His water bottle is in his hands. He's not entirely positive when that got passed off. Probably with his jacket. It's nice and solid in his hands, while the world cheers and the Victor is tilting toward him again. Hmm. Or maybe not tilting. But look at him, while the world continues to ebb and flow, dropping him back and back.
The chill of the air on the sweat dripping and drying on his skin, while Victor asks that question and it echoes inside his head. Had he been thinking about how it felt? Had he thought about that at all out there? What it felt like while it was happening?
He'd thought. He'd thought ...
He's too disjointed to blush at the first thoughts to show up. The brazenness unapologetic -- almost arrogance? -- of them.
It does keep him from looking over immediately to Victor. Certain it'll be all over his face, even if he can't entirely tell what his own expression is at the moment. Can't entirely feel his face, even if he can feel his skin. Beyond that thought, and because of that, mixed up in the rush of whatever it took, whatever path or phrase or words or feelings it became once you were out there. He'd wanted the rest of them to know, didn't he.
How that felt. How it had changed him. How Victor had. (Having Victor had, at the cost of them all having him.)
"Well--" Cobbles itself together. His first words, the soreness as his ribs expand and his voice vibrates his chest, even without any force behind it. "I was hoping everyone else felt great watching me."
Or the opposite. Or both. It all blurred together, in the rush. It felt like pieces of it were falling out from under his mind and memory. No flaws he could remember. No falling. No lecture from Victor. Yet? But it felt like the Eros he just finished was rooms and rooms away, only seconds of time and years ago, but both beyond his fingers. There'd be videos later. But the score would tell him what it really was.
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Date: 2017-04-05 08:14 pm (UTC)The chill of the air on the sweat dripping and drying on his skin, while Victor asks that question and it echoes inside his head. Had he been thinking about how it felt? Had he thought about that at all out there? What it felt like while it was happening?
He'd thought. He'd thought ...
He's too disjointed to blush at the first thoughts to show up.
The brazenness unapologetic -- almost arrogance? -- of them.
It does keep him from looking over immediately to Victor. Certain it'll be all over his face, even if he can't entirely tell what his own expression is at the moment. Can't entirely feel his face, even if he can feel his skin. Beyond that thought, and because of that, mixed up in the rush of whatever it took, whatever path or phrase or words or feelings it became once you were out there. He'd wanted the rest of them to know, didn't he.
How that felt. How it had changed him. How Victor had.
(Having Victor had, at the cost of them all having him.)
"Well--" Cobbles itself together. His first words, the soreness as his ribs expand and his voice vibrates his chest, even without any force behind it. "I was hoping everyone else felt great watching me."
Or the opposite. Or both. It all blurred together, in the rush. It felt like pieces of it were falling out from under his mind and memory. No flaws he could remember. No falling. No lecture from Victor. Yet? But it felt like the Eros he just finished was rooms and rooms away, only seconds of time and years ago, but both beyond his fingers. There'd be videos later. But the score would tell him what it really was.