It keeps catching up under his step, like a surprising patch of ice. Looking up and Victor being there. Looking up and Maccachin dashing around the car, and then turning around on the seat in the car. Looking up, and being home, after what has been too few days to feel like it was a year.
Yuri can imagine he might hear about the triplets antics, but he doesn't feel a sore spot of something like guilt for them the way he does slightly for Minako Sensei. Easily obvious, they all watched for more than just him, but there was a sense of failing her, too, attached to the idea of her being up late, watching what had happened.
Better than the worst behind him…
…but not better than the day right before it. Not better than the weekend before that.
(He only gets one more chance. To fail. Or, to win. (Gold.)
It’s more than most — justsix — he has to remind himself.)
His head is everywhere, when he’s getting in, having to unclip and pull off his back, and almost feeling overly bulky in his coat. Or, maybe in himself, with his unhelpful thoughts. But it all goes still, soft pressure brushes over his cheek and his eyes have to look up, surprise and familiarity everywhere, even when the touch is cold. Tumbling into something both warm and a little painful, that only flares, as it goes from Victor touching him to Victor saying those words, to Victor leaning in and kissing him.
Everything in him slipping disjointedly sideways, on another one of those patches of ice. He’s exhausted, he’s all out sorts, he doesn’t deserve, they’re still in the parking lot, his seat belt isn’t even on … and none of that make it louder than a whisper or longer than a second. Not before something else pushes up overwhelming it.
That same feeling from the waiting area, when he crashed into Victor’s chest, sounding out louder from what feels like every single part of his body. Every fear about the questions about this, this, too — about how they haven’t been apart in months, since what happened in Shanghai, that maybe everything would change, especially with his nearly falling apart, again — echoing and obliterating all at once.
When Yuri fumbles, almost tumbling, just trying figure out where to even put a hand on the everything between the two seats he isn’t even looking at, in his haste to lean up, to find Victor, the lips pressed to his. The end of all this endless space and silence. Something desperate, and needy, and undeniable everywhere, cut open, again, reaching back out from it.
Not sure he’s ever missed anything like he missed Victor. Except for Vicchan, when it was too late. Maybe … maybe not even then. Maybe not ever at all. Wasn't it not supposed to hurt once Victor was this close, once it was over?
no subject
It keeps catching up under his step, like a surprising patch of ice. Looking up and Victor being there. Looking up and Maccachin dashing around the car, and then turning around on the seat in the car. Looking up, and being home, after what has been too few days to feel like it was a year.
Yuri can imagine he might hear about the triplets antics, but he doesn't feel a sore spot of something like guilt for them the way he does slightly for Minako Sensei. Easily obvious, they all watched for more than just him, but there was a sense of failing her, too, attached to the idea of her being up late, watching what had happened.
Better than the worst behind him…
Not better than the weekend before that.
(He only gets one more chance.
To fail. Or, to win. (Gold.)
It’s more than most
— just six —
he has to remind himself.)
His head is everywhere, when he’s getting in, having to unclip and pull off his back, and almost feeling overly bulky in his coat. Or, maybe in himself, with his unhelpful thoughts. But it all goes still, soft pressure brushes over his cheek and his eyes have to look up, surprise and familiarity everywhere, even when the touch is cold. Tumbling into something both warm and a little painful, that only flares, as it goes from Victor touching him to Victor saying those words, to Victor leaning in and kissing him.
Everything in him slipping disjointedly sideways, on another one of those patches of ice. He’s exhausted, he’s all out sorts, he doesn’t deserve, they’re still in the parking lot, his seat belt isn’t even on … and none of that make it louder than a whisper or longer than a second. Not before something else pushes up overwhelming it.
That same feeling from the waiting area, when he crashed into Victor’s chest, sounding out louder from what feels like every single part of his body. Every fear about the questions about this, this, too — about how they haven’t been apart in months, since what happened in Shanghai, that maybe everything would change, especially with his nearly falling apart, again — echoing and obliterating all at once.
When Yuri fumbles, almost tumbling, just trying figure out where to even put a hand on the everything between the two seats he isn’t even looking at, in his haste to lean up, to find Victor, the lips pressed to his. The end of all this endless space and silence. Something desperate, and needy, and undeniable everywhere, cut open, again, reaching back out from it.
Not sure he’s ever missed anything like he missed Victor. Except for Vicchan, when it was too late. Maybe … maybe not even then. Maybe not ever at all. Wasn't it not supposed to hurt once Victor was this close, once it was over?