Disorientation is the way everything in his head flips as neatly, and completely, as a switch changing a room from dark to light. One second, he's certain all he wants is to not have to be here, be near anyone else, and the next? The next, Victor's pulling away, taking the first step that makes that a reality, and everything inside of Yuri is certain that nothing else exists except the desperate want to make that stop happening. For Victor not to pull away. Victor not to be anywhere else.
Which feels winding and stupid. Childish. Embarrassing, when Victor is barely more than a foot away at best. If he wanted to be exceedingly stupid, he could reach out and touch him. Or press his fingers to his mouth, again.
He doesn't know how anyone in the world ever didn't explain or describe being kissed like something branded on you. Absolutely overwhelming, but left on you in throbbing heat that feels entirely like it has to have left a mark burned into his skin. It hasn't at any point in the week before the last few days -- and he has looked, not that he's admitting that to anyone, especially not Victor, and not that he ever expected to see anything but himself, the way he's always been, in the mirror -- but it still feels like it.
Turning back right, Yuri tugged his seatbelt on, but that was as long as he made it before the first look toward Victor again. Even with Victor's hand's at the edge of his vision, and the car turning on and moving. Just a necessity, without thought, like breathing, like the simple, constant beat of relief as Victor's voice fills the space and he nods. "I missed it."
Maybe there's some surprise in those words.
Maybe it's more that the only thing he can think saying them is I missed you.
Maybe it's those few Russian words, suddenly there in his head again, still, and whether he missed entirely when he should have said them. Earlier. When Victor did. Or when he bowled straight into Victor in the waiting room, not caring. Maybe he shouldn't have cared and just blurted it out then, too. Why hadn't he been able to think them, think anything, then. If it's too much, and too reaching, and what was he even thinking.
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Date: 2017-07-26 02:04 am (UTC)Disorientation is the way everything in his head flips as neatly, and completely, as a switch changing a room from dark to light. One second, he's certain all he wants is to not have to be here, be near anyone else, and the next? The next, Victor's pulling away, taking the first step that makes that a reality, and everything inside of Yuri is certain that nothing else exists except the desperate want to make that stop happening. For Victor not to pull away. Victor not to be anywhere else.
Which feels winding and stupid. Childish. Embarrassing, when Victor is barely more than a foot away at best.
If he wanted to be exceedingly stupid, he could reach out and touch him. Or press his fingers to his mouth, again.
He doesn't know how anyone in the world ever didn't explain or describe being kissed like something branded on you. Absolutely overwhelming, but left on you in throbbing heat that feels entirely like it has to have left a mark burned into his skin. It hasn't at any point in the week before the last few days -- and he has looked, not that he's admitting that to anyone, especially not Victor, and not that he ever expected to see anything but himself, the way he's always been, in the mirror -- but it still feels like it.
Turning back right, Yuri tugged his seatbelt on, but that was as long as he made it before the first look toward Victor again. Even with Victor's hand's at the edge of his vision, and the car turning on and moving. Just a necessity, without thought, like breathing, like the simple, constant beat of relief as Victor's voice fills the space and he nods. "I missed it."
Maybe there's some surprise in those words.
Maybe it's more that the only thing he can think saying them is I missed you.
Maybe it's those few Russian words, suddenly there in his head again, still, and whether he missed entirely when he should have said them. Earlier. When Victor did. Or when he bowled straight into Victor in the waiting room, not caring. Maybe he shouldn't have cared and just blurted it out then, too. Why hadn't he been able to think them, think anything, then. If it's too much, and too reaching, and what was he even thinking.