Yuri almost instantly apologizes when Victor doesn't say anything, because Victor is busy first looking down and going what seems almost still with surprise (which makes him want to apologize even more). Except Yuri's fingers tighten rather than loosen at the sudden idea of -- not being wrong, choosing wrong -- but at the totality of the idea of having to let go suddenly, too.
Caught on the precipice of the way Victor looks down, looks out at the road, looks down, looks out again.
And Yuri knows he should apologize, be saying something, be doing something, other that feeling his cheeks go warmer than the heater is making the air, and not letting go. Trying to find any words. To what? What would he? How? Just that he's sorry, because -- because he just decided to take Victor's which he obviously would need for driving sooner or later? Because he's driving them home? Because he needed to touch Victor, needed to continue to be sure he was real, even this long after landing?
To be sure that he hadn't done exactly what Victor said;
Closed his eyes, and dreamed of Victor, and that was why he was here.
But before Yuri can think of words, to stammer out that he's sorry, find some way to reverse the trajectory of how his own hand tightening not loosened at being caught, Victor's hand shifts under his. His palm turning upwards against Yuri's (who is sure his lungs are gone again) and Victor's fingers lacing through his (while his heart makes a deadly kind of leap, as far up in the air over the ice as it's possible) and the pile of them is resting against his own thigh now.
When he barely had any clue which part of what is running this now, while his other hand closes over the top of Victor's hand, holding it for a second between his. Heart pounding a demon's march of drumline that he never knew until now that music never could do more than echo. His eyes snapping up, to Victor at those words -- Victor who is smiling softly -- before back down at their hands again.
Feeling like his ribs have been cracked open and the only thing in him is what he's looking at. He doesn't know why the edges of his eyes are stinging, again, but he nods. "Me--"
He meant to say 'too'. He did. But he'd suddenly stiffened and looked up. Then, down.
Other words, specific words, crowded his throat and he stumbled, again, against his heart squeezing tight. "I -- "
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Caught on the precipice of the way Victor looks down, looks out at the road, looks down, looks out again.
And Yuri knows he should apologize, be saying something, be doing something, other that feeling his cheeks go warmer than the heater is making the air, and not letting go. Trying to find any words. To what? What would he? How? Just that he's sorry, because -- because he just decided to take Victor's which he obviously would need for driving sooner or later? Because he's driving them home? Because he needed to touch Victor, needed to continue to be sure he was real, even this long after landing?
To be sure that he hadn't done exactly what Victor said;
Closed his eyes, and dreamed of Victor, and that was why he was here.
But before Yuri can think of words, to stammer out that he's sorry, find some way to reverse the trajectory of how his own hand tightening not loosened at being caught, Victor's hand shifts under his. His palm turning upwards against Yuri's (who is sure his lungs are gone again) and Victor's fingers lacing through his (while his heart makes a deadly kind of leap, as far up in the air over the ice as it's possible) and the pile of them is resting against his own thigh now.
When he barely had any clue which part of what is running this now, while his other hand closes over the top of Victor's hand, holding it for a second between his. Heart pounding a demon's march of drumline that he never knew until now that music never could do more than echo. His eyes snapping up, to Victor at those words -- Victor who is smiling softly -- before back down at their hands again.
Feeling like his ribs have been cracked open and the only thing in him is what he's looking at.
He doesn't know why the edges of his eyes are stinging, again, but he nods. "Me--"
He meant to say 'too'. He did. But he'd suddenly stiffened and looked up. Then, down.
Other words, specific words, crowded his throat and he stumbled, again, against his heart squeezing tight. "I -- "