He's never sure if he's feeling it or seeing it more, sometimes when Victor does these things.
A vertigo of momentary uncertainty if this is the real world and really happening. He's long since accepted that Victor is here, Victor is training him, and that's a real thing. There are weeks and months, hard days and harder nights. Grueling work and even the outings Victor drags him on, here and there and everywhere Yuri might never have gone.
But this thing. This one right here. Where fingers find his hand and draw it away from being not far from his own shoulder. The way Victor presses his lips to that hand, soft, specific (again, the second time since he stepped off the plane). The way Victor tucks his hand against Victor's cheek, holding it between that cheek and his fingers, like it is precious. Like it could be lost, and thus can't be. Making it seem so much less like it's his, connected to him, about him. Somehow.
His fingers are there, he could wiggle them and his fingertips would shift in his own vision. He knows that. Knows it is his hand. But he doesn't -- not even while his heart pounds a touch faster watching Victor, watching it -- move at all, like moving those fingers might break the image. Like it was made in glass and might shatter. Or an image, caught on the reflection of water that could be scattered and diluted with the smallest touch, rippling it away.
Victor's voice, and the words that come with it, tug his gaze upward the little space between his hand and Victor's own eyes. The soft, but certain way he says that he always wants to be there. Placing it into a tug-of-war with those minutes after Yuri hung up the phone that morning. Alone, in that so empty room. Staring at his knees. Unable to move at first. Feeling his heart tearing more and more. With that. With this.
The way Victor doesn't look away from him. Saying it with the same voice, same certainty. Even when it means everything it hadn't. The reverse of what he'd held on to, even if he shouldn't have.
Beautiful and earnest, even through the gentled exhaustion, is the way he looks now. Still compelling and overwhelming. All of it bits that aren't in the other, when Victor was too far away to see. To touch. To even hear right, when all he could do was hear it. He wants this more than that, even if his mental fingers are sticky with it and he was a too tight grip on it in his head still. An acceptance of time in that constantly repeated to himself. For days. Until this. I always want to be with you.
Yuri can't point to exactly where it comes from, only that it's happening when it's happening. That he moves, trying to get closer, not caring about the pile of legs, and the bed, and the forgotten laptop. He scoots a lot closer up Victor's lap, and there's a moment, a hesitation before he brings up the hand that's been dormant and just as forgotten in his laptop. It hesitates for just a second before touching Victor's other cheek, like the ripples will happen or he'll wake up in the airplane, all of it still just exhausted, stressed dreams.
One of his hands held by Victor with the back against a cheek. The other brushing fingertips and then a palm with aching slowness against the other cheek. He wants this to be real, more than anything else inside of him. He wants to believe that this part is truer than the other part. He wants to remember this more, but even more he wants to be in right now, when Victor's skin is soft beneath his, and not think about beyond this second, this touch, Victor.
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Date: 2017-08-27 03:25 pm (UTC)He's never sure if he's feeling it or seeing it more, sometimes when Victor does these things.
A vertigo of momentary uncertainty if this is the real world and really happening. He's long since accepted that Victor is here, Victor is training him, and that's a real thing. There are weeks and months, hard days and harder nights. Grueling work and even the outings Victor drags him on, here and there and everywhere Yuri might never have gone.
But this thing. This one right here. Where fingers find his hand and draw it away from being not far from his own shoulder. The way Victor presses his lips to that hand, soft, specific (again, the second time since he stepped off the plane). The way Victor tucks his hand against Victor's cheek, holding it between that cheek and his fingers, like it is precious. Like it could be lost, and thus can't be. Making it seem so much less like it's his, connected to him, about him. Somehow.
His fingers are there, he could wiggle them and his fingertips would shift in his own vision. He knows that. Knows it is his hand. But he doesn't -- not even while his heart pounds a touch faster watching Victor, watching it -- move at all, like moving those fingers might break the image. Like it was made in glass and might shatter. Or an image, caught on the reflection of water that could be scattered and diluted with the smallest touch, rippling it away.
Victor's voice, and the words that come with it, tug his gaze upward the little space between his hand and Victor's own eyes. The soft, but certain way he says that he always wants to be there. Placing it into a tug-of-war with those minutes after Yuri hung up the phone that morning. Alone, in that so empty room. Staring at his knees. Unable to move at first. Feeling his heart tearing more and more. With that. With this.
The way Victor doesn't look away from him. Saying it with the same voice, same certainty.
Even when it means everything it hadn't. The reverse of what he'd held on to, even if he shouldn't have.
Beautiful and earnest, even through the gentled exhaustion, is the way he looks now. Still compelling and overwhelming. All of it bits that aren't in the other, when Victor was too far away to see. To touch. To even hear right, when all he could do was hear it. He wants this more than that, even if his mental fingers are sticky with it and he was a too tight grip on it in his head still. An acceptance of time in that constantly repeated to himself. For days. Until this. I always want to be with you.
Yuri can't point to exactly where it comes from, only that it's happening when it's happening. That he moves, trying to get closer, not caring about the pile of legs, and the bed, and the forgotten laptop. He scoots a lot closer up Victor's lap, and there's a moment, a hesitation before he brings up the hand that's been dormant and just as forgotten in his laptop. It hesitates for just a second before touching Victor's other cheek, like the ripples will happen or he'll wake up in the airplane, all of it still just exhausted, stressed dreams.
One of his hands held by Victor with the back against a cheek. The other brushing fingertips and then a palm with aching slowness against the other cheek. He wants this to be real, more than anything else inside of him. He wants to believe that this part is truer than the other part. He wants to remember this more, but even more he wants to be in right now, when Victor's skin is soft beneath his, and not think about beyond this second, this touch, Victor.