To say he isn't expecting Yuri to take his hand would be to say he isn't expecting the ground to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole.
To say he isn't expecting the flash in Yuri's eyes, and the force with which his hand is suddenly gripped –– no, taken. No, claimed –– is only to say he's gotten to know Yuri over the last eight months. Polite, reserved Yuri, who only ever occasionally blurs those lines, and it's only ever innocent on his part, and only ever anything more on Victor's. Yuri, who might hug him, or sling an arm around his shoulder, or allow Victor to move him on the ice until he's found the right line, the correct pose. Yuri, who last time said Please watch in a tremulous request.
Nothing like the dull shock of his forehead hitting Victor's, even if Victor lets it hit, without flinching or stepping back, fingers gripping on instinct. Nothing like the sudden burn of his eyes, or the harshness behind don't ever take your eyes off of me. Yuri has never been nearly violent before. Yuri has never demanded that of him before. Yuri has never demanded anything before, and Victor is starting to worry, as Yuri rips himself away, that what he'd thought was something new might in fact be something far too different. Something's flipped his switch ... but what?
(It's more like that night than anything. Calling out Yurio, Victor, Chris in turn, challenging, throwing demands like darts. Grabbing Victor out of nowhere. A force of perfect confidence.)
He barely hear the cheers of the crowd, or the voice on the loudspeaker announcing from Japan, Katsuki Yuri. The rush of blood in his ears is too loud, the sudden quick sprint in his chest that he needs to calm, because Yuri is sliding into the center of the ice like he owns it, and ––
And it looks familiar. Feels familiar. And when the music starts, sultry guitar strings raining music onto the ice, and Yuri starts to move, it looks familiar. Not like the program they've been practicing for months, that they could both dream in its entirety.
Like something else. Like someone else. From a lifetime and two years ago.
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Date: 2017-04-04 01:28 am (UTC)To say he isn't expecting the flash in Yuri's eyes, and the force with which his hand is suddenly gripped –– no, taken. No, claimed –– is only to say he's gotten to know Yuri over the last eight months. Polite, reserved Yuri, who only ever occasionally blurs those lines, and it's only ever innocent on his part, and only ever anything more on Victor's. Yuri, who might hug him, or sling an arm around his shoulder, or allow Victor to move him on the ice until he's found the right line, the correct pose. Yuri, who last time said Please watch in a tremulous request.
Nothing like the dull shock of his forehead hitting Victor's, even if Victor lets it hit, without flinching or stepping back, fingers gripping on instinct. Nothing like the sudden burn of his eyes, or the harshness behind don't ever take your eyes off of me. Yuri has never been nearly violent before. Yuri has never demanded that of him before. Yuri has never demanded anything before, and Victor is starting to worry, as Yuri rips himself away, that what he'd thought was something new might in fact be something far too different. Something's flipped his switch ... but what?
(It's more like that night than anything. Calling out Yurio, Victor, Chris in turn, challenging, throwing demands like darts. Grabbing Victor out of nowhere. A force of perfect confidence.)
He barely hear the cheers of the crowd, or the voice on the loudspeaker announcing from Japan, Katsuki Yuri. The rush of blood in his ears is too loud, the sudden quick sprint in his chest that he needs to calm, because Yuri is sliding into the center of the ice like he owns it, and ––
And it looks familiar. Feels familiar. And when the music starts, sultry guitar strings raining music onto the ice, and Yuri starts to move, it looks familiar. Not like the program they've been practicing for months, that they could both dream in its entirety.
Like something else. Like someone else. From a lifetime and two years ago.