He knows Victor can be impatient, to the point of wheedling in many different, less surprising now than months ago, ways, but Yuri isn't positive he has a clue what Victor would do if they weren't in the car. If they were stationary and closer than the space of the car, this divide that one second feels unbearable and the next like it's so small it's suffocating him. If they were somewhere else, without the car entirely.
The parking lot, when Victor had said he missed Yuri and Yuri hadn't even had the grace to think of responding. The airport, where Yuri had found it possible to -- demand? plead? -- that Victor stay with him to the end, but not this.
Home? Home feels like the car, too. Unbearably too far away, and suffocatingly too close. His feelings merged into his exhaustion, merged into the weight his disappointment for yesterday, merged into his wariness about hoping even a breath about a month from now, merged with the confusing, painful relief of how close Victor is, merged into that aching swell everytime Maccachin huffs a deep breath from the seat behind them.
It's all there. All mixed up and shaken, shaking, already, when Victor tells him to sleep. Like it's somewhere else to be gone from here, from Victor, from that wrongly put too right thing, said in the wrong place, probably the absolute wrong way. Except he knows that's wrong. Too. Even when his hand tightens in the wrong emotion, the wrong reaction. That's not what Victor said. He said to sleep, so Yuri could wake up at home, so Yuri would be awake could watch the Exhibition. Yurio.
It echoes somewhere else, in that mess.
He left you here alone, and I couldn't --
Come home. I miss you. Please.
It's not the right place for that either if Yuri even has a clue what to do with those words now any more than he had in the desperate uncertainty of listening to them come out suddenly. Least expected, absolutely unprocessable, from the sidewalk, on the ground, in the snow, throbbing in a sudden unexpected pain, holding a birthday present. He doesn't know how he'd say that. Explain.
He doesn't hold it against Victor for going. He told Victor to go. He would never have expected anyone else to try.
(No one else is Victor. When did that happen?
Victor.
Yurio?)
His hand doesn't let go, and it fledgling even when it settles certainly and sticky with inevitably, his other hand over the top of Victor's and he puts his head back against the seat rest, nodding, more than saying anything. He knows what Victor meant, even if his head slips and slides. That he's here now. That Yuri can try to sleep. Can stop trying to hold on so hard. Not certain when it got so confusing, or when he got so exhausted. How to even explain to himself how this all still feels a little like falling from too high too fast.
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The parking lot, when Victor had said he missed Yuri and Yuri hadn't even had the grace to think of responding.
The airport, where Yuri had found it possible to -- demand? plead? -- that Victor stay with him to the end, but not this.
Home? Home feels like the car, too. Unbearably too far away, and suffocatingly too close. His feelings merged into his exhaustion, merged into the weight his disappointment for yesterday, merged into his wariness about hoping even a breath about a month from now, merged with the confusing, painful relief of how close Victor is, merged into that aching swell everytime Maccachin huffs a deep breath from the seat behind them.
It's all there. All mixed up and shaken, shaking, already, when Victor tells him to sleep. Like it's somewhere else to be gone from here, from Victor, from that wrongly put too right thing, said in the wrong place, probably the absolute wrong way. Except he knows that's wrong. Too. Even when his hand tightens in the wrong emotion, the wrong reaction. That's not what Victor said. He said to sleep, so Yuri could wake up at home, so Yuri would be awake could watch the Exhibition. Yurio.
It echoes somewhere else, in that mess.
I miss you.
Please.
It's not the right place for that either if Yuri even has a clue what to do with those words now any more than he had in the desperate uncertainty of listening to them come out suddenly. Least expected, absolutely unprocessable, from the sidewalk, on the ground, in the snow, throbbing in a sudden unexpected pain, holding a birthday present. He doesn't know how he'd say that. Explain.
He doesn't hold it against Victor for going. He told Victor to go.
He would never have expected anyone else to try.
When did that happen?
Victor.
Yurio?)
His hand doesn't let go, and it fledgling even when it settles certainly and sticky with inevitably, his other hand over the top of Victor's and he puts his head back against the seat rest, nodding, more than saying anything. He knows what Victor meant, even if his head slips and slides. That he's here now. That Yuri can try to sleep. Can stop trying to hold on so hard. Not certain when it got so confusing, or when he got so exhausted. How to even explain to himself how this all still feels a little like falling from too high too fast.
But still not being willing to let go.