It's like some key suddenly gets turned in Yuri, and he comes alive under Victor's hands, against his mouth. Fingers sliding through Victor's hair and melting nerves along the way until he feels like a dripping scoop of ice cream, all befuddled delight torn between tipping his head further into those fingers and pushing against Yuri's weight nudging him backwards. If it were just those fingers sliding along his scalp, he'd probably be out in minutes, if not seconds, but it's not: it's Yuri's lips parting and muscles tensing under Victor's hands at the same time as those fingers tighten in Victor's hair. Glasses bumped askew, and Victor's heart racing, and his breath shortening. None of it quite like the pause in the earth's spin when his toepick catches the ice and sends him hurtling skyward, but it's the closest thing he can think of to this feeling.
Up, and up, and up. Certain that there's no possible way to stick this landing, but throwing himself into it anyway.
He's so tired that his nerves feel fuzzed at the edges, and even Yuri's touch lacks its usual sharp immediacy, but that only makes it more dreamlike and wrenching than usual, doesn't it? With this sensation that it might not be real, in the same way none of his dreams after Sochi were real, the same way nothing, even practice until he was dead with exhaustion and his feet throbbed and his muscles threatened to tear, felt real. Something he could never manage to explain to Yakov, even if he'd ever thought to try. He doesn't know how much more real it gets than Yuri's weight warm and solid against him, in his arms, Yuri's mouth on his, Yuri's hands in his hair, but he doesn't know how to hold onto it, grasp it, make sure. Make really sure that he won't just blink awake with a pillow clutched against his chest and Maccachin whining to go out into the dim blue morning of a St. Petersburg winter.
There's really nothing to do other than pretend that it is, is there? Even in those dreams, he'd wanted to make the most of them, and he shifts now to draw Yuri against his chest, while his back hits the headboard. It's not quite comfortable, and it's not quite the best possible way to settle against each other, but the ache in his spine is something he can hold onto as unlikely to happen in a dream, and so is the pause he has to take to breathe, before pushing back for another kiss. There's a rustle of paper near his knee, and the quiet sounds of the mattress and bed from shifting, and Maccachin snoring, and Yuri ––
Yuri's breath fast and shallow, and the thundering in his ears that he thinks must be his own heartbeat, even if he can't tell if it's one heart racing against these held seconds, or two.
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It's like some key suddenly gets turned in Yuri, and he comes alive under Victor's hands, against his mouth. Fingers sliding through Victor's hair and melting nerves along the way until he feels like a dripping scoop of ice cream, all befuddled delight torn between tipping his head further into those fingers and pushing against Yuri's weight nudging him backwards. If it were just those fingers sliding along his scalp, he'd probably be out in minutes, if not seconds, but it's not: it's Yuri's lips parting and muscles tensing under Victor's hands at the same time as those fingers tighten in Victor's hair. Glasses bumped askew, and Victor's heart racing, and his breath shortening. None of it quite like the pause in the earth's spin when his toepick catches the ice and sends him hurtling skyward, but it's the closest thing he can think of to this feeling.
Up, and up, and up. Certain that there's no possible way to stick this landing, but throwing himself into it anyway.
He's so tired that his nerves feel fuzzed at the edges, and even Yuri's touch lacks its usual sharp immediacy, but that only makes it more dreamlike and wrenching than usual, doesn't it? With this sensation that it might not be real, in the same way none of his dreams after Sochi were real, the same way nothing, even practice until he was dead with exhaustion and his feet throbbed and his muscles threatened to tear, felt real. Something he could never manage to explain to Yakov, even if he'd ever thought to try. He doesn't know how much more real it gets than Yuri's weight warm and solid against him, in his arms, Yuri's mouth on his, Yuri's hands in his hair, but he doesn't know how to hold onto it, grasp it, make sure. Make really sure that he won't just blink awake with a pillow clutched against his chest and Maccachin whining to go out into the dim blue morning of a St. Petersburg winter.
There's really nothing to do other than pretend that it is, is there? Even in those dreams, he'd wanted to make the most of them, and he shifts now to draw Yuri against his chest, while his back hits the headboard. It's not quite comfortable, and it's not quite the best possible way to settle against each other, but the ache in his spine is something he can hold onto as unlikely to happen in a dream, and so is the pause he has to take to breathe, before pushing back for another kiss. There's a rustle of paper near his knee, and the quiet sounds of the mattress and bed from shifting, and Maccachin snoring, and Yuri ––
Yuri's breath fast and shallow, and the thundering in his ears that he thinks must be his own heartbeat, even if he can't tell if it's one heart racing against these held seconds, or two.