There's the urge to flinch or look away, or straighten up and look down at his lap, every time Victor looks at him. It prickles at the back of his neck, the way nothing seemed right when he looked at anyone in the last day -- two?; time is even hazier with the time in the air. He doesn't but every time it wiggles a little harder. Only helped by the fact Victor can't keep looking at him doing it, as Victor has to keep driving the car.
"Back to real beds," Yuri says, because it's the first thing to come to mind, even ...
Even if he's not really thinking about it at all. He is, in one sense of the way. He's not ignoring Victor's words. He's not sure he could not hear Victor right now even if he was deaf, even if someone sliced his ears off. It feels like Victor's voice and his words sink in on a nearly cellular level. Like they are the only real thing. Yuri can't even really explain it to himself. Like the wind in the trees around you, or the fall of snow, but, also, the ground keeping you steady.
It's doing all of that. It doesn't stop doing it. He doesn't stop yearning for each new word. He doesn't stop feeling the tension catch just a little in his chest waiting between his sentences.
But.
He's not entirely paying attention to it either. Or not. To just it.
His gaze had fallen on the hand on Victor's lap. The one without a glove. Just long, slender, pale fingers. Resting on his slacks. All but inert. Laying there. His coat sleeve cutting off the image of the entire back of his hand. Delicate wrist.
Those hands, alone, have stolen hearts and (W)orlds. Those hands have been so far away.
Just gone. Like the rest of Victor, just gone. Just gone. Even for good reason, just gone. Yuri doesn't entirely think about it when he stops fretting at one spot of the end of his coat with his fingers, just barely, and reaches out for Victor's hand. Not certain, even in movement, whether he'd meant to just touch the back of his hand, or the tops of his fingers. Whether he'd has, had, a plan at all, and not just another desperate impossibility that refused all but compliance.
But his throat sticks when his palm covers the back of Victor's hand, fingers curling slightly under, and he tugs it toward himself.
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There's the urge to flinch or look away, or straighten up and look down at his lap, every time Victor looks at him. It prickles at the back of his neck, the way nothing seemed right when he looked at anyone in the last day -- two?; time is even hazier with the time in the air. He doesn't but every time it wiggles a little harder. Only helped by the fact Victor can't keep looking at him doing it, as Victor has to keep driving the car.
"Back to real beds," Yuri says, because it's the first thing to come to mind, even ...
Even if he's not really thinking about it at all. He is, in one sense of the way. He's not ignoring Victor's words. He's not sure he could not hear Victor right now even if he was deaf, even if someone sliced his ears off. It feels like Victor's voice and his words sink in on a nearly cellular level. Like they are the only real thing. Yuri can't even really explain it to himself. Like the wind in the trees around you, or the fall of snow, but, also, the ground keeping you steady.
It's doing all of that. It doesn't stop doing it. He doesn't stop yearning for each new word.
He doesn't stop feeling the tension catch just a little in his chest waiting between his sentences.
But.
He's not entirely paying attention to it either. Or not. To just it.
His gaze had fallen on the hand on Victor's lap. The one without a glove.
Just long, slender, pale fingers. Resting on his slacks. All but inert. Laying there.
His coat sleeve cutting off the image of the entire back of his hand. Delicate wrist.
Those hands, alone, have stolen hearts and (W)orlds. Those hands have been so far away.
Just gone. Like the rest of Victor, just gone. Just gone. Even for good reason, just gone. Yuri doesn't entirely think about it when he stops fretting at one spot of the end of his coat with his fingers, just barely, and reaches out for Victor's hand. Not certain, even in movement, whether he'd meant to just touch the back of his hand, or the tops of his fingers. Whether he'd has, had, a plan at all, and not just another desperate impossibility that refused all but compliance.
But his throat sticks when his palm covers the back of Victor's hand, fingers curling slightly under, and he tugs it toward himself.