He's really not sure he'll ever get used to Yuri touching him.
Certainly not when it seems like Yuri will never get used to it, every new attempt another foray into personal bravery for him. It's obvious in the nervous way he watches Victor, and his own hand, as it carefully lifts. Slow, like he thinks he might startle Victor away, as if Victor hasn't stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped doing anything other than sitting here careful and still and not going anywhere.
His legs shift as Yuri moves, and there's a crinkling sound as one shin meets that paper bag still on the comforter top, but it's hardly a priority. Even the pirozhok that must still be sitting on top of it, that should really be put in a refrigerator if it isn't going to be eaten right now, is nothing he's thinking too hard about. Not when Yuri's fingers are brushing his cheek, and then his palm is cupping it, and Victor's held breath comes in a painful tug, a breath like he forgot how to breathe, and his body, unwilling to let him simply asphyxiate, is sharply reminding him.
It doesn't matter. Air. Anything. Anything but the way Yuri, all solemn dark eyes and uncertain mouth, is looking down at him right now. Hand cradling his head.
Victor's hand releasing the one he's held to his cheek, so Yuri can turn that one, too, if he wants, Victor's own fingers trailing to come to a rest at the delicate bones of that wrist. If it were anyone else, he'd swear he's seconds away from being kisser –– but Yuri is still never quite sure about that yet, is he? If he can, should.
When there hasn't been a single moment over the last eight months, or two years, when Victor would push him away or tell him not to.
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He's really not sure he'll ever get used to Yuri touching him.
Certainly not when it seems like Yuri will never get used to it, every new attempt another foray into personal bravery for him. It's obvious in the nervous way he watches Victor, and his own hand, as it carefully lifts. Slow, like he thinks he might startle Victor away, as if Victor hasn't stopped breathing, stopped thinking, stopped doing anything other than sitting here careful and still and not going anywhere.
His legs shift as Yuri moves, and there's a crinkling sound as one shin meets that paper bag still on the comforter top, but it's hardly a priority. Even the pirozhok that must still be sitting on top of it, that should really be put in a refrigerator if it isn't going to be eaten right now, is nothing he's thinking too hard about. Not when Yuri's fingers are brushing his cheek, and then his palm is cupping it, and Victor's held breath comes in a painful tug, a breath like he forgot how to breathe, and his body, unwilling to let him simply asphyxiate, is sharply reminding him.
It doesn't matter. Air. Anything. Anything but the way Yuri, all solemn dark eyes and uncertain mouth, is looking down at him right now. Hand cradling his head.
Victor's hand releasing the one he's held to his cheek, so Yuri can turn that one, too, if he wants, Victor's own fingers trailing to come to a rest at the delicate bones of that wrist. If it were anyone else, he'd swear he's seconds away from being kisser –– but Yuri is still never quite sure about that yet, is he? If he can, should.
When there hasn't been a single moment over the last eight months, or two years, when Victor would push him away or tell him not to.