Just as he's beginning to think Yuri has decided he wants to be here, right here, tucked up against Victor, he squirms and that sense of delighted certainty goes flipping out the window, and Victor is torn between loosening (or even letting go, horror of horrors) his arms and bodily hauling Yuri back again, wrapping legs as well as arms around him so he has to stop moving. Why does he keep moving?

Hasn't it been long enough, haven't they been good enough, haven't they been through enough over the last few days? All he'd wanted was to be here –– right here –– almost from the moment he left Moscow in a rush and a panic. "Yuri."

It comes out as plaintive as any of Maccachin's whines, watching someone eat a cone of ice cream or a pile of food that they are selfishly not sharing, and his arms do end up tightening, head pressing against Yuri's shoulder and the back of his neck. "Stop moving."

He does come back, is already coming back when Victor tugs at him, but he's looking at his phone, and his mind is a million miles away. He hasn't even explained that pirozhok he'd handed over so unceremoniously, and he hasn't just settled back against Victor, either. Surely after being away so long and having such a long and tiring week, he'd want to just lie back and relax, right?

Except he still isn't, and Victor pouts over his shoulder, mouth twisting slightly as he watches what Yuri's doing on the phone. Everything he feels about Yurio is so reluctant, tied up in annoyance and confusion and stung pride. Anger on Yuri's behalf, sadness on his own.

After all, they were rinkmates, once. "If you write something, tell him I say he looked good."