Yuri isn’t certain when it was he got used to having Victor’s voice in the background of everything.
He remembers when it used to feel like every new word and every new sentence had him on the tips of toes, jumping at attention, heart racing, unprepared and trying to hold on to each new one, like they were being shoved into his arms and he could never hold enough of them to pay close enough attention, to stop his heart, to keep from dropping words and sentences everywhere, without even beginning to make sense of why Victor was talking to him and why Victor wanted him to respond. That was so long ago. But he remembers it perfectly clear.
He doesn’t remember when this happened.
When every word, rambled against the background of his thoughts and stumbling emotions, feels like it absolutely belongs there, whether he can find the words to respond or not. The way it feels more like air than breathing in does, and he doesn’t even feel anxious when Victor jumps between two or three different things without waiting for him to answer. He doesn’t know why it makes him want to slump, want to curl up in a ball, want to close his eyes, dig the palms of his hands into them, and just breathe in deeper, breathe out longer.
It hurts, but it hurts in the way where it doesn’t, too. Like all of his aching muscles are finally loosening. Throbbing from the tension. Throbbing from the first second of release. Part of him doesn’t even want to respond. He just wants to keep listening to Victor’s voice babbling and rolling over him in waves against the constant noise of the rest of the airport. Simultaneously, like he could somehow fall asleep to it and like he hasn’t been awake, in days, until hearing it.
He thinks about the last question in there, at least for a second or two, and maybe he feels a little ashamed for it. He knows Victor likes to go out places, even places he’s been to a dozen times, and he loves to drag Yuri out to them, even if Yuri’s been to them all but five years of his life. But more people, after a weekend of crowds and cameras, and being slapped onto a contingent of Russians he couldn’t even understand, and more than half a day on a plane, packed into such a small place, sounds excruciating. He doesn’t want more people. If he could turn around and just be home, he’d do that.
“I’m okay. I ate not too long ago on the plane,” Yuri mumbles, apologetically.
He probably ate more than he should. More than likely. Absolutely. Fretting and spiraling in the silence of having nothing but his head and his music, worried about getting here, about what Victor would say about it all, and with too many regrets attached to the day he’d just had. Convincing himself he had weeks before the next competition and he’d be back to working hard starting that day or the next at home anyway.
“That one,” Yuri points toward where his suitcase has just come through the wall opening, even if it has to snake the conveyer belt toward them still, and even though Victor knows well and fine exactly what his luggage looks like. A worn, well-used, thing that has seen him through the last six years.
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Date: 2017-07-21 04:27 am (UTC)He remembers when it used to feel like every new word and every new sentence had him on the tips of toes, jumping at attention, heart racing, unprepared and trying to hold on to each new one, like they were being shoved into his arms and he could never hold enough of them to pay close enough attention, to stop his heart, to keep from dropping words and sentences everywhere, without even beginning to make sense of why Victor was talking to him and why Victor wanted him to respond. That was so long ago. But he remembers it perfectly clear.
He doesn’t remember when this happened.
When every word, rambled against the background of his thoughts and stumbling emotions, feels like it absolutely belongs there, whether he can find the words to respond or not. The way it feels more like air than breathing in does, and he doesn’t even feel anxious when Victor jumps between two or three different things without waiting for him to answer. He doesn’t know why it makes him want to slump, want to curl up in a ball, want to close his eyes, dig the palms of his hands into them, and just breathe in deeper, breathe out longer.
It hurts, but it hurts in the way where it doesn’t, too. Like all of his aching muscles are finally loosening. Throbbing from the tension. Throbbing from the first second of release. Part of him doesn’t even want to respond. He just wants to keep listening to Victor’s voice babbling and rolling over him in waves against the constant noise of the rest of the airport. Simultaneously, like he could somehow fall asleep to it and like he hasn’t been awake, in days, until hearing it.
He thinks about the last question in there, at least for a second or two, and maybe he feels a little ashamed for it. He knows Victor likes to go out places, even places he’s been to a dozen times, and he loves to drag Yuri out to them, even if Yuri’s been to them all but five years of his life. But more people, after a weekend of crowds and cameras, and being slapped onto a contingent of Russians he couldn’t even understand, and more than half a day on a plane, packed into such a small place, sounds excruciating. He doesn’t want more people. If he could turn around and just be home, he’d do that.
“I’m okay. I ate not too long ago on the plane,” Yuri mumbles, apologetically.
He probably ate more than he should. More than likely. Absolutely. Fretting and spiraling in the silence of having nothing but his head and his music, worried about getting here, about what Victor would say about it all, and with too many regrets attached to the day he’d just had. Convincing himself he had weeks before the next competition and he’d be back to working hard starting that day or the next at home anyway.
“That one,” Yuri points toward where his suitcase has just come through the wall opening, even if it has to snake the conveyer belt toward them still, and even though Victor knows well and fine exactly what his luggage looks like. A worn, well-used, thing that has seen him through the last six years.