Yuri is not sure he's even vaguely prepared to look at the way Victor says he offered -- this? On the beach? That morning? That he looks confused and, is it, hurt? That somehow this isn't just possibly on a string to what happened that day, it's on one to that same conversation? The one that finally made it feel like Yuri could breathe, let Victor in at all?
The way it had slipped into feeling normal, okay, and like he could breathe during dinner, just now, before Yuri overreacted to something else. Like he couldn't stop jumping at every single thing Victor did or said now. It's exhausting. It feels doubly exhausting on the state of his head and his body, even though he knows the painkillers have kicked in, are helping at this point. That eating is.
Even if nothing feels like it's held, holding matters when Victor is talking. Beating his chopsticks on the tray and then pointing with them.
"I didn't think--" But Yuri's lips press. That sounds so stupid to say out loud. He's never thought a lot about all of the other four offers Victor made. To be these things Victor wasn't, but could just become if he'd just pick one already. None of them had mattered in comparison to what had happened, and that Yuri had expected least. They become something different out there, and it had meant the whole world to him. What they'd become. All the months that had followed, flowed, flowered in every new and unexpected way because of it.
He doesn't want to question whether one means not the other, even when it stirs in there. (It's still just me, Victor said, not too long ago.) What he'd gotten instead had been better. Better than any of those options and more than Yuri could have ever asked or expected, even dreamed of. It was the kind of thing that defied words even now. It was just a feeling that only even felt it was felt clearly and cleanly when he was on the ice ... and that had apparently turned into all of this, too.
When he can't decide what in that he's supposed to know what to do with, but Victor puts down his chopsticks looking slightly defeated by Yuri's panic and Yuri's uncertainty, again, with those words hovering in the air, and it did, too. If it takes a little effort and doesn't sound certain of why, or if he should even dare, if the ice between here and there won't crack, even exists, he still says, "Sorry. It did. Sound nice. The rink."
... skating with Victor. With. Not just in the distance from. Near. (His heart gives in for a second toward that quieter dizzy thing. Pictures it.)
Without Victor watching him, or matched him as example. But beside him. With him.
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Date: 2017-04-20 03:20 am (UTC)The way it had slipped into feeling normal, okay, and like he could breathe during dinner, just now, before Yuri overreacted to something else. Like he couldn't stop jumping at every single thing Victor did or said now. It's exhausting. It feels doubly exhausting on the state of his head and his body, even though he knows the painkillers have kicked in, are helping at this point. That eating is.
Even if nothing feels like it's held, holding matters when Victor is talking.
Beating his chopsticks on the tray and then pointing with them.
"I didn't think--" But Yuri's lips press. That sounds so stupid to say out loud. He's never thought a lot about all of the other four offers Victor made. To be these things Victor wasn't, but could just become if he'd just pick one already. None of them had mattered in comparison to what had happened, and that Yuri had expected least. They become something different out there, and it had meant the whole world to him. What they'd become. All the months that had followed, flowed, flowered in every new and unexpected way because of it.
He doesn't want to question whether one means not the other, even when it stirs in there. (It's still just me, Victor said, not too long ago.) What he'd gotten instead had been better. Better than any of those options and more than Yuri could have ever asked or expected, even dreamed of. It was the kind of thing that defied words even now. It was just a feeling that only even felt it was felt clearly and cleanly when he was on the ice ... and that had apparently turned into all of this, too.
When he can't decide what in that he's supposed to know what to do with, but Victor puts down his chopsticks looking slightly defeated by Yuri's panic and Yuri's uncertainty, again, with those words hovering in the air, and it did, too. If it takes a little effort and doesn't sound certain of why, or if he should even dare, if the ice between here and there won't crack, even exists, he still says, "Sorry. It did. Sound nice. The rink."
... skating with Victor. With. Not just in the distance from. Near.
(His heart gives in for a second toward that quieter dizzy thing. Pictures it.)
Without Victor watching him, or matched him as example. But beside him. With him.