He supposes he might, at some point, get used to this, or take it for granted. Yuri, tipping towards him, and kissing him back, Yuri's hand on his back, Yuri's mouth on his.

It's possible. But he doesn't think it's likely.

Not when even bone-deep exhaustion and the need for sleep isn't quelling the shiver of his nerves when Yuri's pushing into his kiss and kissing him back, rolling towards him until Victor's arm is tight around his ribcage and they're pressed together almost as close as is possible in this cocoon of sheets and blankets.

(Maccachin, annoyed at the shifting feet, has stalked to a corner of the bed and floppied down again, out of the way, allowing Victor's leg to snake its way over Yuri's, as if he's doing his best impression of a jungle python, wrapping him up with every inch Victor has.)

He can't imagine being used to, expecting, taking for granted the way Yuri pushes back into him and Victor has to kiss him again, already knowing he'll have to stop soon or risk not sleeping for another night because the fire sitting deep in his belly will refuse to burn itself out.

(Even sharing a bed in those hotels, they haven't, he hasn't, Yuri certainly hasn't, but Victor's never been a monk and his willpower is at a low ebb from the strain of the last few days.)

There's the temptation to run his hand up under the back of Yuri's shirt, hungry for bare skin and immediate body heat, but he'd never be able to pull away enough to sleep if he did, so he lets it slide the other direction, instead, up into Yuri's hair, while Victor places kiss after kiss against his mouth.

Too many to count. Not enough to make up for not kissing Yuri before he left.