He isn't in Yuri's room all that often, and he doesn't stay long now –– only long enough to glance around at the neat bed, the empty walls. It all seems a little bare and not as welcoming as it could be: nothing in this room seems to reflect Yuri or his tastes or passions at all.
Probably he'd cleaned all that out when he moved to Detroit, reasoning that he wouldn't be here to enjoy his things. And it isn't as if Victor's own apartment is all that personalized. It's sleek and clean and sophisticated, certainly, but warm? Approachable? Comfortable?
He'd never really thought about it before.
His own room here, the adapted banquet room that was the only thing available, is the complete opposite. It's big for this house, but small for him, and it's more cozy than cool, but he has made it his. The bed sheets and blanket, his laptop, pictures and postcards. The bed Maccachin usually ignores in favor of the foot of his own. His clothes, his things.
It feels like home, and it has ever since that first night, sleeping on a mat on the floor surrounded by boxes.
He's tugging his shirt up over his head to replace it with a soft black sleep shirt when Yuri's voice comes floating down the hallway, and his response is a little muffled. "In here."
This shirt was clean this morning, but it somehow feels as worn out and tired as he does, as he drops it into his laundry basket. "Go get changed for bed. I'll set up the livestream and we can watch it together in here, okay?"
Yuri's bed is too small for the both of them, and Victor desperately needs for this to be both of them. Yuri, finally close enough to hold and touch and kiss, to wrap his arms around. Finally back together, when it's been made blindingly clear to him that no other situation will ever be livable again.
Looking over to see if Yuri is in the doorway, or passed straight along to go to his room. "Yurio should be on soon."
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Date: 2017-08-04 02:27 am (UTC)He isn't in Yuri's room all that often, and he doesn't stay long now –– only long enough to glance around at the neat bed, the empty walls. It all seems a little bare and not as welcoming as it could be: nothing in this room seems to reflect Yuri or his tastes or passions at all.
Probably he'd cleaned all that out when he moved to Detroit, reasoning that he wouldn't be here to enjoy his things. And it isn't as if Victor's own apartment is all that personalized. It's sleek and clean and sophisticated, certainly, but warm? Approachable? Comfortable?
He'd never really thought about it before.
His own room here, the adapted banquet room that was the only thing available, is the complete opposite. It's big for this house, but small for him, and it's more cozy than cool, but he has made it his. The bed sheets and blanket, his laptop, pictures and postcards. The bed Maccachin usually ignores in favor of the foot of his own. His clothes, his things.
It feels like home, and it has ever since that first night, sleeping on a mat on the floor surrounded by boxes.
He's tugging his shirt up over his head to replace it with a soft black sleep shirt when Yuri's voice comes floating down the hallway, and his response is a little muffled. "In here."
This shirt was clean this morning, but it somehow feels as worn out and tired as he does, as he drops it into his laundry basket. "Go get changed for bed. I'll set up the livestream and we can watch it together in here, okay?"
Yuri's bed is too small for the both of them, and Victor desperately needs for this to be both of them. Yuri, finally close enough to hold and touch and kiss, to wrap his arms around. Finally back together, when it's been made blindingly clear to him that no other situation will ever be livable again.
Looking over to see if Yuri is in the doorway, or passed straight along to go to his room. "Yurio should be on soon."