Yuri staggers off to Phichit's weak laughter, and even weaker will where it comes to his Instagram feed and selfies therefor, and the other two boys berating him, with more sense than Yuri can even manage, while still caught up in clutching the phone and needing to find the darkest hole possible. Looking at it so hard he runs right into someone. Apologizing even as he shoved the phone back in his pocket, apologies more frantic than necessary, but he can't stop them even as he's hearing himself.
His next steps are unseeing, because he can't look at it, but he can't unburn it from his mind's eye.
It wasn't like that. He and Victor aren't like that. He wasn't fooling around with Victor. He wasn't sleeping with Victor. Well. Except for literally. Last night. The once. But not. Like. That. Not even with. Prickles flicker and flood at his neck, remembering friction, the barest, hot whisper in a hard language, just as a hand lands, curved and cupping ownership on one cheek of his ass, and Yuri nearly scrambles out of all of his skin, all the way on his toes, shoulders high as they can push, with such undignified noises hiccuping up and up and out and out of his mouth, he can barely hear the voice next to his ear.
Not Victor. (Even when his blood is pounding Victor, Victor, Victor, infused shock, a hand on his chest, lips against his ear, his neck, his shoulder, drilling up stay and I only want you). But not Victor. When another long and lanky body curls up to his back and shoulder, another mouth brushing his ear, and his cheek, another voice, while he can't stop shaking, stop squeaking noises shooting out his mouth. Chris? Chris Giacometti - who has his hand on Yuri's - ???
Chris who is drawling his name, low and dark, asking, plaintively, "Why didn't you invite me?"
But Yuri can't even follow the words. Every bones, muscle, never confused, jangled, sharp, screaming. "Chris ... "
It's supposed to be an answer. Or a question. Or. He doesn't. It squeaks. He can't. That is still. Why is it. Is he. And he's so close. Confusing. Brilliant, deep hazel eyes, that seem more like fire only just this side of in check. His hair, and his always far too rugged face. Not even inches from Yuri's. His chest and his heart in that sputtering, confused, rejected, unable to react with any sanity and sense over his own limbs.
"Looks like you got into shape. Guess your master's giving you very thorough training."
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Date: 2017-04-02 04:14 pm (UTC)His next steps are unseeing, because he can't look at it, but he can't unburn it from his mind's eye.
It wasn't like that. He and Victor aren't like that. He wasn't fooling around with Victor. He wasn't sleeping with Victor. Well. Except for literally. Last night. The once. But not. Like. That. Not even with. Prickles flicker and flood at his neck, remembering friction, the barest, hot whisper in a hard language, just as a hand lands, curved and cupping ownership on one cheek of his ass, and Yuri nearly scrambles out of all of his skin, all the way on his toes, shoulders high as they can push, with such undignified noises hiccuping up and up and out and out of his mouth, he can barely hear the voice next to his ear.
Not Victor. (Even when his blood is pounding Victor, Victor, Victor, infused shock, a hand on his chest, lips against his ear, his neck, his shoulder, drilling up stay and I only want you). But not Victor. When another long and lanky body curls up to his back and shoulder, another mouth brushing his ear, and his cheek, another voice, while he can't stop shaking, stop squeaking noises shooting out his mouth. Chris? Chris Giacometti - who has his hand on Yuri's - ???
Chris who is drawling his name, low and dark, asking, plaintively, "Why didn't you invite me?"
But Yuri can't even follow the words. Every bones, muscle, never confused, jangled, sharp, screaming. "Chris ... "
It's supposed to be an answer. Or a question. Or. He doesn't. It squeaks. He can't. That is still. Why is it. Is he. And he's so close. Confusing. Brilliant, deep hazel eyes, that seem more like fire only just this side of in check. His hair, and his always far too rugged face. Not even inches from Yuri's. His chest and his heart in that sputtering, confused, rejected, unable to react with any sanity and sense over his own limbs.
"Looks like you got into shape. Guess your master's giving you very thorough training."