For a heart-stopping moment, he thinks Yuri's about to push back away again, that for some obtuse reason he decided to crawl into Victor's lap just to give him the pirozhok and was always planning to move somewhere else to watch Yurio skate ––
But then he relaxes back against Victor's chest, head tipping towards Victor's chin, and relief breaks through him like a popped water balloon.
How long has he wanted this? Longer than the last week, certainly. Longer than the last eight months. So long now he's almost forgotten what it was like not to want Yuri in his arms, leaning against him as if he were just another piece of furniture, head settled against his like this isn't the same Yuri who ran at Victor's touch only months ago, or who has barely reached out to touch Victor on his own whim even in the last week.
Now here, settled and easy, watching the exhibition with interest, while Victor tries not to just watch him.
(He'd promised they would watch Yurio together, but there's still a bitter, confused wrinkle in his chest when he thinks about the last words they spoke to each other, the way Yurio ripped away from him to stalk off both times.
Maybe he gave Yuri a birthday present, but that doesn't mean Victor's forgotten the things he said.)
It's lovely, of course –– full of the aggressive energy and cool precision that the Bolshoi are known for. Matching Yurio with Lilia Baranovskaya was a stroke of genius, the kind Yakov pulled seemingly out of thin air without aplomb. Nobody knows his skaters better: their strengths, their weaknesses, what it will take to mine the pure talent and forge it into something far stronger and more beautiful.
(He can still feel the hand that had come, after a pause, to his back.)
Neither of them speak while Yurio performs, and it's easy to see how he medaled. Even last year, impatient to get to his Senior level, Yuri Plisetsky had been several notches above anyone foolhardy enough to compete with him, and he's only gotten better under Lilia's stern tutelage.
(And maybe ––
possibly ––
from being here, too.)
He doesn't know what Yurio is looking for in the crowd at the end of the program, but he's distracted from trying to figure it out by Yuri's hand sliding to wrap around the forearm he's got wrapped around Yuri's waist, slim fingers squeezing like he needs some sort of reassurance that Victor's real.
Maybe it's the same sort of way Victor needs to know all this is.
Wrapping both arms around Yuri's middle now, and leaning his head against Yuri's, the pirozhok for the moment forgotten to the side. "He looks good."
no subject
For a heart-stopping moment, he thinks Yuri's about to push back away again, that for some obtuse reason he decided to crawl into Victor's lap just to give him the pirozhok and was always planning to move somewhere else to watch Yurio skate ––
But then he relaxes back against Victor's chest, head tipping towards Victor's chin, and relief breaks through him like a popped water balloon.
How long has he wanted this? Longer than the last week, certainly. Longer than the last eight months. So long now he's almost forgotten what it was like not to want Yuri in his arms, leaning against him as if he were just another piece of furniture, head settled against his like this isn't the same Yuri who ran at Victor's touch only months ago, or who has barely reached out to touch Victor on his own whim even in the last week.
Now here, settled and easy, watching the exhibition with interest, while Victor tries not to just watch him.
(He'd promised they would watch Yurio together, but there's still a bitter, confused wrinkle in his chest when he thinks about the last words they spoke to each other, the way Yurio ripped away from him to stalk off both times.
Maybe he gave Yuri a birthday present, but that doesn't mean Victor's forgotten the things he said.)
It's lovely, of course –– full of the aggressive energy and cool precision that the Bolshoi are known for. Matching Yurio with Lilia Baranovskaya was a stroke of genius, the kind Yakov pulled seemingly out of thin air without aplomb. Nobody knows his skaters better: their strengths, their weaknesses, what it will take to mine the pure talent and forge it into something far stronger and more beautiful.
(He can still feel the hand that had come, after a pause, to his back.)
Neither of them speak while Yurio performs, and it's easy to see how he medaled. Even last year, impatient to get to his Senior level, Yuri Plisetsky had been several notches above anyone foolhardy enough to compete with him, and he's only gotten better under Lilia's stern tutelage.
(And maybe ––
possibly ––
from being here, too.)
He doesn't know what Yurio is looking for in the crowd at the end of the program, but he's distracted from trying to figure it out by Yuri's hand sliding to wrap around the forearm he's got wrapped around Yuri's waist, slim fingers squeezing like he needs some sort of reassurance that Victor's real.
Maybe it's the same sort of way Victor needs to know all this is.
Wrapping both arms around Yuri's middle now, and leaning his head against Yuri's, the pirozhok for the moment forgotten to the side. "He looks good."