There are fingers brushing against his face, against his hair, and he shifts, squirms, away from it.
Soft, almost ticklish soft, and absolutely wrong about those words. About waking up.
When being awake enough to hear those words is enough to make Yuri's eyes, gritty and squeezing, before a blink open, want to argue he wasn't asleep. It didn't feel like sleep, but it felt so heavy to be opening his eyes and he remembered not being even half way, and he wrinkled his brow, reaching up to push up his glasses and rub at his eyes, before looking out the window, at the very familiar, very correct lights and shape of his home, and then back to Victor slowly.
Victor who said we're home. We're. Home. We. Home. The both of them. Home. Like this was Victor'shome. His muddled, fuzzy brain and muddy, fuzzed heart felt such a pang of longing for that to be true, even as he was trying to make his eyes focus better. But that wasn't helping. Because the only thing coming into focus in front of him was Victor.
Victor in the shadows of the car, and the night. Victor, and Victor's perfect face. Victor who looked tired (because it was late, because he was driving, he was driving Yuri home) and his hair ... almost looked flat, like it was tired, too, even though Yuri had given up on thinking any part of it was human aside from the parts Victor fretted over. It's a strange thought, and it plucks at the edge of his mouth, cobbling the whisper of a smile, even when all he can think is how beautiful Victor is.
Even like this. So beautiful. It's messy everywhere in his head, his lungs, his heart.
It's so less than connected to try to say something like, "Sorry. I shouldn't have slept the whole way."
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Soft, almost ticklish soft, and absolutely wrong about those words. About waking up.
When being awake enough to hear those words is enough to make Yuri's eyes, gritty and squeezing, before a blink open, want to argue he wasn't asleep. It didn't feel like sleep, but it felt so heavy to be opening his eyes and he remembered not being even half way, and he wrinkled his brow, reaching up to push up his glasses and rub at his eyes, before looking out the window, at the very familiar, very correct lights and shape of his home, and then back to Victor slowly.
Victor who said we're home. We're. Home. We. Home. The both of them. Home. Like this was Victor's home. His muddled, fuzzy brain and muddy, fuzzed heart felt such a pang of longing for that to be true, even as he was trying to make his eyes focus better. But that wasn't helping. Because the only thing coming into focus in front of him was Victor.
Victor in the shadows of the car, and the night. Victor, and Victor's perfect face. Victor who looked tired (because it was late, because he was driving, he was driving Yuri home) and his hair ... almost looked flat, like it was tired, too, even though Yuri had given up on thinking any part of it was human aside from the parts Victor fretted over. It's a strange thought, and it plucks at the edge of his mouth, cobbling the whisper of a smile, even when all he can think is how beautiful Victor is.
Even like this. So beautiful. It's messy everywhere in his head, his lungs, his heart.
It's so less than connected to try to say something like, "Sorry. I shouldn't have slept the whole way."