He's not used to looking up at Yuri, on a daily basis. Yuri is shorter than him, slighter than him, and it's rare that they're in a position that would leave Victor staring up into his face –– although less rare than it used to be, a fact of which Victor is continually and breathlessly grateful.
But it is new, this perspective. Always demanding a little bit of recalibration, the way it had that very first time Victor blinked up into Yuri's face, framed by the golden and diffused light of the banquet hall and hotel ballroom. The first time he ever had a thought about who Katsukie Yuri was aside from just another would-be competitor, a rival for Victor's throne and crown. How could he have known then that this was the clearest way to see Yuri's solemn brown eyes, to watch the way his shaggy hair falls over his forehead and glasses?
He wants to move, to push up and steal this kiss that's breathing between them, paused and uncertain, but he can't. Not yet. He, occasionally, has to let Yuri come to him instead, doesn't he? Not just to push and push and push, take and take and take. Not make those words true. That man thinks only of himself!
Be better than that. Himself. His base instincts and desires. Skating is all about the elevation of those feelings, this want, isn't it? Taking love and making it theatrical. Something larger than it could ever be.
That was what he'd always thought, before he fell in love.
But there's something else happening here, too, he thinks. It's not just that Yuri's uncertain about taking that last step, although he seems to be thinking about it. There's uncertainty there, too, in his face, his eyes, the faint wrinkle of his forehead, like he doesn't know if he can believe what he hears. If Victor's telling the truth, when Victor can't think of a world in which it could be a lie. He wants to be with Yuri, right here. By his side. Always.
He'd already spent too much time fighting it to have recognized it as anything else.
"I won't leave you alone again."
Not on the ice. Not by the boards. Not for a competition. Not for anything, ever, if there's anything at all in his power to keep it from happening.
Eyes tracking across Yuri's face, and down, to his mouth, before sliding back up again, trying to convey the magnitude of all this. How certain he is. How he couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
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He's not used to looking up at Yuri, on a daily basis. Yuri is shorter than him, slighter than him, and it's rare that they're in a position that would leave Victor staring up into his face –– although less rare than it used to be, a fact of which Victor is continually and breathlessly grateful.
But it is new, this perspective. Always demanding a little bit of recalibration, the way it had that very first time Victor blinked up into Yuri's face, framed by the golden and diffused light of the banquet hall and hotel ballroom. The first time he ever had a thought about who Katsukie Yuri was aside from just another would-be competitor, a rival for Victor's throne and crown. How could he have known then that this was the clearest way to see Yuri's solemn brown eyes, to watch the way his shaggy hair falls over his forehead and glasses?
He wants to move, to push up and steal this kiss that's breathing between them, paused and uncertain, but he can't. Not yet. He, occasionally, has to let Yuri come to him instead, doesn't he? Not just to push and push and push, take and take and take. Not make those words true. That man thinks only of himself!
Be better than that. Himself. His base instincts and desires. Skating is all about the elevation of those feelings, this want, isn't it? Taking love and making it theatrical. Something larger than it could ever be.
That was what he'd always thought, before he fell in love.
But there's something else happening here, too, he thinks. It's not just that Yuri's uncertain about taking that last step, although he seems to be thinking about it. There's uncertainty there, too, in his face, his eyes, the faint wrinkle of his forehead, like he doesn't know if he can believe what he hears. If Victor's telling the truth, when Victor can't think of a world in which it could be a lie. He wants to be with Yuri, right here. By his side. Always.
He'd already spent too much time fighting it to have recognized it as anything else.
"I won't leave you alone again."
Not on the ice. Not by the boards. Not for a competition. Not for anything, ever, if there's anything at all in his power to keep it from happening.
Eyes tracking across Yuri's face, and down, to his mouth, before sliding back up again, trying to convey the magnitude of all this. How certain he is. How he couldn't imagine wanting anything else.