The pressure on his hand is gentle, and against his own feelings and better judgment he still can't keep his eyes from looking to Victor. His heart, along with his stomach, from contracting at the words he says, and even more the faint smile that graces his face even in the passing street lights, that throw him into light and then dark too drastically, but never enough to erase Yuri's seeing it.
I promise, he said, and he'd squeezed Yuri's hand. Still not pulling away, and it probably can't be comfortable. He probably still needs his hand to drive, and it's probably unwaveringly selfish that Yuri still doesn't want to let go of Victor's hand, even thinking those things. Wants to hold on to his hand, and those words, until Victor needs to pull away.
Falling asleep is not as simple as quietly letting out the breath held hostage in his chest for too long and closing his eyes. The car is moving, and the lights flash brighter and dimmer as the approach them and leave them behind. It's not as simple a command as stand, move, get in the car. Every muscle is a little too wound. But the music is playing softly, and Yuri tries to focus on that.
His thoughts don't absolutely leave him alone. They don't on a good day, and after the last three, and all of the dramatic tilts, and so little sleep, so little sleep for what must be almost a week, over a week, it feels like anything he had for walls has become a sieve every thought has stretched the holes of wider and wider. Without really realizing it, every now and again, his thumb brushes over the side of the back of Victor's hand. Once, twice. Maybe three times. Before stopping. Soft, but just fast enough to not really be a thought.
To be more than a movement that usually would only involve his own hand. Maybe his pants. He doesn't really realize it. Any more than he doesn't really realize the warm skin under it, the solidness of Victor is better than either of the other two, too. Makes it easier to breathe. Easier to try and press it back, blur it around him, to the sound of the soft music, if he can't make it stop. Keep breathing. Counting street lights. Keeps watching his eyelashes get closer, slower, before he blinks.
He doesn't really feel it when he falls asleep -- when the hold of his shoulders and the hold of Victor's hand in his, slips heavy and boneless -- only knows one second he was watching Victor through half-closed eyes, propped open defiantly against a seconds confusion and loss of him the last time his eyes closed . . .
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I promise, he said, and he'd squeezed Yuri's hand. Still not pulling away, and it probably can't be comfortable. He probably still needs his hand to drive, and it's probably unwaveringly selfish that Yuri still doesn't want to let go of Victor's hand, even thinking those things. Wants to hold on to his hand, and those words, until Victor needs to pull away.
Falling asleep is not as simple as quietly letting out the breath held hostage in his chest for too long and closing his eyes. The car is moving, and the lights flash brighter and dimmer as the approach them and leave them behind. It's not as simple a command as stand, move, get in the car. Every muscle is a little too wound. But the music is playing softly, and Yuri tries to focus on that.
His thoughts don't absolutely leave him alone. They don't on a good day, and after the last three, and all of the dramatic tilts, and so little sleep, so little sleep for what must be almost a week, over a week, it feels like anything he had for walls has become a sieve every thought has stretched the holes of wider and wider. Without really realizing it, every now and again, his thumb brushes over the side of the back of Victor's hand. Once, twice. Maybe three times. Before stopping. Soft, but just fast enough to not really be a thought.
To be more than a movement that usually would only involve his own hand. Maybe his pants. He doesn't really realize it. Any more than he doesn't really realize the warm skin under it, the solidness of Victor is better than either of the other two, too. Makes it easier to breathe. Easier to try and press it back, blur it around him, to the sound of the soft music, if he can't make it stop. Keep breathing. Counting street lights. Keeps watching his eyelashes get closer, slower, before he blinks.
He doesn't really feel it when he falls asleep -- when the hold of his shoulders and the hold of Victor's hand in his, slips heavy and boneless -- only knows one second he was watching Victor through half-closed eyes, propped open defiantly against a seconds confusion and loss of him the last time his eyes closed . . .