Yuri feels like something strains inside of him. Something he can’t entirely explain down to why it happens. Or even how. Because it should -- is -- physically impossible. But Victor slides off from him, saying he’ll get the bag, and it feels like the section of Yuri's chest right under his throat and above his backpack clip strap goes tense. His stomach crunching inward the further Victor gets away, twisting through people. Which is insane. It’s insane. Victor is right there.
Victor is in his line of sight. He never leaves it.
Victor is getting his bag.
Yuri presses his lips together harder, blinking too much, and giving a little startle when he has to look down when there’s head butt against his ankle. Honestly, sometimes, Maccachin seems almost aware of things, and Yuri says, quietly, not sure if it’s actually to himself or the poodle. “I’m fine.”
He was exhausted. That was all. That was it.
He wasn't ever good at competition weekends even on a good day.
The disastrous little head-first dash into his ribs his heart does, when he looks up from Maccachin and Victor is almost right in front of him, calls him a liar outright. He’s nodding dumbly, hoping it’s not written over the entirety of his face. Instead just saying, “Thank you.”
Which happens just about at the same second Victor’s hand finds his shoulder. Over his coat, and next to his backpack strap.
A familiar weight even through his coat and a sweater. One that has been missing for too long, even if too long is pathetically short for someone who managed years away from everyone, and he can’t help, can’t stop, that he sags a little in the direction of that touch, it almost catching his step, before he keeps going, keeps following walking Victor is leading him now.
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Date: 2017-07-22 02:50 pm (UTC)Victor is in his line of sight. He never leaves it.
Victor is getting his bag.
Yuri presses his lips together harder, blinking too much, and giving a little startle when he has to look down when there’s head butt against his ankle. Honestly, sometimes, Maccachin seems almost aware of things, and Yuri says, quietly, not sure if it’s actually to himself or the poodle. “I’m fine.”
He was exhausted. That was all. That was it.
He wasn't ever good at competition weekends even on a good day.
The disastrous little head-first dash into his ribs his heart does, when he looks up from Maccachin and Victor is almost right in front of him, calls him a liar outright. He’s nodding dumbly, hoping it’s not written over the entirety of his face. Instead just saying, “Thank you.”
Which happens just about at the same second Victor’s hand finds his shoulder. Over his coat, and next to his backpack strap.
A familiar weight even through his coat and a sweater. One that has been missing for too long, even if too long is pathetically short for someone who managed years away from everyone, and he can’t help, can’t stop, that he sags a little in the direction of that touch, it almost catching his step, before he keeps going, keeps following walking Victor is leading him now.