arms, in a way it’s never felt from the ice to Victor waiting rink-side.
He doesn’t care if he does smash his glasses into Victor, doesn’t care if they are about to go toppling over in his haste, in the desperation that is everything, that only seems to crescendo in the second his face pushes into Victor’s chest, and then shoulder, and his arms wrap around Victor, under Victor's suddenly around him, like Victor’s the last thing to hold onto in an endless drowning sea.