Maybe it's simpler, that he can tell as Victor keeps talking, how he meant what he just said. As his coach.
Not certain if Yuri wanted it to mean that, or more than that, or if he was even up to anything like an opinion, an understanding of the confusing feelings it had stumbled on to him, or if it was simply more things metaphorically being pushed into the basket of them he'd found himself holding waiting to be translated later. Whenever he could. If he ever could.
Yuri had looked back from the sight of Maccachin sleeping on the pillow, when Victor started talking, but it was harder to keep Victor entirely in sight once Victor's hand reached up and it was following by the tingling friction of warmth against the curve of his ear, and into his hair, nearly making his eyes close as his heart tried to tumble forward into his ribs. "You don't have to."
He doesn't need to be thanked. Not even when he's tipping toward Victor's hand. Voice. Everything he is. Eveything about Victor finally, finally, finally real again.
Doesn't want. This was all. And he'd, "I wouldn't have --" Made him stay? Asked him to? Held it against him?
Not even in the middle of that first night, when sleep seemed impossible and the sudden empty lack of Victor in the world just as impossible? Not even right before he stepped out onto the ice for his Free Skate, when he could barely see straight and thinking straight was already long left behind? He didn't know if it was right, or wrong. It wasn't unheard of. But Yurio said it was wrong. While Yakov, apparently, hadn't thought it was, since he facilitated it, too.
Discordance meets without harmony thinking about Yakov's face after Yuri hugged him, and Victor's voice, once he'd thrown himself toward Yakov, speaking only Russian, in that tone that Yuri wants to make a dream and not something he can just almost remember perfectly still.
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Not certain if Yuri wanted it to mean that, or more than that, or if he was even up to anything like an opinion, an understanding of the confusing feelings it had stumbled on to him, or if it was simply more things metaphorically being pushed into the basket of them he'd found himself holding waiting to be translated later. Whenever he could. If he ever could.
Yuri had looked back from the sight of Maccachin sleeping on the pillow, when Victor started talking, but it was harder to keep Victor entirely in sight once Victor's hand reached up and it was following by the tingling friction of warmth against the curve of his ear, and into his hair, nearly making his eyes close as his heart tried to tumble forward into his ribs. "You don't have to."
He doesn't need to be thanked. Not even when he's tipping toward Victor's hand.
Voice. Everything he is. Eveything about Victor finally, finally, finally real again.
Doesn't want. This was all. And he'd, "I wouldn't have --"
Made him stay? Asked him to? Held it against him?
Not even in the middle of that first night, when sleep seemed impossible and the sudden empty lack of Victor in the world just as impossible? Not even right before he stepped out onto the ice for his Free Skate, when he could barely see straight and thinking straight was already long left behind? He didn't know if it was right, or wrong. It wasn't unheard of. But Yurio said it was wrong. While Yakov, apparently, hadn't thought it was, since he facilitated it, too.
Discordance meets without harmony thinking about Yakov's face after Yuri hugged him, and Victor's voice, once he'd thrown himself toward Yakov, speaking only Russian, in that tone that Yuri wants to make a dream and not something he can just almost remember perfectly still.