Yuri leaning into it. The light, the music, when his eyes open, and his tongue brushes his lips, hands a fluid dance of movement, caressing over his shoulders, the air around it, flung outs, until it pops at the end. All intense demand. His knee, hip, shoulders, the point of a blade, and the snap of his gaze back over to where Victor was. The tip of his head, tilt of his smile flashed. All arrogant invitation.
The first look and the last, before he's turning. Before all he can think is where his hands go, and where his feet. The music loud. In his ears, racing beside the stomp of his blood, the pounding of his heart. No one else to see. No other noise but the music, but the bite and hiss of his skates cutting the ice. Focus elastic and raced, but even racing it seems to slide off of him. Stubborn annoyance burning at the edge of his own thoughts.
Those grappling fears. Digging sharp points into his lungs, trying to wrap around his ankles.
That overwhelming, inescapable, presence of thousands of eyes looking at him, looking through him, looking for Victor in his every movement, or the person he'd been before. Everything but him now. (They could laugh at him.) They could look for the wrong things. (They could think it wasn't like him.) Wasn't who he was. (They could be wrong.) The music weaving in and out, as he turned.
His body knew where to go, where to linger and slide and flare. This dangerous dance.
This demand, that was all a heated assault for already assumed acquiescence.
(The way she swept in--
But Victor said No. Victor said ... himself.)
Victor said, (He said --) that wasn't him either now. No one else. Nothing else. Him. (And his own charm.)
That was what he wanted now. (I want only--) And if that was what Victor wanted, that was what all of them wanted, then, wasn't it? To know this new version of him. Fluid and fast, feet weaving between who and where, and what. Only the ice and the rhythm in his ears, and his veins. To be drawn in and pulled away, into this dance, with him, the new him, didn't they? As thought no one was watching, or as though it didn't matter even if the whole world was.
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Date: 2017-04-04 02:08 am (UTC)No more time, the music answered, starting.
Yuri leaning into it. The light, the music, when his eyes open, and his tongue brushes his lips, hands a fluid dance of movement, caressing over his shoulders, the air around it, flung outs, until it pops at the end. All intense demand. His knee, hip, shoulders, the point of a blade, and the snap of his gaze back over to where Victor was. The tip of his head, tilt of his smile flashed. All arrogant invitation.
The first look and the last, before he's turning. Before all he can think is where his hands go, and where his feet. The music loud. In his ears, racing beside the stomp of his blood, the pounding of his heart. No one else to see. No other noise but the music, but the bite and hiss of his skates cutting the ice. Focus elastic and raced, but even racing it seems to slide off of him. Stubborn annoyance burning at the edge of his own thoughts.
Those grappling fears. Digging sharp points into his lungs, trying to wrap around his ankles.
That overwhelming, inescapable, presence of thousands of eyes looking at him, looking through him, looking for Victor in his every movement, or the person he'd been before. Everything but him now. (They could laugh at him.) They could look for the wrong things. (They could think it wasn't like him.) Wasn't who he was. (They could be wrong.) The music weaving in and out, as he turned.
His body knew where to go, where to linger and slide and flare. This dangerous dance.
This demand, that was all a heated assault for already assumed acquiescence.
But Victor said No.
Victor said ... himself.)
Victor said, (He said --) that wasn't him either now.
No one else. Nothing else. Him. (And his own charm.)
That was what he wanted now. (I want only--) And if that was what Victor wanted, that was what all of them wanted, then, wasn't it? To know this new version of him. Fluid and fast, feet weaving between who and where, and what. Only the ice and the rhythm in his ears, and his veins. To be drawn in and pulled away, into this dance, with him, the new him, didn't they? As thought no one was watching, or as though it didn't matter even if the whole world was.