Victor. Victor. Who loves every new story about every new accessory for every passing holiday, and who doesn't run out of steam before trying all the most interesting dishes at any new, or even a restaurant they've been to many times. Who has absolutely no problem being so blunt the blades on his shoes are dull in comparison to how exactingly Victor tells him what's wrong, with his skating, with his own personality, all without warning.
Victor. That, and those, and every other thing. Who isn't. Doesn't. Has his face buried in Yuri's shoulder, Yuri's neck, talking into his shirt and his skin both. Just four words. They could get lost entirely in the space between Yuri's collar bone and the curve of his jaw up to his ear, but when has he ever managed to forget anything about Victor? Was there really ever a time before Victor?
What is he even supposed to say? How is he supposed to even form words? His parents? His house. Victor, and Victor's room, and Victor's bed. He's already here, in all of them, Victor wrapped around him. A new curve of the confused spiral he's in the middle of as Victor's arms suddenly start to loosen all around him again and Yuri's not ready -- for Victor to let go, for Victor to take another step further away and back from you don't have to even -- his heart tumbling as he turns maybe a little too quickly.
One knee staying bent and getting shoved more at Victor's leg, or aimed for under it. Or maybe through it. It's hard to know when all Yuri knows is turning, at least one leg tossing over Victor's, while one stays trapped and shoved under, and throwing his other arm around Victor. All a series of no no no no no that bashes against the back of his teeth and the inside of his ribs, without a first answer, but absolutely desperate not to be out of time.
Not to be let go. Even if this is probably the most awkward, backward, attempt anyone has ever made throwing themselves on Victor. He probably is. Definitely is. It's warm in his face, when what comes tumbling out is, "I missed you. Even if it was only--" But that stops, mortified even at that half started little. It's not the same words as earlier. It's not the same clarity of the feelings of that night, how hard it hit his heart, naming it the first second he saw that definition, and somehow it's even harder, like this, wrong, sliding back down into his throat like a rock.
In the language they both know and have used so long, because it's the island in the middle. Not Victor's, or his, but Victor's and his all the same, too. Especially this year, with Victor dropping into the lives here where English is not always as regularly spoken. But it's all there is. All he can say, trying not to highlight the stupidity of such a short time. So few days. Unraveling like that.
Unraveled. His lips press together at the image, but he doesn't pull away.
"I--" Fell apart. Almost couldn't find himself on the ice, at first. Lost, but won. Hugged everyone. But no one was Victor, no one felt right, no one else could fill up or take away that overwhelming, unmoored, unsteadied, part of him that: "-- missed you."
no subject
He doesn't know how this keeps happening.
Victor. Victor. Who loves every new story about every new accessory for every passing holiday, and who doesn't run out of steam before trying all the most interesting dishes at any new, or even a restaurant they've been to many times. Who has absolutely no problem being so blunt the blades on his shoes are dull in comparison to how exactingly Victor tells him what's wrong, with his skating, with his own personality, all without warning.
Victor. That, and those, and every other thing. Who isn't. Doesn't. Has his face buried in Yuri's shoulder, Yuri's neck, talking into his shirt and his skin both. Just four words. They could get lost entirely in the space between Yuri's collar bone and the curve of his jaw up to his ear, but when has he ever managed to forget anything about Victor? Was there really ever a time before Victor?
What is he even supposed to say? How is he supposed to even form words? His parents? His house. Victor, and Victor's room, and Victor's bed. He's already here, in all of them, Victor wrapped around him. A new curve of the confused spiral he's in the middle of as Victor's arms suddenly start to loosen all around him again and Yuri's not ready -- for Victor to let go, for Victor to take another step further away and back from you don't have to even -- his heart tumbling as he turns maybe a little too quickly.
One knee staying bent and getting shoved more at Victor's leg, or aimed for under it. Or maybe through it. It's hard to know when all Yuri knows is turning, at least one leg tossing over Victor's, while one stays trapped and shoved under, and throwing his other arm around Victor. All a series of no no no no no that bashes against the back of his teeth and the inside of his ribs, without a first answer, but absolutely desperate not to be out of time.
Not to be let go. Even if this is probably the most awkward, backward, attempt anyone has ever made throwing themselves on Victor. He probably is. Definitely is. It's warm in his face, when what comes tumbling out is, "I missed you. Even if it was only--" But that stops, mortified even at that half started little. It's not the same words as earlier. It's not the same clarity of the feelings of that night, how hard it hit his heart, naming it the first second he saw that definition, and somehow it's even harder, like this, wrong, sliding back down into his throat like a rock.
In the language they both know and have used so long, because it's the island in the middle. Not Victor's, or his, but Victor's and his all the same, too. Especially this year, with Victor dropping into the lives here where English is not always as regularly spoken. But it's all there is. All he can say, trying not to highlight the stupidity of such a short time. So few days. Unraveling like that.
Unraveled. His lips press together at the image, but he doesn't pull away.
"I--" Fell apart. Almost couldn't find himself on the ice, at first. Lost, but won. Hugged everyone. But no one was Victor, no one felt right, no one else could fill up or take away that overwhelming, unmoored, unsteadied, part of him that: "-- missed you."