Beat. He's tying his skates (with Victor's feet in his perphery.) Beat. He's taking off his badge and jacket (handing them to Victor).
Beat. There's ice under his skates and he's standing by the wall (with Victor above him).
Victor's hand lands on his on top of the rail. The same as on his shoulder. But inside his gaze, and Victor is talking. Victor is telling him. Telling him. To stop picturing everything he has. Stop using every story and image every day and practice was built on, for, wrapped through, written in Victor's voice and Yuri's thoughts. But even when he can hear the words, even as his heart is catching, frantic spike at the idea of letting go even more, of just what he's supposed to hold on to in it then, when Victor's fingers move suddenly.
Victor's fingers. Victor's thumb.
Rubbing a raw wire that he expects to make him shiver or shudder and happens like the crack of a whip snapping. When he can see it, feel it, the back of his hand, the tension in his shoulders, down into his calves, and his eyes snap up. Because he is there. Victor is there. In front of him. Staring down at him. Touching him.
Not hidden behind him. (As the one, on the ice.)
Not hidden by darkness. (Over his shoulder, on that bed.)
Yuri's teeth nearly snapping at the violent force of just meeting his eyes, just feeling that touch. (Fingers suddenly shoving into Victor's hand, fingers between fingers, fingertips digging into the back of his hands, his gloves, demanding.) Looking up into Victor's eyes this time. (Jumping to the toes of his skates, pushing his forehead to Victor's, staring into his eyes and the fall of his bangs, chest shaking, noses brushing, mouth demanding.)
"Don't ever take your eyes off of me."
Victor. Victor, who did this. Victor, who kept doing everything. Victor, who everyone wanted most. Victor, who Yuri couldn't look away from. Couldn't not want most, too. Wanted. Wanted not to be able to look away. (Who said.) Not able to not feel everything the way Yuri did, couldn't make himself not feel all of it, excruiating and agonizing sharpness, everywhere in him, around him. (He'd said.)
In this sudden almost violently demanding force.
Even as Yuri ripped himself back. His hand from Victor's; his face from Victor's, pushing himself off the wall, defiant, out into empty rink, without letting Victor say anything, do anything, else. The hushed silence of thousands and thousands of people. Rustling, readying, holding a breath, murmuring. Too close. Too far. Breathing in as one as he curved into the center, sliding backwards to a stop. Heart racing, shoulders lowering, letting his fingers graze his thighs as his eyes closed.
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Date: 2017-04-03 07:55 pm (UTC)Beat. He's tying his skates (with Victor's feet in his perphery.)
Beat. He's taking off his badge and jacket (handing them to Victor).
Beat. There's ice under his skates and he's standing by the wall (with Victor above him).
Victor's hand lands on his on top of the rail. The same as on his shoulder. But inside his gaze, and Victor is talking. Victor is telling him. Telling him. To stop picturing everything he has. Stop using every story and image every day and practice was built on, for, wrapped through, written in Victor's voice and Yuri's thoughts. But even when he can hear the words, even as his heart is catching, frantic spike at the idea of letting go even more, of just what he's supposed to hold on to in it then, when Victor's fingers move suddenly.
Victor's fingers. Victor's thumb.
Rubbing a raw wire that he expects to make him shiver or shudder and happens like the crack of a whip snapping. When he can see it, feel it, the back of his hand, the tension in his shoulders, down into his calves, and his eyes snap up. Because he is there. Victor is there. In front of him. Staring down at him. Touching him.
Not hidden behind him. (As the one, on the ice.)
Not hidden by darkness. (Over his shoulder, on that bed.)
Yuri's teeth nearly snapping at the violent force of just meeting his eyes, just feeling that touch. (Fingers suddenly shoving into Victor's hand, fingers between fingers, fingertips digging into the back of his hands, his gloves, demanding.) Looking up into Victor's eyes this time. (Jumping to the toes of his skates, pushing his forehead to Victor's, staring into his eyes and the fall of his bangs, chest shaking, noses brushing, mouth demanding.)
"Don't ever take your eyes off of me."
Victor. Victor, who did this. Victor, who kept doing everything. Victor, who everyone wanted most. Victor, who Yuri couldn't look away from. Couldn't not want most, too. Wanted. Wanted not to be able to look away. (Who said.) Not able to not feel everything the way Yuri did, couldn't make himself not feel all of it, excruiating and agonizing sharpness, everywhere in him, around him. (He'd said.)
In this sudden almost violently demanding force.
Even as Yuri ripped himself back. His hand from Victor's; his face from Victor's, pushing himself off the wall, defiant, out into empty rink, without letting Victor say anything, do anything, else. The hushed silence of thousands and thousands of people. Rustling, readying, holding a breath, murmuring. Too close. Too far. Breathing in as one as he curved into the center, sliding backwards to a stop. Heart racing, shoulders lowering, letting his fingers graze his thighs as his eyes closed.