Okay, says Yuri, but Victor just holds on, suspicious of being humored, until it becomes clear Yuri really means it. The not moving. The no more moving. Agreed upon with a breathless rush of words that Victor finds personally, thoroughly, vindicating.
Taking a second, but leaning back almost to where he was before, so Victor's arms can relax and he can sit back, himself, against the headboard and pillow to give Yuri a comfortable slope to lean against. On the laptop screen, Sala Crispino is finishing up her exhibition, but Victor isn't paying attention: he already has plenty to focus on. For example:
Yuri, and the way Yuri's back and ribs and chest and stomach expand with each breath, making Victor's arms drift gently up and down. The faint but steady beat of his heart, thudding through his back and against Victor's chest. His travel-rumpled hair, smudged at the edge of Victor's vision, when he lifts his head again, only to press his cheek against Yuri's temple. Feeling like a sigh. Or maybe like there are words trying to clamber over one another, up from his chest and out his throat.
How is it possible that in getting everything he'd been wishing for, that ache has gone nowhere, has only sharpened?
All of everything running into each other. Apologies for leaving, discussin of Yuri's free skate, questions about how he's doing, what he wants, needs, expects, hopes for, tangling into a knot in his throat he doesn't know how to untangle, so he asks: "do you want to keep watching?" instead.
They watched Yurio. He has no interest in watching, who is it, JJ? take to the ice again, and while he might look up the routines from the ice dancers or the other ladies, he's happy enough to shut the laptop off.
Maybe all the lights, too.
(Now that Yuri's home, maybe they can both finally get some sleep.)
no subject
Okay, says Yuri, but Victor just holds on, suspicious of being humored, until it becomes clear Yuri really means it. The not moving. The no more moving. Agreed upon with a breathless rush of words that Victor finds personally, thoroughly, vindicating.
Taking a second, but leaning back almost to where he was before, so Victor's arms can relax and he can sit back, himself, against the headboard and pillow to give Yuri a comfortable slope to lean against. On the laptop screen, Sala Crispino is finishing up her exhibition, but Victor isn't paying attention: he already has plenty to focus on. For example:
Yuri, and the way Yuri's back and ribs and chest and stomach expand with each breath, making Victor's arms drift gently up and down. The faint but steady beat of his heart, thudding through his back and against Victor's chest. His travel-rumpled hair, smudged at the edge of Victor's vision, when he lifts his head again, only to press his cheek against Yuri's temple. Feeling like a sigh. Or maybe like there are words trying to clamber over one another, up from his chest and out his throat.
How is it possible that in getting everything he'd been wishing for, that ache has gone nowhere, has only sharpened?
All of everything running into each other. Apologies for leaving, discussin of Yuri's free skate, questions about how he's doing, what he wants, needs, expects, hopes for, tangling into a knot in his throat he doesn't know how to untangle, so he asks: "do you want to keep watching?" instead.
They watched Yurio. He has no interest in watching, who is it, JJ? take to the ice again, and while he might look up the routines from the ice dancers or the other ladies, he's happy enough to shut the laptop off.
Maybe all the lights, too.
(Now that Yuri's home, maybe they can both finally get some sleep.)