Yuri's eyelids flicker, eyelashes almost touching several times.
Small shivers running down the skin of his neck with Victor's fingers, chasing themselves down past his shoulders into the still sore muscles of his back. Tingling snaps of electricity that fade off the way waves do, sliding back into the ocean like the water hadn't seconds ago been under your toes. It makes his fingers tighten barely, on his lap and Victor's arm, and his shoulders shift. There's not a lot of Victor to lean into with a hand, but maybe his body tries a little anyway.
Yuri understands too well about the space. He'd slept as much as he could, but then he hadn't touched the beds, again, after waking up the next morning, and even the night before last -- or two, or one, whichever, however that's counted, the last one in Moscow -- he'd checked out early and stood in the snow, rather than spend his last hours in that room he'd gotten with Victor and was suddenly only his.
It's familiar until everything pauses, like Yuri's heart skips an entire beat, maybe several, at Victor's last words. Dark eyes looking at him with uncertainty. Or maybe it's not uncertainty. Maybe it's something more like a very still and solemn wariness. Searching his face, even as Yuri says, "You said that wasn't a problem."
Except that's not true. He didn't say it wasn't a problem. He'd said it wouldn't be different. Being there, or not being there.
Yuri's not sure he thought out those words. Had even thought to think about asking himself the question. Any question. About whether it's a lie or the truth. Whether he wants to break it already, a second after being said, when he could just choose to keep it, no matter what it is. Both of them, sitting side by side in his head.
His mouth presses, embarrassed at the idea he'd given himself away by the few words. That it shouldn't have bothered him either if he was better at all of these things he never is. At whatever he was supposed to be better of this part. That part. That it had stuck, like a burr under his skin, a splinter embedded in it, a tear somewhere too far under to see or know how to close. At least until he'd finally been able to see and touch and hear Victor again.
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Date: 2017-08-27 05:59 am (UTC)Yuri's eyelids flicker, eyelashes almost touching several times.
Small shivers running down the skin of his neck with Victor's fingers, chasing themselves down past his shoulders into the still sore muscles of his back. Tingling snaps of electricity that fade off the way waves do, sliding back into the ocean like the water hadn't seconds ago been under your toes. It makes his fingers tighten barely, on his lap and Victor's arm, and his shoulders shift. There's not a lot of Victor to lean into with a hand, but maybe his body tries a little anyway.
Yuri understands too well about the space. He'd slept as much as he could, but then he hadn't touched the beds, again, after waking up the next morning, and even the night before last -- or two, or one, whichever, however that's counted, the last one in Moscow -- he'd checked out early and stood in the snow, rather than spend his last hours in that room he'd gotten with Victor and was suddenly only his.
It's familiar until everything pauses, like Yuri's heart skips an entire beat, maybe several, at Victor's last words. Dark eyes looking at him with uncertainty. Or maybe it's not uncertainty. Maybe it's something more like a very still and solemn wariness. Searching his face, even as Yuri says, "You said that wasn't a problem."
Except that's not true. He didn't say it wasn't a problem.
He'd said it wouldn't be different. Being there, or not being there.
Yuri's not sure he thought out those words. Had even thought to think about asking himself the question. Any question. About whether it's a lie or the truth. Whether he wants to break it already, a second after being said, when he could just choose to keep it, no matter what it is. Both of them, sitting side by side in his head.
His mouth presses, embarrassed at the idea he'd given himself away by the few words. That it shouldn't have bothered him either if he was better at all of these things he never is. At whatever he was supposed to be better of this part. That part. That it had stuck, like a burr under his skin, a splinter embedded in it, a tear somewhere too far under to see or know how to close. At least until he'd finally been able to see and touch and hear Victor again.