Victor's voice is calm, and the whisper warmth of the thumb that strokes his hand is soft and sure, and it feels like sometimes everything is too easy for him. That Victor always knows what to do, what to say, and he doesn't have to second guess any of this. If second is even anywhere near the furrow in Yuri's forehead, as he swallows, staring at Victor's hand between his, Victor's thumb stroking his skin.
Seeing it, and feeling it, while everything in his gets so tight. So certain. So terrified. It's wrong. It's wrong. He'll butcher it. It's too much. Too reaching. Too grasping. Conflated. Exaggeration beyond reason. He hadn't more than thought the words to himself since that first morning after. Even if they repeated in his head now and then, rarely, like a bruise pressing down on itself, he hadn't then. Not after he lost-but-won.
Not on the plane, when it seems backward from where he was going. Pretentious and foolish and completely unbalanced by the new now. A child playing in something he only barely even understood.
But it was everywhere, even when all he wants to blurt out is me, too or it's nothing, but he can't get get his throat to open for air, no less to throw himself on the mercy of covering up the blunders of his own mouth again. And try as he might, he can't look to the side now. Can't even can't his vision, or look out the corner of his eyes. He can't. He just can't.
Not even if there's no escape in this small space. No way to open the door. No way to disappear. And nothing in the center of him is allowing his brain to do more than beat those words. A sick, sad, absolute truth. That feels so much truer sitting here suddenly.
More than in bed. More than in the sports center. More than on the ice.
Here. With Victor's hand between his -- with Victor real, and solid, and his voice everywhere, easy comments on going home and innocent inquiry about what has screwed itself up in Yuri's head, again -- while Victor is calm and fine, and Yuri's cheeks are too hot, against his heart feeling whole heart feels one breath from passing out. About saying it, and about holding it in.
(About any world where he has to let go of Victor's hand, solid and soft between his. The finger gently stroking his skin and setting all the rest of his skin into importance.)
Yuri doesn't mean to, maybe even doesn't realize it, that his head curls a little forehead, and his shoulders a little in, even though his eyes never leave Victor's hand. It takes too long. He thinks he might start crying, or suffocating, or throw up, before he can even push it up his throat. Even when it already feels carved on his mouth, on his tongue, on every tooth, in the silence of his not answering Victor's question.
His mouth frets too tight, along with his jaw, and his shoulders, and it's more apologetic than it is anything. If in fact, Victor can hear at all what he mumbles from that passenger seat of what's left and leadened itself into his memory of the words. Certain they're probably wrong in every sense that they can be without any reminder, refresher, sanity. "Мне тебя не хватает."
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Victor's voice is calm, and the whisper warmth of the thumb that strokes his hand is soft and sure, and it feels like sometimes everything is too easy for him. That Victor always knows what to do, what to say, and he doesn't have to second guess any of this. If second is even anywhere near the furrow in Yuri's forehead, as he swallows, staring at Victor's hand between his, Victor's thumb stroking his skin.
Seeing it, and feeling it, while everything in his gets so tight. So certain. So terrified. It's wrong. It's wrong. He'll butcher it. It's too much. Too reaching. Too grasping. Conflated. Exaggeration beyond reason. He hadn't more than thought the words to himself since that first morning after. Even if they repeated in his head now and then, rarely, like a bruise pressing down on itself, he hadn't then. Not after he lost-but-won.
Not on the plane, when it seems backward from where he was going.
Pretentious and foolish and completely unbalanced by the new now.
A child playing in something he only barely even understood.
But it was everywhere, even when all he wants to blurt out is me, too or it's nothing, but he can't get get his throat to open for air, no less to throw himself on the mercy of covering up the blunders of his own mouth again. And try as he might, he can't look to the side now. Can't even can't his vision, or look out the corner of his eyes. He can't. He just can't.
Not even if there's no escape in this small space. No way to open the door. No way to disappear.
And nothing in the center of him is allowing his brain to do more than beat those words.
A sick, sad, absolute truth. That feels so much truer sitting here suddenly.
More than in bed. More than in the sports center. More than on the ice.
Here. With Victor's hand between his -- with Victor real, and solid, and his voice everywhere, easy comments on going home and innocent inquiry about what has screwed itself up in Yuri's head, again -- while Victor is calm and fine, and Yuri's cheeks are too hot, against his heart feeling whole heart feels one breath from passing out. About saying it, and about holding it in.
(About any world where he has to let go of Victor's hand, solid and soft between his.
The finger gently stroking his skin and setting all the rest of his skin into importance.)
Yuri doesn't mean to, maybe even doesn't realize it, that his head curls a little forehead, and his shoulders a little in, even though his eyes never leave Victor's hand. It takes too long. He thinks he might start crying, or suffocating, or throw up, before he can even push it up his throat. Even when it already feels carved on his mouth, on his tongue, on every tooth, in the silence of his not answering Victor's question.
His mouth frets too tight, along with his jaw, and his shoulders, and it's more apologetic than it is anything. If in fact, Victor can hear at all what he mumbles from that passenger seat of what's left and leadened itself into his memory of the words. Certain they're probably wrong in every sense that they can be without any reminder, refresher, sanity. "Мне тебя не хватает."