There's a small noncommittal sound from Yuri, but Victor's watching the screen. The way their hands meet and separate again. How even when they're half the rink from each other, each step is perfectly synchronized.
How delighted they seem to be in the purity of movement. "We were supposed to be skating together tonight, weren't we?"
The date he'd wanted to go on. Skating under the fairy lights at the Red Square, in the snow or under the stars. He was supposed to share some of what Russia has to offer with Yuri, as if he could in some small way begin to pay him back for all those times Yuri shared his life, his world, with Victor. "Another thing to be sorry for."
Not just because he made a promise that he broke almost immediately, but for missing out on it. On seeing Yuri there, skating just for the fun of it, without worrying about how many quads he needs or whether he's getting his footwork right. Just moving for the sake of moving.
(The way he did on the dance floor that night.)
He's sorry not to be able to skate hand in hand with Yuri the way the couple on the screen are, not to dance across the ice together, not to take a few moments for themselves, steal them from the road to the Grand Prix Final.
They'll skate together soon –– tomorrow, maybe –– but like he said before: not like that. "I wish you could have had a chance to see more of Moscow. I'm sorry we didn't get to have more time there together."
The ice dancers are coming to a close, and he takes a deep breath, chest pushing against Yuri's back, and relaxes, arms loosening around Yuri's waist just enough to keep from making muscles ache. He's here and he's not going anywhere, isn't trying to get Victor to let him go or struggling to get back to his side instead of here, where Victor can wrap around him like ivy around a tree.
None of it seems to be helping that ache, though. The one he'd thought would vanish when he saw Yuri again, the way it had that first night he arrived here, washed away in a flood of confident certainty.
Instead, it only seems to get more and more sore, like a healing cut he can't help putting pressure on, blood welling a little more every time he tries to patch it up.
Maybe it's an ache he doesn't want to go away. Maybe that's what love really is: just a never-ending and desperate need to be closer than he ever is or could ever be. "Are you comfortable enough?"
He doesn't want Yuri to move, but Yuri isn't exactly relaxing, either. It's all right: they'll find some way that works.
As long as he doesn't have to let go to get there.
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There's a small noncommittal sound from Yuri, but Victor's watching the screen. The way their hands meet and separate again. How even when they're half the rink from each other, each step is perfectly synchronized.
How delighted they seem to be in the purity of movement. "We were supposed to be skating together tonight, weren't we?"
The date he'd wanted to go on. Skating under the fairy lights at the Red Square, in the snow or under the stars. He was supposed to share some of what Russia has to offer with Yuri, as if he could in some small way begin to pay him back for all those times Yuri shared his life, his world, with Victor. "Another thing to be sorry for."
Not just because he made a promise that he broke almost immediately, but for missing out on it. On seeing Yuri there, skating just for the fun of it, without worrying about how many quads he needs or whether he's getting his footwork right. Just moving for the sake of moving.
(The way he did on the dance floor that night.)
He's sorry not to be able to skate hand in hand with Yuri the way the couple on the screen are, not to dance across the ice together, not to take a few moments for themselves, steal them from the road to the Grand Prix Final.
They'll skate together soon –– tomorrow, maybe –– but like he said before: not like that. "I wish you could have had a chance to see more of Moscow. I'm sorry we didn't get to have more time there together."
The ice dancers are coming to a close, and he takes a deep breath, chest pushing against Yuri's back, and relaxes, arms loosening around Yuri's waist just enough to keep from making muscles ache. He's here and he's not going anywhere, isn't trying to get Victor to let him go or struggling to get back to his side instead of here, where Victor can wrap around him like ivy around a tree.
None of it seems to be helping that ache, though. The one he'd thought would vanish when he saw Yuri again, the way it had that first night he arrived here, washed away in a flood of confident certainty.
Instead, it only seems to get more and more sore, like a healing cut he can't help putting pressure on, blood welling a little more every time he tries to patch it up.
Maybe it's an ache he doesn't want to go away. Maybe that's what love really is: just a never-ending and desperate need to be closer than he ever is or could ever be. "Are you comfortable enough?"
He doesn't want Yuri to move, but Yuri isn't exactly relaxing, either. It's all right: they'll find some way that works.
As long as he doesn't have to let go to get there.