He isn’t expecting, when Victor’s hand starts pulling one of his shoulder-clutched hands from his shoulder, that Victor will pull it to his mouth, and kiss his knuckles. The soft press of lips making Yuri’s heart give a surprised yelp, as his shoulders curl in a little, cheeks warming, and he’s all the more aware, for a second, of all the people around them.
Which last until those words, which blow the first few seconds further out. Yuri’s eyes going wider, cheeks getting slightly hotter, in surprise that’s almost alarm. That almost falters into a scrambling denial. The option opens itself like a trap door in front of his feet. Except. He’s still staring at Victor over it.
Victor’s soft expression, and the way he's still got the ghost of that smile holding on. Everything about his polished appearance and perfect poise seemingly wiped away by his exhaustion and the late night — and the last two days? Is that even possible? But it is, even without an answer to the unspoken question, soft. His expression. His words.
Maybe a little out of proportion.
But that’s very Victor, too, isn’t it?
That’s exactly what he wanted. To be here. To have Victor back. Everything Victor is, from the shining distant perfection of his suits during competitions to these kinds of inflated responses for very seriously put statements. Everything that is Victor, it was all he wanted for days. Yuri’s heart wobbles, too warm, and his eyes prickle a little more even, when he can’t help the just barely there smile that curves his lips.
There isn’t a trap door. There’s just Victor. Finally, finally there in front of him. With him.
He doesn’t care who’s watching, doesn't care how many of them might be offended at the moment, Yuri steps back toward Victor. His head ducking down, so his cheek can rub against Victor’s shoulder, and his eyes can close again, while his arms are finding their way back around Victor’s sides.
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He isn’t expecting, when Victor’s hand starts pulling one of his shoulder-clutched hands from his shoulder, that Victor will pull it to his mouth, and kiss his knuckles. The soft press of lips making Yuri’s heart give a surprised yelp, as his shoulders curl in a little, cheeks warming, and he’s all the more aware, for a second, of all the people around them.
Which last until those words, which blow the first few seconds further out. Yuri’s eyes going wider, cheeks getting slightly hotter, in surprise that’s almost alarm. That almost falters into a scrambling denial. The option opens itself like a trap door in front of his feet. Except. He’s still staring at Victor over it.
Victor’s soft expression, and the way he's still got the ghost of that smile holding on. Everything about his polished appearance and perfect poise seemingly wiped away by his exhaustion and the late night — and the last two days? Is that even possible? But it is, even without an answer to the unspoken question, soft. His expression. His words.
Maybe a little out of proportion.
But that’s very Victor, too, isn’t it?
That’s exactly what he wanted. To be here. To have Victor back. Everything Victor is, from the shining distant perfection of his suits during competitions to these kinds of inflated responses for very seriously put statements. Everything that is Victor, it was all he wanted for days. Yuri’s heart wobbles, too warm, and his eyes prickle a little more even, when he can’t help the just barely there smile that curves his lips.
There isn’t a trap door. There’s just Victor. Finally, finally there in front of him. With him.
He doesn’t care who’s watching, doesn't care how many of them might be offended at the moment, Yuri steps back toward Victor. His head ducking down, so his cheek can rub against Victor’s shoulder, and his eyes can close again, while his arms are finding their way back around Victor’s sides.