For someone who has spent his life balancing on centimeters of metal on ice, it’s disastrously unsettling how unbalanced he can feel while sitting down in a motionless car. He can’t really let go of whatever it is under his hand now, or turn sideways more than he’s twisted, can’t shift his knees, probably shouldn’t even if he could, but the can’t is louder. The can’t and the car, and the space being taken up by of his scarf and jacket, around him.
All of it somewhere under the impossible noise that Victor makes in the middle of kissing him, and the way his whole face is framed in Victor’s hands, and Yuri hasn’t a clue left whether it’s the last second of falling apart or something like coming back together. It feels like it’s the exact same thing with Victor this close. The all too clear memory of Victor somewhere else except here. Nearby. With him.
In the room. At the small sports arena. Like this.
Like this, that Yuri has nothing else to compare to. Nothing else to hold on to. Nothing else he’s ever wanted not to lose. Still no clue how it’s happening, but it is. While Victor is crowding closer, moving more than Yuri had even figured could be done and it’s hard to want to breathe when that becomes a necessity.
But it still happens, too. Both.
Victor kissing him, and the need for air.
Which leaves Yuri breathing faster and a little louder. Looking at Victor’s face so close again. The brilliance of his eyes, that is blinding. How exquisite every single part of Victor's every feature really is, tearing up Yuri's ability to keep any of the air he finds while looking at it all again.
Torn with the biting temptation -- of Victor this close, of the way his lips are throbbing just barely -- of just kissing Victor again, and not thinking about it, about anything except it, or maybe the new unchecked shock of kissing Victor again. Like days ago, that week ago, like that whole first hour, like it was impossible and miraculous and almost unbelievable, making his eyes fall toward Victor’s mouth, before climbing again.
Struck, again, with just how badly he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Anywhere in between. With anyone else to worry about, or feel like he’s being seen by. Just so done with everything and everyone else. With rules and requirements, and the demanding weights they all carry.
He just wants to be home. Home, with Victor and Maccachin.
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Date: 2017-07-26 12:26 am (UTC)For someone who has spent his life balancing on centimeters of metal on ice, it’s disastrously unsettling how unbalanced he can feel while sitting down in a motionless car. He can’t really let go of whatever it is under his hand now, or turn sideways more than he’s twisted, can’t shift his knees, probably shouldn’t even if he could, but the can’t is louder. The can’t and the car, and the space being taken up by of his scarf and jacket, around him.
All of it somewhere under the impossible noise that Victor makes in the middle of kissing him, and the way his whole face is framed in Victor’s hands, and Yuri hasn’t a clue left whether it’s the last second of falling apart or something like coming back together. It feels like it’s the exact same thing with Victor this close. The all too clear memory of Victor somewhere else except here. Nearby. With him.
In the room. At the small sports arena. Like this.
Like this, that Yuri has nothing else to compare to. Nothing else to hold on to. Nothing else he’s ever wanted not to lose. Still no clue how it’s happening, but it is. While Victor is crowding closer, moving more than Yuri had even figured could be done and it’s hard to want to breathe when that becomes a necessity.
But it still happens, too. Both.
Victor kissing him, and the need for air.
Which leaves Yuri breathing faster and a little louder. Looking at Victor’s face so close again. The brilliance of his eyes, that is blinding. How exquisite every single part of Victor's every feature really is, tearing up Yuri's ability to keep any of the air he finds while looking at it all again.
Torn with the biting temptation -- of Victor this close, of the way his lips are throbbing just barely -- of just kissing Victor again, and not thinking about it, about anything except it, or maybe the new unchecked shock of kissing Victor again. Like days ago, that week ago, like that whole first hour, like it was impossible and miraculous and almost unbelievable, making his eyes fall toward Victor’s mouth, before climbing again.
Struck, again, with just how badly he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else. Anywhere in between. With anyone else to worry about, or feel like he’s being seen by. Just so done with everything and everyone else. With rules and requirements, and the demanding weights they all carry.
He just wants to be home. Home, with Victor and Maccachin.