If Yuri thought he'd prepared most of the things he thought he'd need for tonight's conversations with Victor, even if it was all building castles with runny, unsticking sand, almost none of which he's needed, he hadn't prepared himself for the innocuity of how a single question could make him feel. Like Victor had taken that arm around him, and instead plunged his hand right into Yuri's chest. Curled those long, thin, fine fingers around Yuri's heart. Maybe even a little too hard.
It's taken out whatever breath in or out he'd been on, before Victor even got to the second apology. His voice is soft. Still right next to Yuri's ear. And. It's impossible to explain that feeling that hits him.
Something so overwhelming, that it feels almost numb, at the same time as there's a pressure pushing up and out hard at that thought. At the reminder. Because they were. They were supposed to be in the Red Square. The name he couldn't always remember right when it was going to happen, and now can't seem to misplace when it isn't. Has fallen out of possibility and by that cemented itself maybe more firmly now that it ever would ha.
There's a futile feeling, just to those words, following Victors. While Yuri watches the effortless beauty of the duo.
His supposed to be skating. His to see more of Moscow. His more time there.
The word that beats in broken time in Yuri's chest is none of those. It's a single one. It's not even really a sentence. It's simply -- date. Victor had asked him there on a date, and he had said yes to a date, after having an embarrassingly idiotic overreaction about it being a date, and he'd gotten exicted, even hopeful, about this date and there's a small whisper in his head about how that was supposed to be something he got, he had, so he hadn't, of course, why would he.
Even though Victor's arms are around him right now. Victor's chin is resting on his shoulder right now, watching the computer that is set up because Yuri had insisted on the gala, right now. Victor is apologizing for it, too, among all the thing Victor doesn't need to apologize for. All of which hurts, and none of which is actually Victor's fault. Which just makes it feel more confusing instead of simplified.
Victor asks if Yuri's comfortable and Yuri is not entirely certain he's entirely ready to look at that head on either. It makes him even more aware. Of Victor. Even if he'd just been using the example. Victor, who is currently wrapped around him in way he really wouldn't have before. Or he might have. But not for this long, and now exactly this close. A head on his shoulder and a voice filling up his head.
But. Not this close. Like a living jacket. Not kissing Yuri's skin, and pressing his face into Yuri's shoulder, or neck. Not on Victor's bed. It all makes his eyes shift above the top of the laptop screen, to the door he'd left open, without thinking about it. Definitely not thinking that this was going to be Victor's first decision once he sat down. Maybe he should have guessed. But he hadn't. Didn't have a reason to have known.
"Yes." All of this was still so very up in the air, but Yuri nodded after a second, his arms shifting, slowly, like a consideration. Before they were layered over Victor's around his middle and relaxed at the top of his lap, that Yuri could wrap a hand tentatively around part of Victor's arm and squeeze it ever so softly. "This is ... fine."
Except he's thinking good. Even if it's uncertain. Even if he kind of wishes he had thought to close the door. Even if doesn't really have a clue what to do with the mess in his head, in his chest, of the weekend behind him, being drug into Victor's lap or Victor apologizing. This part. This little part of the whole explosion of everything. Victor this close. Victor not letting go. Victor's voice not stopping talking, even when he can't find anything right to say back or figure out why that's all still so.
no subject
It's taken out whatever breath in or out he'd been on, before Victor even got to the second apology.
His voice is soft. Still right next to Yuri's ear. And. It's impossible to explain that feeling that hits him.
Something so overwhelming, that it feels almost numb, at the same time as there's a pressure pushing up and out hard at that thought. At the reminder. Because they were. They were supposed to be in the Red Square. The name he couldn't always remember right when it was going to happen, and now can't seem to misplace when it isn't. Has fallen out of possibility and by that cemented itself maybe more firmly now that it ever would ha.
There's a futile feeling, just to those words, following Victors.
While Yuri watches the effortless beauty of the duo.
His supposed to be skating.
His to see more of Moscow.
His more time there.
The word that beats in broken time in Yuri's chest is none of those. It's a single one. It's not even really a sentence. It's simply -- date. Victor had asked him there on a date, and he had said yes to a date, after having an embarrassingly idiotic overreaction about it being a date, and he'd gotten exicted, even hopeful, about this date and there's a small whisper in his head about how that was supposed to be something he got, he had, so he hadn't, of course, why would he.
Even though Victor's arms are around him right now. Victor's chin is resting on his shoulder right now, watching the computer that is set up because Yuri had insisted on the gala, right now. Victor is apologizing for it, too, among all the thing Victor doesn't need to apologize for. All of which hurts, and none of which is actually Victor's fault. Which just makes it feel more confusing instead of simplified.
Victor asks if Yuri's comfortable and Yuri is not entirely certain he's entirely ready to look at that head on either. It makes him even more aware. Of Victor. Even if he'd just been using the example. Victor, who is currently wrapped around him in way he really wouldn't have before. Or he might have. But not for this long, and now exactly this close. A head on his shoulder and a voice filling up his head.
But. Not this close. Like a living jacket. Not kissing Yuri's skin, and pressing his face into Yuri's shoulder, or neck. Not on Victor's bed. It all makes his eyes shift above the top of the laptop screen, to the door he'd left open, without thinking about it. Definitely not thinking that this was going to be Victor's first decision once he sat down. Maybe he should have guessed. But he hadn't. Didn't have a reason to have known.
"Yes." All of this was still so very up in the air, but Yuri nodded after a second, his arms shifting, slowly, like a consideration. Before they were layered over Victor's around his middle and relaxed at the top of his lap, that Yuri could wrap a hand tentatively around part of Victor's arm and squeeze it ever so softly. "This is ... fine."
Except he's thinking good. Even if it's uncertain. Even if he kind of wishes he had thought to close the door. Even if doesn't really have a clue what to do with the mess in his head, in his chest, of the weekend behind him, being drug into Victor's lap or Victor apologizing. This part. This little part of the whole explosion of everything. Victor this close. Victor not letting go. Victor's voice not stopping talking, even when he can't find anything right to say back or figure out why that's all still so.
It is.
It is good.
Almost worryingly so.