Yuri pushes up to meet him almost instantly, hands fumbling between them, on the seat and the gearshift and the air that's suddenly crackling with electricity. Everywhere but on him, where Victor suddenly, desperately, needs them to be: fisted in his coat or tangled in his hair, curved around his neck, cupped against his cheek.
It's been so long. (It's been barely two and a half days.) He hadn't even had the chance to get used to kissing Yuri before he was gone.
Had barely gotten to where Yuri started kissing him back, like this, without hesitation or thought. Nothing but pure need, flaring and brilliant, lighting a bonfire in Victor's chest that feels like it fills the whole car, obliterates the winter chill in a flash of flame when he pushes closer, both hands going to Yuri's face. A sound that feels like the whimper his heart has been making all day drifting up, unswallowed, only muffled against Yuri's mouth, and it hurts. Aches, the way he supposes a scar would ache after a surgery, when everything has been repaired but it all still feels raw and fragile, too easily torn apart and bloodied.
Nothing is quite right yet. Not yet.
But it's beginning to get there.
He doesn't care if anyone sees, if anyone else is walking past the car on the way to theirs. He'd held back by not doing this at the gate, hadn't he? How on earth could he be expected to wait any longer?
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Yuri pushes up to meet him almost instantly, hands fumbling between them, on the seat and the gearshift and the air that's suddenly crackling with electricity. Everywhere but on him, where Victor suddenly, desperately, needs them to be: fisted in his coat or tangled in his hair, curved around his neck, cupped against his cheek.
It's been so long. (It's been barely two and a half days.) He hadn't even had the chance to get used to kissing Yuri before he was gone.
Had barely gotten to where Yuri started kissing him back, like this, without hesitation or thought. Nothing but pure need, flaring and brilliant, lighting a bonfire in Victor's chest that feels like it fills the whole car, obliterates the winter chill in a flash of flame when he pushes closer, both hands going to Yuri's face. A sound that feels like the whimper his heart has been making all day drifting up, unswallowed, only muffled against Yuri's mouth, and it hurts. Aches, the way he supposes a scar would ache after a surgery, when everything has been repaired but it all still feels raw and fragile, too easily torn apart and bloodied.
Nothing is quite right yet. Not yet.
But it's beginning to get there.
He doesn't care if anyone sees, if anyone else is walking past the car on the way to theirs. He'd held back by not doing this at the gate, hadn't he? How on earth could he be expected to wait any longer?