He can sometimes be more intense than is comfortable for people, can remember with perfect clarity Yakov's reserved expression and faint aura of weariness as he realized that Victor at twenty-five was no less excitable and overly passionate than Victor at fifteen. He knows people get taken aback, aren't sure what to do or say, sometimes find it laughable.
Yuri sometimes has. Laughed at him. When he'd been as thrilled during a trip to a ramen stand in September as he was to have his first katsudon back in April or see the parade floats, Yuri had laughed at him, amused, if also a little bewildered. But fond. Never with annoyance or disdain.
And now, he doesn't laugh, either, even though what Victor's saying is patently impossible, even if it feels like the clearest truth he's ever known, to still miss someone who is right here, in his lap, even as Victor's fingers trail down along Yuri's neck to rest his hand at the crook where his neck curves into his shoulder. Full of too many things he doesn't know how to say or express, when he's not on the ice, when he doesn't know how much touch Yuri's comfortable with.
While Yuri reassures him, his hand landing lightly on Victor's arm and making Victor smile, faintly. It's true: Yuri had asked Victor to be his coach until he retired, and that means Victor will get his wish, will get to stay by Yuri's side. He'll be here to coach and encourage and push, and to take Yuri's hand and kiss him and hold him afterwards, too. Nothing ended. Nothing broke. He still has everything he's been so desperate for over the last two years. "Good."
It's not enough. There isn't a good that's good enough for this feeling, the one that's so aching and sore and keeps reaching out for Yuri as if it could somehow coax him into laying his hand over Victor's chest, over his heart, to convince him it's all real. "I forgot how empty a room like this can feel."
Without Yuri in it with him. As empty as the Sports Palace's cathedral-like rink, arching ceiling and echoing space, where not even Stammi Vicini was big enough to fill it.
This is so much bigger than that.
"Having to only watch you on tv instead of being able to be there made it that much worse."
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Date: 2017-08-27 04:38 am (UTC)He can sometimes be more intense than is comfortable for people, can remember with perfect clarity Yakov's reserved expression and faint aura of weariness as he realized that Victor at twenty-five was no less excitable and overly passionate than Victor at fifteen. He knows people get taken aback, aren't sure what to do or say, sometimes find it laughable.
Yuri sometimes has. Laughed at him. When he'd been as thrilled during a trip to a ramen stand in September as he was to have his first katsudon back in April or see the parade floats, Yuri had laughed at him, amused, if also a little bewildered. But fond. Never with annoyance or disdain.
And now, he doesn't laugh, either, even though what Victor's saying is patently impossible, even if it feels like the clearest truth he's ever known, to still miss someone who is right here, in his lap, even as Victor's fingers trail down along Yuri's neck to rest his hand at the crook where his neck curves into his shoulder. Full of too many things he doesn't know how to say or express, when he's not on the ice, when he doesn't know how much touch Yuri's comfortable with.
While Yuri reassures him, his hand landing lightly on Victor's arm and making Victor smile, faintly. It's true: Yuri had asked Victor to be his coach until he retired, and that means Victor will get his wish, will get to stay by Yuri's side. He'll be here to coach and encourage and push, and to take Yuri's hand and kiss him and hold him afterwards, too. Nothing ended. Nothing broke. He still has everything he's been so desperate for over the last two years. "Good."
It's not enough. There isn't a good that's good enough for this feeling, the one that's so aching and sore and keeps reaching out for Yuri as if it could somehow coax him into laying his hand over Victor's chest, over his heart, to convince him it's all real. "I forgot how empty a room like this can feel."
Without Yuri in it with him. As empty as the Sports Palace's cathedral-like rink, arching ceiling and echoing space, where not even Stammi Vicini was big enough to fill it.
This is so much bigger than that.
"Having to only watch you on tv instead of being able to be there made it that much worse."