Victor isn't making sense. From one thing, to the other, and back to the first. When neither of those work at the same time and Victor is saying them, softly, stacking them, like decrees, only further confusing Yuri. Which isn't always a new thing, and it's definitely not, like this, during the last short while, but it's a little distracting from the sense or not sense making, when Victor is leaning his head into Yuri's.
The soft brush of Victor's skin and silky hair, against his neck, the far back side of his face he's never really thought of as existing until Victor's brushing against it. Even just passing it by, while whispering soft words, that start near his ear, but then sink, with Victor's head, into his shoulder, and, with an alarming sharp start, his heart.
"Victor!" The word slaps out of his mouth before the thought has done more than slap itself from his ears into his head, moving without thinking. Not up, but twisting within the tightened grip of Victor's arms, twisting enough to be able to see Victor's face, and for Victor to see his own, eyes gone wide with shock and surprise, perhaps, even in equal enough measure. This was -- he wanted -- here? -- but they were -- here, his home -- this wasn't -- there were -- his family was here --
There's a too fast, moment, when Yuri looks over his shoulder toward the half-open door, like somehow everyone in the building, his family, and even all the nights' patrons, must have been able to hear Victor's words, no matter how soft the whisper. Or the sudden race of Yuri's own heart. The one that started with those words, but refused to stop, only goes on escalating, in a wholly secondary way, while looking at Victor's face. Beautiful and worn, soft without the earlier concern or confusion.
The traitored muffle of a second echo, inside that too big surprise -- request? -- when he doesn't know how he hasn't been looking at Victor, instead of anything else, this whole time. Why he hasn't kissed Victor since back in Fukuoka. Something in his chest wheeling into painful birth and existence at the disastrous idea taking root through Victor's nonchalant impropriety, about the idea of not having to let go.
Not having to go away. Not having to be alone, alone, alone, alone, again. Not even for a few hours.
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Victor isn't making sense. From one thing, to the other, and back to the first. When neither of those work at the same time and Victor is saying them, softly, stacking them, like decrees, only further confusing Yuri. Which isn't always a new thing, and it's definitely not, like this, during the last short while, but it's a little distracting from the sense or not sense making, when Victor is leaning his head into Yuri's.
The soft brush of Victor's skin and silky hair, against his neck, the far back side of his face he's never really thought of as existing until Victor's brushing against it. Even just passing it by, while whispering soft words, that start near his ear, but then sink, with Victor's head, into his shoulder, and, with an alarming sharp start, his heart.
"Victor!" The word slaps out of his mouth before the thought has done more than slap itself from his ears into his head, moving without thinking. Not up, but twisting within the tightened grip of Victor's arms, twisting enough to be able to see Victor's face, and for Victor to see his own, eyes gone wide with shock and surprise, perhaps, even in equal enough measure. This was -- he wanted -- here? -- but they were -- here, his home -- this wasn't -- there were -- his family was here --
There's a too fast, moment, when Yuri looks over his shoulder toward the half-open door, like somehow everyone in the building, his family, and even all the nights' patrons, must have been able to hear Victor's words, no matter how soft the whisper. Or the sudden race of Yuri's own heart. The one that started with those words, but refused to stop, only goes on escalating, in a wholly secondary way, while looking at Victor's face. Beautiful and worn, soft without the earlier concern or confusion.
The traitored muffle of a second echo, inside that too big surprise -- request? -- when he doesn't know how he hasn't been looking at Victor, instead of anything else, this whole time. Why he hasn't kissed Victor since back in Fukuoka. Something in his chest wheeling into painful birth and existence at the disastrous idea taking root through Victor's nonchalant impropriety, about the idea of not having to let go.
Not having to go away. Not having to be alone, alone, alone, alone, again. Not even for a few hours.