Yuri manages not to disgrace himself with this kiss ending for him the same way it started. Maybe it doesn't come out of his mouth, but the noise, or more the feeling that had gotten everywhere and turned into a sound when Victor kissed him, it's still the same feeling that fills him as Victor pulls away. When no part of him wants to stop kissing Victor and, somehow, it's still the same part of him feeling dizzily unbalanced by those kisses, and even more by the face looking up at him.
No one could say no to this face. It seems impossible. Like Yuuri might dissolve into droplets on the air and blow away if Victor so much as whispered a wish of it. He wants to tip his head in and rest his forehead against Victor's forehead, or Victor's temple, or, maybe his cheek. He wants to lift his closest hand, the one on Victor's shoulder, and let his fingers touch Victor's face, trace his features, like somehow there was ever a doubt they weren't the same.
Perfect. No matter where he'd gone or what he'd done. The same way it's been for decades.
The temptation and tremulously fearful doubt it spurs up, gutters flat when Victor starts talking, and Yuri blinks.
Looking down at Victor's mouth and Victor's eyes, but not like he had only seconds earlier. It's a completely different thing slipping into his expression. This confusion, like what's before him is utterly foreign, like he can't quite believe those words just happened. That Victor just said them. That Victor has no problem with the audacity of phrasing, or.
Or.
Or the idea that it might not be heart-stopping, or -stabbing, to hear.
That he's not even certain he knows how to parse it, and he's already baffled that Victor can say it like it's a given, or like he already had an idea it might be. I should have known could have gone so many ways. It could have been meant for a hundred different things, to be said in a hundred different ways, but we have to stay together was not in them. He doesn't even know if it's what happened, how he did, once Victor was gone. Falling apart and barely pulling it together.
Or something else. (This?)
He doesn't know what to do with that.
He doesn't even know how to feel what it makes him feel.
Maybe it's cowardly, and maybe his fingers tighten just a little on Victor's shoulder, even when he answers the only part he has any idea how to. "You had to." There's a helpless kind of shrug, as his grip lessens just as absently, looking over his shoulder and off the bed. "Maccachin--" Was hurt, was possibly dying ... wasn't even lying there watching them, so much as curled up, head down, a pile of fluff breathing great, huffy breaths, so very much alive.
"I would have come back if I could." If he hadn't been in the same place he was last time.
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No one could say no to this face. It seems impossible. Like Yuuri might dissolve into droplets on the air and blow away if Victor so much as whispered a wish of it. He wants to tip his head in and rest his forehead against Victor's forehead, or Victor's temple, or, maybe his cheek. He wants to lift his closest hand, the one on Victor's shoulder, and let his fingers touch Victor's face, trace his features, like somehow there was ever a doubt they weren't the same.
Perfect. No matter where he'd gone or what he'd done. The same way it's been for decades.
The temptation and tremulously fearful doubt it spurs up, gutters flat when Victor starts talking, and Yuri blinks.
Looking down at Victor's mouth and Victor's eyes, but not like he had only seconds earlier. It's a completely different thing slipping into his expression. This confusion, like what's before him is utterly foreign, like he can't quite believe those words just happened. That Victor just said them. That Victor has no problem with the audacity of phrasing, or.
Or.
Or the idea that it might not be heart-stopping, or -stabbing, to hear.
That he's not even certain he knows how to parse it, and he's already baffled that Victor can say it like it's a given, or like he already had an idea it might be. I should have known could have gone so many ways. It could have been meant for a hundred different things, to be said in a hundred different ways, but we have to stay together was not in them. He doesn't even know if it's what happened, how he did, once Victor was gone. Falling apart and barely pulling it together.
Or something else. (This?)
He doesn't know what to do with that.
He doesn't even know how to feel what it makes him feel.
Maybe it's cowardly, and maybe his fingers tighten just a little on Victor's shoulder, even when he answers the only part he has any idea how to. "You had to." There's a helpless kind of shrug, as his grip lessens just as absently, looking over his shoulder and off the bed. "Maccachin--" Was hurt, was possibly dying ... wasn't even lying there watching them, so much as curled up, head down, a pile of fluff breathing great, huffy breaths, so very much alive.
"I would have come back if I could." If he hadn't been in the same place he was last time.