His hand is probably too tight and he loosens it, when Yuri's flinches in response, the other beginning to lift away.
Victor doesn't want that. He doesn't want Yuri to take his hand away, or to flinch, or to be tucked in on himself like he's still waiting for a hammer to fall. It's too dim in the car for Victor to see his face clearly, and he can only sneak glances in between watching the road and beginning the first of the turns they'll take to get back home. "Where did you even learn that?"
How, why. He has a pretty vivid imagination, but he doesn't have the first clue how Yuri could know that phrase. That particular one, which is more than the sum of its parts. Not the direct translation, if Yuri was looking for a way to say I missed you, as some sort of, what. Gift? Offering? Attempt at stepping into some small part of the world Victor lived in before he had any idea what he was missing?
Yuri, speaking Russian. With a poor accent, of course, and pronunciation, but definitively Russian, all the same, and Victor can't help but smile, as bewildered as he is touched, glancing over, sure the whole world could see what it is he's feeling, splashed across his face. Warmth and affection, surprised delight, and the particular brand of absolute faith that only belongs to Yuri. "How could you say that to me when I have to drive, Yuri?"
When he can't just barrel directly into Yuri, the way Yuri flung himself at Victor earlier. Can't tackle him. Can't hug him, or kiss him, or whisper how long he's felt the same way into Yuri's ear. Can't reward that small act of courage and affection with all the fanfare it deserves. Can't wrap his arms around Yuri and promise they'll never have to be that far apart again, if he can ever help it.
He never wants to be without Yuri. Not today. Not ever.
But that doesn't make him any less fondly amused at Yuri's poor timing, even as his heart is bursting. "There's no way I can properly respond without crashing the car, and I promised to get you home."
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Date: 2017-07-29 03:42 am (UTC)Victor doesn't want that. He doesn't want Yuri to take his hand away, or to flinch, or to be tucked in on himself like he's still waiting for a hammer to fall. It's too dim in the car for Victor to see his face clearly, and he can only sneak glances in between watching the road and beginning the first of the turns they'll take to get back home. "Where did you even learn that?"
How, why. He has a pretty vivid imagination, but he doesn't have the first clue how Yuri could know that phrase. That particular one, which is more than the sum of its parts. Not the direct translation, if Yuri was looking for a way to say I missed you, as some sort of, what. Gift? Offering? Attempt at stepping into some small part of the world Victor lived in before he had any idea what he was missing?
Yuri, speaking Russian. With a poor accent, of course, and pronunciation, but definitively Russian, all the same, and Victor can't help but smile, as bewildered as he is touched, glancing over, sure the whole world could see what it is he's feeling, splashed across his face. Warmth and affection, surprised delight, and the particular brand of absolute faith that only belongs to Yuri. "How could you say that to me when I have to drive, Yuri?"
When he can't just barrel directly into Yuri, the way Yuri flung himself at Victor earlier. Can't tackle him. Can't hug him, or kiss him, or whisper how long he's felt the same way into Yuri's ear. Can't reward that small act of courage and affection with all the fanfare it deserves. Can't wrap his arms around Yuri and promise they'll never have to be that far apart again, if he can ever help it.
He never wants to be without Yuri. Not today. Not ever.
But that doesn't make him any less fondly amused at Yuri's poor timing, even as his heart is bursting. "There's no way I can properly respond without crashing the car, and I promised to get you home."