This is not like the kiss in the car, with too much of the car, like too much of the world, still in the way, and it's not like the day Victor left, the day Victor didn't kiss him at all, when the day went from brilliant to terrible, from rousing success to certain terror ...
... and it's not like the day before that either, when kissing was still new (the way it still was now, even, a slightly fumbling, slightly fuzzy, almost a little frantic, yet more necessary than air, thing) but the world was languid and the only concerns were possible idiotic embarrassment via knowing nothing, and, of course, that every second bringing him closer to Free Skate the next day.
He hadn't hugged Victor goodbye. Twice. He hadn't even thought to think about kissing Victor goodbye. Twice. He'd convinced himself, a hundred times, a million, that all of this would be gone whenever he found Victor again. That Maccachin might be dead and gone, and it would go. That he hadn't placed, and it would all go.
But.
It's still here.
Victor's fingers digging into the battered, worn fabric of his t-shirt, and Victor's breath growing fast on between their lips. Or maybe it's both, because his chest is aching. Which could be his heart trying to crash through the front, or his lungs not getting enough air, or getting too much. But Yuri can't focus on that. Being pulled further in and further back and further down, in, and in, and in, to Victor, and Victor's arms, and Victor's bed even more, with that small bump at coming to rest on the back of it again.
The whole of which, even as a thought, might make him flush more if his face hadn't already gone warm before this second, if it didn't remind him of something else. Because of it. And when he has to pause, they do, when air has to be demanded of them, Yuri wrinkles his nose a little, pulling back one of his hands to reset his glass and looking over his shoulder.
Even if he knows what he'll see, the same as he's started saying it before getting there. "We need to close the door."
Even if he's a little chagrin about the sound of his own voice. About that we. About the fact it's an answers, isn't it, for the question he hadn't answered? For one he knows he probably shouldn't be giving, even by that much. About the fact his tone sounds as winded, slightly rougher, and reluctant as he feels to let go of anything, to follow any rules, to do what he must, should.
Anything that isn't being near Victor until he can't be anymore.
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This is not like the kiss in the car, with too much of the car, like too much of the world, still in the way, and it's not like the day Victor left, the day Victor didn't kiss him at all, when the day went from brilliant to terrible, from rousing success to certain terror ...
... and it's not like the day before that either, when kissing was still new (the way it still was now, even, a slightly fumbling, slightly fuzzy, almost a little frantic, yet more necessary than air, thing) but the world was languid and the only concerns were possible idiotic embarrassment via knowing nothing, and, of course, that every second bringing him closer to Free Skate the next day.
He hadn't hugged Victor goodbye. Twice. He hadn't even thought to think about kissing Victor goodbye. Twice.
He'd convinced himself, a hundred times, a million, that all of this would be gone whenever he found Victor again.
That Maccachin might be dead and gone, and it would go. That he hadn't placed, and it would all go.
But.
It's still here.
Victor's fingers digging into the battered, worn fabric of his t-shirt, and Victor's breath growing fast on between their lips. Or maybe it's both, because his chest is aching. Which could be his heart trying to crash through the front, or his lungs not getting enough air, or getting too much. But Yuri can't focus on that. Being pulled further in and further back and further down, in, and in, and in, to Victor, and Victor's arms, and Victor's bed even more, with that small bump at coming to rest on the back of it again.
The whole of which, even as a thought, might make him flush more if his face hadn't already gone warm before this second, if it didn't remind him of something else. Because of it. And when he has to pause, they do, when air has to be demanded of them, Yuri wrinkles his nose a little, pulling back one of his hands to reset his glass and looking over his shoulder.
Even if he knows what he'll see, the same as he's started saying it before getting there. "We need to close the door."
Even if he's a little chagrin about the sound of his own voice. About that we. About the fact it's an answers, isn't it, for the question he hadn't answered? For one he knows he probably shouldn't be giving, even by that much. About the fact his tone sounds as winded, slightly rougher, and reluctant as he feels to let go of anything, to follow any rules, to do what he must, should.
Anything that isn't being near Victor until he can't be anymore.