Yuri tries not to gravitate toward Victor. What happened wasn't really appropriate.
Even if Victor has lived here long enough to know better, he gets the pass of being a foreigner. He gets the pass of being from somewhere else, where things are different. Yuri doesn't. Yuri should know better. Does know better. Tries to continue pushing that thing back down, that has no want to listen to him. Broken and sore, exhausted and needy, leaving him attempting valiantly to looking somewhere else.
Counting the signs toward baggage. Except looking away feels worse. Looking away feels like he'll look back and there will be nothing there.
It feels like the constant building pressure of that feeling of being slammed into a wall every single time he looked up to tell something to Victor yesterday, only to realize Victor wasn't there. Again, and again, no matter how many times it happened before the newest one. He tries not to deviate his steps, tries to keep just going forward, even when his gaze keeps sliding to the side. Even just to catch the edge of that jacket in motion. Victor's arm or his hand. Shoulder. Shoes.
It works mostly. It works when Maccachin walks between them, before circling one or the other direction around them and leaving that space there again. He can feel it almost like a physical presence. Or he can feel Victor across it now. Like he if closed his eyes and he might be able to still walk blind in the gravity of Victor's voice so nearby suddenly again.
"A little," might sound about as convincing as the real answer. Which it is. Yuri can sleep like the dead when he's exhausted and even still be half asleep on his feet a little while into a normal, training, morning when up at the right time, but planes are different. Stale and stiff, sitting upright, even with his neck pillow, even trying to sleep more than half of it, isn't the same kind of sleep.
Mix in all the hours between Moscow and Fukuoka, as well as everything from yesterday. Then it's a marvel that he managed to sleep at all, with it all combined up.
At least the rest is honest, and known. "Mostly it was just long."
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Date: 2017-07-20 01:52 pm (UTC)Even if Victor has lived here long enough to know better, he gets the pass of being a foreigner. He gets the pass of being from somewhere else, where things are different. Yuri doesn't. Yuri should know better. Does know better. Tries to continue pushing that thing back down, that has no want to listen to him. Broken and sore, exhausted and needy, leaving him attempting valiantly to looking somewhere else.
Counting the signs toward baggage. Except looking away feels worse.
Looking away feels like he'll look back and there will be nothing there.
It feels like the constant building pressure of that feeling of being slammed into a wall every single time he looked up to tell something to Victor yesterday, only to realize Victor wasn't there. Again, and again, no matter how many times it happened before the newest one. He tries not to deviate his steps, tries to keep just going forward, even when his gaze keeps sliding to the side. Even just to catch the edge of that jacket in motion. Victor's arm or his hand. Shoulder. Shoes.
It works mostly. It works when Maccachin walks between them, before circling one or the other direction around them and leaving that space there again. He can feel it almost like a physical presence. Or he can feel Victor across it now. Like he if closed his eyes and he might be able to still walk blind in the gravity of Victor's voice so nearby suddenly again.
"A little," might sound about as convincing as the real answer. Which it is. Yuri can sleep like the dead when he's exhausted and even still be half asleep on his feet a little while into a normal, training, morning when up at the right time, but planes are different. Stale and stiff, sitting upright, even with his neck pillow, even trying to sleep more than half of it, isn't the same kind of sleep.
Mix in all the hours between Moscow and Fukuoka, as well as everything from yesterday.
Then it's a marvel that he managed to sleep at all, with it all combined up.
At least the rest is honest, and known. "Mostly it was just long."