Victor's hand suddenly tightens painfully in his hand and Yuri can't help that his face snaps that direction, even as his shoulders tense and raise a little more, eyes going wider and more than a little frightened. Certain he was absolutely right. More right than he'd known. More right than he could have imagined.
He did it wrong again. Wrong like yesterday. He shouldn't have ever said, ever assumed, ever overstepped, dared, tried, electric and absolute, shooting through his nerve endings, up his arm, when there's a spasm of pain in the hand Victor's fingers laced into it. Confusing the hand over both of theirs woven together, torn between gripping Victor's hand, in surprise, and starting to pull away, some birthing combination of fear and shame.
(Confusing his aching stumbling heart,
for that unwavering truth, even not right.)
But Victor is driving, and Victor is looking at him, through that driving, and Victor's words are ...
Yuri's mouth wobbles. Lips pressing and shifting. Like he can't quite parse his own reaction. Too loud. Too silent. Too physical for translable thought or even emotion. That he could try to hide behind the direct translation. Behind the repetition of the three words, instead of four, that Victor said in the parking lot. When Yuri hadn't been on top of it enough to more than be desperately glad Victor was there and still-shocked Victor was kissing him.
Except he knows that's not only it. That's not why he picked it.
That's not why his ears have gone warm, or his neck. That's not why it feels like there's a spotlight on him. That's not why he has no words in his mouth.
That's not why it feels too big, and too wrong, and painfully like crashing into a wall (why his mind reminds him, Victor doesn't mean it, need him, like that)
Me watching you on tv won't be so different from watching you at the rink, after all, Victor said.
Too.
Only yesterday morning.
It hurts. His hand. His heart. His head. His memory. Yesterday. (He won, but he lost.) Not an erasure or exact equality of what yesterday felt like it, but a completely permanent, over layered echo, of at least half of it washing over him all over again. Here. Now. Still. Since the second he saw Victor's face through the glass. Here. Now. In the car, not wanting to let go of Victor's hand, not understanding why his hand is throbbing, feeling embarrassed, feeling bare, but desperate not to let go still.
All he can do is stare at their hands. It feels feeble. It feels weak.
It feels like the only reason he knows he and this are real.
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Date: 2017-07-28 01:21 pm (UTC)He did it wrong again. Wrong like yesterday. He shouldn't have ever said, ever assumed, ever overstepped, dared, tried, electric and absolute, shooting through his nerve endings, up his arm, when there's a spasm of pain in the hand Victor's fingers laced into it. Confusing the hand over both of theirs woven together, torn between gripping Victor's hand, in surprise, and starting to pull away, some birthing combination of fear and shame.
for that unwavering truth,
even not right.)
But Victor is driving, and Victor is looking at him, through that driving, and Victor's words are ...
Yuri's mouth wobbles. Lips pressing and shifting. Like he can't quite parse his own reaction. Too loud. Too silent. Too physical for translable thought or even emotion. That he could try to hide behind the direct translation. Behind the repetition of the three words, instead of four, that Victor said in the parking lot. When Yuri hadn't been on top of it enough to more than be desperately glad Victor was there and still-shocked Victor was kissing him.
Except he knows that's not only it. That's not why he picked it.
That's not why his ears have gone warm, or his neck.
That's not why it feels like there's a spotlight on him.
That's not why he has no words in his mouth.
That's not why it feels too big, and too wrong, and painfully like crashing into a wall
(why his mind reminds him, Victor doesn't mean it, need him, like that)
from watching you at the rink, after all, Victor said.
Only yesterday morning.
It hurts. His hand. His heart. His head. His memory. Yesterday. (He won, but he lost.) Not an erasure or exact equality of what yesterday felt like it, but a completely permanent, over layered echo, of at least half of it washing over him all over again. Here. Now. Still. Since the second he saw Victor's face through the glass. Here. Now. In the car, not wanting to let go of Victor's hand, not understanding why his hand is throbbing, feeling embarrassed, feeling bare, but desperate not to let go still.
All he can do is stare at their hands. It feels feeble. It feels weak.
It feels like the only reason he knows he and this are real.