Victor will leave, and Victor will leave him alone,
And all the things in this room -- that Yuri doesn't look to see, because he doesn't look away from the frame of Victor's face in his hands, those dazzling eyes and the fall of his hair just slightly more to the side looking up, almost uncovering his other eye entirely, too, almost -- will all go, too, and then this room will be empty, like the hotel was empty, like Yuri's whole world suddenly was,
And it is terrifying. Somewhere else. Somewhere not close enough. He knows he should be able to feel that clearer. But he can't. Not when Victor's eyes are making this impossible circuit between his eyes and his mouth, and Yuri knows -- okay, Yuri knows, at this point -- that he probably should just kiss Victor. That anyone else in the world would just kiss Victor. Maybe just kiss anyone looking at them like this. Stop thinking. Stop stressing.
Just stop. Just kiss Victor. The most eligible person on the planet. For the world, if not for himself. But he can't. He can't and his thumb strokes a little against Victor's cheek when his own lips press firmer.
Because something else is happening. Somewhere he can't point to. Behind his breast bone and so deep inside of him there's no physical spot for it. Something almost too familiarly stubborn and defiant, and maybe even to a point stupid. Because. He's not promised Gold in Barcelona, but he wants it, but he's going to try his hardest for it, right? And either way, after whatever happens, happens, his skating career will end.
The better part of a year with no promise of glory,
Just the promise to try, to fight, to be brave, to not look back.
Could he be brave like that, here, too? Here, with Victor's earnest expression under his fingers, and the strange exhausted feeling like he just wants to throw his arms around Victor and burry into him until the lines between them vanish. Like maybe December could vanish. But it can't. But it won't. (Like Barcelona won't when the panic and the spirals come and they have to get on the plane and the scores are flashing.) But.
Maybe.
Maybe it's not about that either.
Maybe he could just be brave? He could just pick this, too, pick Victor, pick whatever that is, and becomes, and breaks down to, in the words he can never find, and even less manages to say right, and accept everything that is, at it is, everything as it's given to him, everything that he could have or be offered, until then, and try to only worry about the then (of the emptiness and absence, of the hotel, and January) when then comes?
Just be here. Just give what he can of his all. (Just love Victor. Just not regret any of this time when it's gone and he didn't do enough now.) And maybe until then Victor won't ever leave him. Yuri could believe that much, easily, couldn't he?
Maybe that's enough, Yuri thinks. Yuri hopes it even, for one or two long seconds, as his fingers slide back from Victor's cheeks, to his ears and his hair. But his lips are just touching Victor's when it feels wildly, suddenly, so clear, that it could never be truly enough. Never enough-enough. Not to not want more, want everything, want the world where it was even a choice. Want Victor to mean it forever.
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That one is the most untrue of them all.
And all the things in this room -- that Yuri doesn't look to see, because he doesn't look away from the frame of Victor's face in his hands, those dazzling eyes and the fall of his hair just slightly more to the side looking up, almost uncovering his other eye entirely, too, almost -- will all go, too, and then this room will be empty, like the hotel was empty, like Yuri's whole world suddenly was,
And it is terrifying. Somewhere else. Somewhere not close enough. He knows he should be able to feel that clearer. But he can't. Not when Victor's eyes are making this impossible circuit between his eyes and his mouth, and Yuri knows -- okay, Yuri knows, at this point -- that he probably should just kiss Victor. That anyone else in the world would just kiss Victor. Maybe just kiss anyone looking at them like this. Stop thinking. Stop stressing.
Just stop. Just kiss Victor. The most eligible person on the planet. For the world, if not for himself.
But he can't. He can't and his thumb strokes a little against Victor's cheek when his own lips press firmer.
Because something else is happening. Somewhere he can't point to. Behind his breast bone and so deep inside of him there's no physical spot for it. Something almost too familiarly stubborn and defiant, and maybe even to a point stupid. Because. He's not promised Gold in Barcelona, but he wants it, but he's going to try his hardest for it, right? And either way, after whatever happens, happens, his skating career will end.
The better part of a year with no promise of glory,
Just the promise to try, to fight, to be brave, to not look back.
Could he be brave like that, here, too? Here, with Victor's earnest expression under his fingers, and the strange exhausted feeling like he just wants to throw his arms around Victor and burry into him until the lines between them vanish. Like maybe December could vanish. But it can't. But it won't. (Like Barcelona won't when the panic and the spirals come and they have to get on the plane and the scores are flashing.) But.
Maybe.
Maybe it's not about that either.
Maybe he could just be brave? He could just pick this, too, pick Victor, pick whatever that is, and becomes, and breaks down to, in the words he can never find, and even less manages to say right, and accept everything that is, at it is, everything as it's given to him, everything that he could have or be offered, until then, and try to only worry about the then (of the emptiness and absence, of the hotel, and January) when then comes?
Just be here. Just give what he can of his all. (Just love Victor.
Just not regret any of this time when it's gone and he didn't do enough now.)
And maybe until then Victor won't ever leave him. Yuri could believe that much, easily, couldn't he?
Maybe that's enough, Yuri thinks. Yuri hopes it even, for one or two long seconds, as his fingers slide back from Victor's cheeks, to his ears and his hair. But his lips are just touching Victor's when it feels wildly, suddenly, so clear, that it could never be truly enough. Never enough-enough. Not to not want more, want everything, want the world where it was even a choice. Want Victor to mean it forever.