Even as Victor says it, Yuri wants to argue it or give some defense. That he's fine.
It's a foolish and childish snap reaction in his head, a whined denial, especially when his body chooses that second to yawn, and he has to quickly tip his face down, chin tucking in, while raising a hand to cover it, so he isn't yawning straight into Victor's face. It's not that he isn't tired, and doesn't know he is or isn't aware how much sleep he hasn't had, and what all he's been doing before all the pieces of this compounded the already epic stress of competing, of trying for one last good season.
It's that he doesn't want to be tired. Not now that Victor is real and here. Not now that there aren't silences longer than a minute or two, before that silence is filled with Victor's voice. Not when Victor is half wrapped around him, so physically present and pressed against him, it feels like the rest of the world has dimmed and faded out entirely around them. It doesn't make him less tired. There are no saving graces to that.
Even when he wants to revolt against his eyebrows, and that traitorous yawn, and prop up his eyelids with anything it might take. To be able to not have to close his eyes. To be continually confronted and comforted by the reality that Victor actually is there. Right in front of him. Curled around him.
There is no defense. There is no denial. Most of it is -- as his body ebbs back from that rush of heat and need and want -- a sleepy, sticky, stricken need to hold on. To not have Victor pull all the way away yet, even as his heart rate continues to thud heavy but incrementally slower with each of the seeping, spreading dark seconds that Victor's finger brushes against his skin before disappearing into his hair, soft there. Fingers parting his hair and fingertips against his scalp, soft and warm, setting off an unexpected pang in his chest.
Pushing that filling, nebulous and swirling cloud inside him, up toward his throat. Shoving at his soft pallet, his tongue, and his lips blurt out embarrassingly unchecked things like don't let go as though Victor might pull back away entirely in any second and please still be here in the morning as though he might be just a dream and I missed you so much, even though he's already said that, too, if in a different way.
Still there, truer and bigger than three words or three languages feel like they can properly explain. Than his heart can even.
What he decides might be just as foolhardy as his early rebuttal, even only in his head, was foolish. Pressing himself to that choice, the movement, before his heart can even start pounding or the second thoughts become the fifth or tenth. He curls inward, in that dark, closer still to Victor. Stomach twisting to a nervous knot at the forwardness of it, but not stopping, until his forehead can find Victor's shoulder and chest, arm slipping further across Victor's back.
Not wanting just Victor's other pillow yet, or just the other side of Victor's bed. Not wanting anything that isn't mostly Victor on every side of him.
Real, no matter which way he moves, or breathes, or thinks.
Real, until either Victor lets go or his waking mind does.
no subject
Even as Victor says it, Yuri wants to argue it or give some defense. That he's fine.
It's a foolish and childish snap reaction in his head, a whined denial, especially when his body chooses that second to yawn, and he has to quickly tip his face down, chin tucking in, while raising a hand to cover it, so he isn't yawning straight into Victor's face. It's not that he isn't tired, and doesn't know he is or isn't aware how much sleep he hasn't had, and what all he's been doing before all the pieces of this compounded the already epic stress of competing, of trying for one last good season.
It's that he doesn't want to be tired. Not now that Victor is real and here. Not now that there aren't silences longer than a minute or two, before that silence is filled with Victor's voice. Not when Victor is half wrapped around him, so physically present and pressed against him, it feels like the rest of the world has dimmed and faded out entirely around them. It doesn't make him less tired. There are no saving graces to that.
Even when he wants to revolt against his eyebrows, and that traitorous yawn, and prop up his eyelids with anything it might take. To be able to not have to close his eyes. To be continually confronted and comforted by the reality that Victor actually is there. Right in front of him. Curled around him.
There is no defense. There is no denial. Most of it is -- as his body ebbs back from that rush of heat and need and want -- a sleepy, sticky, stricken need to hold on. To not have Victor pull all the way away yet, even as his heart rate continues to thud heavy but incrementally slower with each of the seeping, spreading dark seconds that Victor's finger brushes against his skin before disappearing into his hair, soft there. Fingers parting his hair and fingertips against his scalp, soft and warm, setting off an unexpected pang in his chest.
Pushing that filling, nebulous and swirling cloud inside him, up toward his throat. Shoving at his soft pallet, his tongue, and his lips blurt out embarrassingly unchecked things like don't let go as though Victor might pull back away entirely in any second and please still be here in the morning as though he might be just a dream and I missed you so much, even though he's already said that, too, if in a different way.
Still there, truer and bigger than three words or three languages feel like they can properly explain. Than his heart can even.
What he decides might be just as foolhardy as his early rebuttal, even only in his head, was foolish. Pressing himself to that choice, the movement, before his heart can even start pounding or the second thoughts become the fifth or tenth. He curls inward, in that dark, closer still to Victor. Stomach twisting to a nervous knot at the forwardness of it, but not stopping, until his forehead can find Victor's shoulder and chest, arm slipping further across Victor's back.
Not wanting just Victor's other pillow yet, or just the other side of Victor's bed.
Not wanting anything that isn't mostly Victor on every side of him.
Real, no matter which way he moves, or breathes, or thinks.
Real, until either Victor lets go or his waking mind does.