It's hard to remember how miserable he was in this same room, in this same bed, only last night, when Yuri is awkwardly shifting, forcing Victor to let him go and apologizing for something that isn't even his fault. That's Yuri, though: forever serious, only recognizing teasing when it's pointed out to him. Victor will have to remember that Yuri has a tendency to take him, if not literally, then certainly at face value –– but it's nothing to worry about right now, watching amused and affectionate as Yuri slithers unceremoniously off his lap and onto the bed. "I'll be quick."
Promised lightly, as he's moving, himself, reaching for the pirozhok and pushing it back into its crumpled paper bag, now gone limp with many wrinkles and folds. His legs and feet are tingling from the sudden rush of blood back into their veins, and they feel a little fuzzy as they hit the floor and he stands, paper bag in hand, but he centers himself easily enough. It's a few quick steps from there around the bed to lean in and press a kiss to Yuri's cheek, just in front of his ear, so he does. How can he be expected to leave without a kiss goodbye?
(Even if it is only for a few moments.)
Maccahin, across the floor, had lifted his head at the first signs of movement. Always ready for a walk and some companionship, he levers himself off his dog bed and trots pertly over, following Victor's quick footsteps with absolute loyalty and surety. Just hearing those dulled claws click quietly against the floor makes something that had felt kicked and sore in Victor's chest sooth itself, and his free hand comes to rest on the poodle's head before he makes his way downstairs.
The little inn at night is just as companionable and welcoming as during the day, though silent and sleepy. He tries to move as quietly and quickly as he can, familiar now after long months here, enough to not depend on the room lights. He doesn't have to feel his way around in the dark, and the fridge light, when he opens the door, makes him blink as if he'd been doused with ice water.
In goes the pirozhok, and he turns back toward the stairs, only just barely holding back from running up them, his mission now accomplished.
All there is now is to close his door, hit the lights, move his laptop, and everything he's been wishing for over the last few days will be in his grasp.
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It's hard to remember how miserable he was in this same room, in this same bed, only last night, when Yuri is awkwardly shifting, forcing Victor to let him go and apologizing for something that isn't even his fault. That's Yuri, though: forever serious, only recognizing teasing when it's pointed out to him. Victor will have to remember that Yuri has a tendency to take him, if not literally, then certainly at face value –– but it's nothing to worry about right now, watching amused and affectionate as Yuri slithers unceremoniously off his lap and onto the bed. "I'll be quick."
Promised lightly, as he's moving, himself, reaching for the pirozhok and pushing it back into its crumpled paper bag, now gone limp with many wrinkles and folds. His legs and feet are tingling from the sudden rush of blood back into their veins, and they feel a little fuzzy as they hit the floor and he stands, paper bag in hand, but he centers himself easily enough. It's a few quick steps from there around the bed to lean in and press a kiss to Yuri's cheek, just in front of his ear, so he does. How can he be expected to leave without a kiss goodbye?
(Even if it is only for a few moments.)
Maccahin, across the floor, had lifted his head at the first signs of movement. Always ready for a walk and some companionship, he levers himself off his dog bed and trots pertly over, following Victor's quick footsteps with absolute loyalty and surety. Just hearing those dulled claws click quietly against the floor makes something that had felt kicked and sore in Victor's chest sooth itself, and his free hand comes to rest on the poodle's head before he makes his way downstairs.
The little inn at night is just as companionable and welcoming as during the day, though silent and sleepy. He tries to move as quietly and quickly as he can, familiar now after long months here, enough to not depend on the room lights. He doesn't have to feel his way around in the dark, and the fridge light, when he opens the door, makes him blink as if he'd been doused with ice water.
In goes the pirozhok, and he turns back toward the stairs, only just barely holding back from running up them, his mission now accomplished.
All there is now is to close his door, hit the lights, move his laptop, and everything he's been wishing for over the last few days will be in his grasp.