Yuri scoots down in his seat just a little, and maybe it's more than half as an excuse to shift just a little more into a position that makes it more comfortable, with his chin at the top of the seat back and his temple on the headrest, to go on looking in the direction of Victor driving. The profile of his face as he focuses on the world outside the window, the one Yuri doesn't more than casually glance toward before back.
There's a little bit of anxiousness about not looking away when he should. But he doesn't want to look out his window, even if he just said he missed his home. And he doesn't want to look at his lap, because he's spent the weekend doing that already.
It makes Yuri want to fidget, makes him shift a little, before trying to hold far more still. "Maybe."
He doesn't know if he's agreeing or disagreeing. Last year was ... bad. The only word that would ever fit was bad. All of it so bad. Only marginally up from terribly uncertain when he came home, and it was all different now. Not everything. Not the uncertainty. But Victor, there. Victor, driving the car, and picking him up, and coaching him, and ...
Victor as some more than that even. Victor, who said he missed Yuri and still wanted to kiss him after finally breaking away. When there are every chance he might just realize that he'd made some great error of inundation. Or stress. Or all the hours working together. But hadn't.
Not that Yuri could talk. Not that his own mind changed. But hadn't Yuri been in love with Victor, in some part, forever? Hadn't everyone he'd known teased him about in some amount?
But. Victor is Victor, whether Yuri adds or refrains from his last name.
The whole world is in love with Victor. It's not special. It doesn't make him different.
Except. Victor kissed him. Again. Didn't change his mind. Said he'd missed Yuri. Told Yuri to come home, and joked about his request as though it was a proposal.
He'd said so many things. I believe in you and dream of me right next to you, and that's where I'll be. Victor who always had all of the right words. Beautiful, put together, heart-stopping words. Impossible, but always perfect. While Yuri just had all of these feelings. That he wished he could just show Victor. Pull him into. So he could feel them, too. How everything it was. Important, and confusing. Left him wanting to do more. Say more. With no clue no idea, what the right thing even was. Only the greater ache for its imprisonment.
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Yuri scoots down in his seat just a little, and maybe it's more than half as an excuse to shift just a little more into a position that makes it more comfortable, with his chin at the top of the seat back and his temple on the headrest, to go on looking in the direction of Victor driving. The profile of his face as he focuses on the world outside the window, the one Yuri doesn't more than casually glance toward before back.
There's a little bit of anxiousness about not looking away when he should.
But he doesn't want to look out his window, even if he just said he missed his home.
And he doesn't want to look at his lap, because he's spent the weekend doing that already.
It makes Yuri want to fidget, makes him shift a little, before trying to hold far more still. "Maybe."
He doesn't know if he's agreeing or disagreeing. Last year was ... bad. The only word that would ever fit was bad. All of it so bad. Only marginally up from terribly uncertain when he came home, and it was all different now. Not everything. Not the uncertainty. But Victor, there. Victor, driving the car, and picking him up, and coaching him, and ...
Victor as some more than that even. Victor, who said he missed Yuri and still wanted to kiss him after finally breaking away. When there are every chance he might just realize that he'd made some great error of inundation. Or stress. Or all the hours working together. But hadn't.
Not that Yuri could talk. Not that his own mind changed.
But hadn't Yuri been in love with Victor, in some part, forever?
Hadn't everyone he'd known teased him about in some amount?
But. Victor is Victor, whether Yuri adds or refrains from his last name.
It's not special. It doesn't make him different.
Except. Victor kissed him. Again. Didn't change his mind. Said he'd missed Yuri.
Told Yuri to come home, and joked about his request as though it was a proposal.
He'd said so many things. I believe in you and dream of me right next to you, and that's where I'll be. Victor who always had all of the right words. Beautiful, put together, heart-stopping words. Impossible, but always perfect. While Yuri just had all of these feelings. That he wished he could just show Victor. Pull him into. So he could feel them, too. How everything it was. Important, and confusing. Left him wanting to do more. Say more. With no clue no idea, what the right thing even was. Only the greater ache for its imprisonment.