There's a pause. It might be even called a gentle silence, save for how nothing feels gentle in those seconds inside Yuri's head. When there aren't windows to look out, or his lap to look down at, and he wants to either shove the words back in his unworthy, grasping mouth and the under the deepest rock he can find, or find some excuse for why that isn't the real why, isn't that he didn't even make it ten hours alone before he was looking up words to say he missed Victor.
It feels bare and shameful and more than a little childish in the empty darkness, and the sprint of his heart only makes it feel truer, sadder, and more real. Another weakness he can't stop and didn't know was there until Victor was gone and it was in Victor's place. His lips press and tremble, feeling the straggering fast growing desperation to put something else out there. Anything else. To not be that. That absolutely clear, and true, thing.
But, then, Victor moves, and it isn't to pull further away. Or to speak.
He's shifting, but before Yuri can really do more than fear nameless, unnumbered possibilities Victor's lips press against his and there are arms pulling him back close again, and it feels like his heart might just explode in his chest, again, in a completely different and new way, again, touched so against that truth. He doesn't know how or why that's the answer, and not a question or a joke, but he can't stop himself either.
The way he uses his thigh, and hip, and arm, each caught under him, against the bed, to push himself up just a little bit more, pressing inward and upward to kiss Victor. Like it is the only thing left in the world and the gnawing dark. It feels different, too. Fragile and tenuous; specific and slow. Like a map of those words he just said, of every throb of them since he first read and heard it. Of being alone, and pushing forward, no matter how badly. Of the feeling of being able to fall asleep in car, because Victor was there, and to wake up again, because Victor was there.
It feels painful -- and Yuri's not sure he ever understood how painful this all could be. Not painful like broken bones or the inability to breathe. Painful the way his muscles and bruises are every morning. Tokens of the only stepping stones on the only path. Painful in the way where Victor is here, is right here, inches and not countries away, and he's right here, in the forbidden space of Victor's bed, and all he wants to do is push closer, as though none of this is.
To find a way to pull Victor completely around him. Until all the space is gone. As if their skin could give way and they could be even closer than that.
He doesn't know how -- he doesn't have a way -- to put any of that into words, but he has to blink the unexpected, but savagely suddenly, sting from his eyes when the kiss stops and Victor's whispered Russian words are of the few he's figured out well enough. He doesn't have any (words) and for two second he thinks he might burst into the tears he hasn't in days, not for Victor gone, or the fear of Maccachin, not even for lose-winning, and all he can do is push himself back against Victor.
Into his arms, and his head, and his shoulder, and his chest, and his body. Knees knocking Victor's legs and his own arm coiling tighter.
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Date: 2017-09-23 12:35 pm (UTC)There's a pause. It might be even called a gentle silence, save for how nothing feels gentle in those seconds inside Yuri's head. When there aren't windows to look out, or his lap to look down at, and he wants to either shove the words back in his unworthy, grasping mouth and the under the deepest rock he can find, or find some excuse for why that isn't the real why, isn't that he didn't even make it ten hours alone before he was looking up words to say he missed Victor.
It feels bare and shameful and more than a little childish in the empty darkness, and the sprint of his heart only makes it feel truer, sadder, and more real. Another weakness he can't stop and didn't know was there until Victor was gone and it was in Victor's place. His lips press and tremble, feeling the straggering fast growing desperation to put something else out there. Anything else. To not be that. That absolutely clear, and true, thing.
But, then, Victor moves, and it isn't to pull further away. Or to speak.
He's shifting, but before Yuri can really do more than fear nameless, unnumbered possibilities Victor's lips press against his and there are arms pulling him back close again, and it feels like his heart might just explode in his chest, again, in a completely different and new way, again, touched so against that truth. He doesn't know how or why that's the answer, and not a question or a joke, but he can't stop himself either.
The way he uses his thigh, and hip, and arm, each caught under him, against the bed, to push himself up just a little bit more, pressing inward and upward to kiss Victor. Like it is the only thing left in the world and the gnawing dark. It feels different, too. Fragile and tenuous; specific and slow. Like a map of those words he just said, of every throb of them since he first read and heard it. Of being alone, and pushing forward, no matter how badly. Of the feeling of being able to fall asleep in car, because Victor was there, and to wake up again, because Victor was there.
It feels painful -- and Yuri's not sure he ever understood how painful this all could be. Not painful like broken bones or the inability to breathe. Painful the way his muscles and bruises are every morning. Tokens of the only stepping stones on the only path. Painful in the way where Victor is here, is right here, inches and not countries away, and he's right here, in the forbidden space of Victor's bed, and all he wants to do is push closer, as though none of this is.
To find a way to pull Victor completely around him. Until all the space is gone.
As if their skin could give way and they could be even closer than that.
He doesn't know how -- he doesn't have a way -- to put any of that into words, but he has to blink the unexpected, but savagely suddenly, sting from his eyes when the kiss stops and Victor's whispered Russian words are of the few he's figured out well enough. He doesn't have any (words) and for two second he thinks he might burst into the tears he hasn't in days, not for Victor gone, or the fear of Maccachin, not even for lose-winning, and all he can do is push himself back against Victor.
Into his arms, and his head, and his shoulder, and his chest, and his body.
Knees knocking Victor's legs and his own arm coiling tighter.