There's no response from Yuri, and Victor would be a liar if he said he wasn't thinking about throwing Yuri's order to the wind and following him. Yuri isn't the one who gives orders, after all, he's the one who listens –– but it's enough of a surprise that Victor can't quite seem to get a grip on it. Yuri telling him to stay put. Yuri running off, saying he'd be back.
Yuri now walking quickly back through the door, to a swell of painful relief that rushes like water through a crack into Victor's chest, only to hold out a brown paper bag. Nondescript, of the sort a parent might use to pack a lunch for their child, now wrinkled and softened. Was it in his bag? "What's ––"
Which is about all he has time to say, the beginning of a question tripping up his tongue, before Yuri, errand now apparently complete, is crawling back onto the bed and directly back into his lap, the way Maccachin returns to a warm divot made in a blanket or his bed.
Yuri. Pushing himself straight back into the space he'd left, between Victor's legs and against Victor's stomach and chest, as Victor's hands hover in surprise, one open and uncertain, the other gripping the bag that had been handed to him, and whatever it is that's inside. "Are you ––"
What's he even asking? He has no idea what to make of the last few moments. Every time he opens his mouth, it's like trying to start a car that's run out of fuel, settling finally for: "What is this?"
In his hand. In his bed. (Yuri, who'd yelped in surprise earlier, and not even been able to relax, settling himself in Victor's lap like a dog.
Yuri, who even after a week and a half, hardly ever reaches out to touch him, but is currently settling himself against Victor's stomach and chest.)
He has no idea what's happening on the screen right now, too busy trying to discern what's happening right here.
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Date: 2017-08-09 01:05 am (UTC)There's no response from Yuri, and Victor would be a liar if he said he wasn't thinking about throwing Yuri's order to the wind and following him. Yuri isn't the one who gives orders, after all, he's the one who listens –– but it's enough of a surprise that Victor can't quite seem to get a grip on it. Yuri telling him to stay put. Yuri running off, saying he'd be back.
Yuri now walking quickly back through the door, to a swell of painful relief that rushes like water through a crack into Victor's chest, only to hold out a brown paper bag. Nondescript, of the sort a parent might use to pack a lunch for their child, now wrinkled and softened. Was it in his bag? "What's ––"
Which is about all he has time to say, the beginning of a question tripping up his tongue, before Yuri, errand now apparently complete, is crawling back onto the bed and directly back into his lap, the way Maccachin returns to a warm divot made in a blanket or his bed.
Yuri. Pushing himself straight back into the space he'd left, between Victor's legs and against Victor's stomach and chest, as Victor's hands hover in surprise, one open and uncertain, the other gripping the bag that had been handed to him, and whatever it is that's inside. "Are you ––"
What's he even asking? He has no idea what to make of the last few moments. Every time he opens his mouth, it's like trying to start a car that's run out of fuel, settling finally for: "What is this?"
In his hand. In his bed. (Yuri, who'd yelped in surprise earlier, and not even been able to relax, settling himself in Victor's lap like a dog.
Yuri, who even after a week and a half, hardly ever reaches out to touch him, but is currently settling himself against Victor's stomach and chest.)
He has no idea what's happening on the screen right now, too busy trying to discern what's happening right here.