There's an ungainly near-fall between himself, his-knee-that-wasn't-his-foot, and one hand getting off the bed. More force in the propulsive need of movement than exacting choice in where his feet or hands or self were going -- aside from toward the door. But he manages it, as Victor's hands slip away and Victor's voice is a question.

But he might not have enough time to explain it first. Not if Victor was right, if it was next, and that means his socked semi-skidding, not quite tripping, slightly hopped, dash, around the coffee table, doesn't come to anything like a stop until his hand is on the thin frame of the door, and Victor's questions, unanswered are gaining speed and more words, and the wrong (tone? sound?) ... everything?

He looks back, taking in Victor's wide open -- cut open? Is it that one more than the other? -- look of both shock and concern suddenly blown all over his always perfect features. (Or is that ... fear?) It can't -- isn't -- shouldn't ever -- not for Yuri. Because of him. Not after just going what can't be twenty feet. It makes him almost want to go stumbling back to Victor and Victor's bed. Do whatever it could to take that away. Whatever it is. Whether he's wrong or right. But.

There's none of that time. Still. No time.

Yuri points at Victor, eyes not leaving him, even when the clock is ticking down the back of his head into his spine, and he pushes as much certainty, as much force as possible into each of his words. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

Before he's then out the door, and dashing to his own room. Everything piled on his bag when he got undressed gets shoved, with even less ceremony than the earlier lack of it, around his bag, that he jerks upright. Pulling at the zipper, and digging in for the brown paper bag.