Some light response to Yuri's vague and faintly disconnected answer (maybe he is falling asleep, after all?), but it sticks first against a solid wall of rejection at the word beds.
Not the idea of it. The plurality.
More than one bed for them to be in. More than one room.
It's not as if he's dragged Yuri into a single bed after that first night –– even if he'd pushed the beds in the Star Hotel room together, they'd still been seperate in all the ways that counted –– so it shouldn't be a surprise. He shouldn't get that nasty pit dropping open in his stomach at the thought of getting home only to have Yuri disappear again.
Back down the hall. Back to the distance they'd had since last spring, until Shanghai.
Even if it makes perfect sense for Yuri to be looking forward to his bed and his room, Victor had almost forgotten about them. The beds. The rooms. Getting Yuri back only to give him up again.
He doesn't quite know what to do with it all, so he's searching for something light to say when there's a brush of something light and warm against his hand, and he looks, a laughing scold for Maccachin lifting to his lips, only to die there when he realizes it isn't Maccachin at all, but Yuri.
Yuri, shyly but with determination, taking his hand. Taking. Not just touching. Slipping his fingers around and pulling it toward himself, while Victor's heart swirls into a sudden tarantella and the hand on the wheel tightens in jealous reaction.
He has to watch the road, but he wants to watch this: Yuri, carefully taking his hand. It feels like the moment might shatter if he breathes too hard, if he says anything, calls attention to it, but he can't help it, it's like every nerve in his body is focused and electric only on this.
Only on Yuri's fingers, and palm. Making the pause he waits to see if it was just a fluke, a squeeze, or –– something else, he doesn't know what –– before he shifts his hand just enough to be able to slip his fingers between Yuri's, palm brushing against palm, while his gentle smile belies the way his heart is crashing itself against his ribs, head-on, helpless, exploding, and he finally knows what it is he should be saying.
no subject
Some light response to Yuri's vague and faintly disconnected answer (maybe he is falling asleep, after all?), but it sticks first against a solid wall of rejection at the word beds.
Not the idea of it. The plurality.
More than one bed for them to be in. More than one room.
It's not as if he's dragged Yuri into a single bed after that first night –– even if he'd pushed the beds in the Star Hotel room together, they'd still been seperate in all the ways that counted –– so it shouldn't be a surprise. He shouldn't get that nasty pit dropping open in his stomach at the thought of getting home only to have Yuri disappear again.
Back down the hall. Back to the distance they'd had since last spring, until Shanghai.
Even if it makes perfect sense for Yuri to be looking forward to his bed and his room, Victor had almost forgotten about them. The beds. The rooms. Getting Yuri back only to give him up again.
He doesn't quite know what to do with it all, so he's searching for something light to say when there's a brush of something light and warm against his hand, and he looks, a laughing scold for Maccachin lifting to his lips, only to die there when he realizes it isn't Maccachin at all, but Yuri.
Yuri, shyly but with determination, taking his hand. Taking. Not just touching. Slipping his fingers around and pulling it toward himself, while Victor's heart swirls into a sudden tarantella and the hand on the wheel tightens in jealous reaction.
He has to watch the road, but he wants to watch this: Yuri, carefully taking his hand. It feels like the moment might shatter if he breathes too hard, if he says anything, calls attention to it, but he can't help it, it's like every nerve in his body is focused and electric only on this.
Only on Yuri's fingers, and palm. Making the pause he waits to see if it was just a fluke, a squeeze, or –– something else, he doesn't know what –– before he shifts his hand just enough to be able to slip his fingers between Yuri's, palm brushing against palm, while his gentle smile belies the way his heart is crashing itself against his ribs, head-on, helpless, exploding, and he finally knows what it is he should be saying.
"I'm just glad we're back together."