Yuri can't defend how anything in the slightest is supposed to make sense when Victor is looking up at him radiant, and unremorseful, and unwavering, under his originally slightly untidy, and now slightly even more mussed, by Yuri's hands, somehow, hair. It's only exponentially less anything like sensible when Victor goes about tipping himself upward, kissing him, again. Making Yuri's brain sputter into a puff at the touch of his lips.
Soft, short, and then turned into nothing more than Victor's laugh that gets stuck in Yuri's teeth and his chest and that ache that sparked right as the kiss ended instead of just beginning and the soft sound started. All of it dazing, and not entirely comforting, it touches a note somewhere deep down, maybe always, being laughed at, floundering for the reason. Even though Victor is still smiling up at him, and then teasing him.
About. Oh.
Yuri's hands suddenly pulled back -- pushed back, off of shoulders he couldn't remember when his arms had found, or fingers had left hair, but he finds them all the same, pushes back. Because -- "Sorry." -- and it should be impossible to feel like he could blush more, he'd like to not have reasons to keep staying this warm, but -- Victor is right, and he's an idiot. "Sorry." He's all but sitting on Victor and not even in an easy, straight forward position.
Or. Well. He was. Before he was pushing Victor back at the same time as himself and plopping on to the bed. All ungainliness, that has him fixing the tilt of his glasses again, catching his weight, along with the new ground, on one hand, and trying not to wince at Victor's words. Not about going and coming back fast. About the fact he's going downstairs. Which is where he has to go. To get to the fridge. Which is downstairs. But, so is his parents' room, and Mari's.
It's the wrong sudden sort of panic to think maybe not how quickly, but maybe don't wake up anyone and don't say anything, as though it might not be possible to see that triumph on him, as though anyone could ever keep Victor from speaking his mind without a win to propel him more. When it had involved even more of Yuri more than a week ago, and people neither of them even knew, or ever would likely, and these were his parents, and his sister, all of whom Victor liked, and they liked him, and it's really the wrong things to say, "Okay,"
When he's already fretting a little that quickly might not be quickly enough if one of them is awake and up right now already. Because neither of those is even polite. Or appropriate. They might even be insulting. Especially if they came out of his mouth as fast as they were shooting about his head, now that he had pulled away.
(And. And. Victor hadn't done anything like that since that morning either, had he? At least not that Yuri knew of? Right?)
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Date: 2017-09-13 03:24 am (UTC)Yuri can't defend how anything in the slightest is supposed to make sense when Victor is looking up at him radiant, and unremorseful, and unwavering, under his originally slightly untidy, and now slightly even more mussed, by Yuri's hands, somehow, hair. It's only exponentially less anything like sensible when Victor goes about tipping himself upward, kissing him, again. Making Yuri's brain sputter into a puff at the touch of his lips.
Soft, short, and then turned into nothing more than Victor's laugh that gets stuck in Yuri's teeth and his chest and that ache that sparked right as the kiss ended instead of just beginning and the soft sound started. All of it dazing, and not entirely comforting, it touches a note somewhere deep down, maybe always, being laughed at, floundering for the reason. Even though Victor is still smiling up at him, and then teasing him.
About. Oh.
Yuri's hands suddenly pulled back -- pushed back, off of shoulders he couldn't remember when his arms had found, or fingers had left hair, but he finds them all the same, pushes back. Because -- "Sorry." -- and it should be impossible to feel like he could blush more, he'd like to not have reasons to keep staying this warm, but -- Victor is right, and he's an idiot. "Sorry." He's all but sitting on Victor and not even in an easy, straight forward position.
Or. Well. He was. Before he was pushing Victor back at the same time as himself and plopping on to the bed. All ungainliness, that has him fixing the tilt of his glasses again, catching his weight, along with the new ground, on one hand, and trying not to wince at Victor's words. Not about going and coming back fast. About the fact he's going downstairs. Which is where he has to go. To get to the fridge. Which is downstairs. But, so is his parents' room, and Mari's.
It's the wrong sudden sort of panic to think maybe not how quickly, but maybe don't wake up anyone and don't say anything, as though it might not be possible to see that triumph on him, as though anyone could ever keep Victor from speaking his mind without a win to propel him more. When it had involved even more of Yuri more than a week ago, and people neither of them even knew, or ever would likely, and these were his parents, and his sister, all of whom Victor liked, and they liked him, and it's really the wrong things to say, "Okay,"
When he's already fretting a little that quickly might not be quickly enough if one of them is awake and up right now already. Because neither of those is even polite. Or appropriate. They might even be insulting. Especially if they came out of his mouth as fast as they were shooting about his head, now that he had pulled away.
(And. And. Victor hadn't done anything like that since that morning either, had he? At least not that Yuri knew of? Right?)