Victor goes still in a way that surprises Yuri. Maybe it shouldn't after the way he'd gone still in the garage. Both when he'd been crying and then when he'd started shouting. Even if these words are so much quieter. Even if they had been firm. Had been an argument in themselves for the sound to be heard and stop having things thrown at him as though it might make him forget what came before.
He doesn't know what Victor's face is, though. When he's looking at his cup, and his expression is obscured by his hair. (For just a second, Yuri remembers that pained face, that hoarse whisper of his name, brushing Victor's face clear.)
He's not doing fine, regardless of what Victor says, and for a moment it's so frustrating he doesn't even know what to do with himself. That wasn't stuttering, and sputtering, and apparently getting incoherent. How did things seem to be fine and then they suddenly veered, until they found themselves here. Dinner had been so well, and now he just didn't want anything. He was perturbed at the cart top and food even being there still.
Perturbed at everything. At his ignorance and how every part of him screamed for and against every single thing happening to him tonight. About the embarrassed feeling of being told he looked horrified. Victor's voice soft, like he was trying to inform about himself. As though he could have missed his own shock. When he goes right on to asking about pushing for something Yuri does or doesn't like, or want, and Yuri isn't even certain that's fair.
Because he has no clue here, what he likes yet, what he wants yet -- that isn't this careful, netral face on Victor, explaining things to him like he was a child. He doesn't want that, and he isn't. Even if felt like it. He still wasn't. It was frustrating to the extreme to want to defend not knowing, except Victor changes the word again, the one that's in Yuri's head and Yuri's hands.
Not like, not want. It becomes mistake, and the words tumble like they can't not:
"It's only a mistake if you didn't mean it." Cautiously. Like maybe Victor has changed it already. That's what Victor is trying to tell him. That it was obviously too much. Too soon. He wasn't ready. It shouldn't exist. Horrified, comes back, and he tries not to cringe or sigh because of it. He was probably the only person on the planet who would have that reaction to Victor, of all people, suggesting a date. What was he, defective?
He doesn't know, but he presses on anyway. Just needing. Having. To know.
"Did you?" Yuri was looking at him carefully. "Not mean it?"
Somehow he thinks it would make so much more sense if Victor would just say yes, or laugh at him finally. That every time he doesn't, every time he smiles, says these things, kisses him, everything changes more.
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He doesn't know what Victor's face is, though. When he's looking at his cup, and his expression is obscured by his hair.
(For just a second, Yuri remembers that pained face, that hoarse whisper of his name, brushing Victor's face clear.)
He's not doing fine, regardless of what Victor says, and for a moment it's so frustrating he doesn't even know what to do with himself. That wasn't stuttering, and sputtering, and apparently getting incoherent. How did things seem to be fine and then they suddenly veered, until they found themselves here. Dinner had been so well, and now he just didn't want anything. He was perturbed at the cart top and food even being there still.
Perturbed at everything. At his ignorance and how every part of him screamed for and against every single thing happening to him tonight. About the embarrassed feeling of being told he looked horrified. Victor's voice soft, like he was trying to inform about himself. As though he could have missed his own shock. When he goes right on to asking about pushing for something Yuri does or doesn't like, or want, and Yuri isn't even certain that's fair.
Because he has no clue here, what he likes yet, what he wants yet -- that isn't this careful, netral face on Victor, explaining things to him like he was a child. He doesn't want that, and he isn't. Even if felt like it. He still wasn't. It was frustrating to the extreme to want to defend not knowing, except Victor changes the word again, the one that's in Yuri's head and Yuri's hands.
Not like, not want. It becomes mistake, and the words tumble like they can't not:
"It's only a mistake if you didn't mean it." Cautiously. Like maybe Victor has changed it already. That's what Victor is trying to tell him. That it was obviously too much. Too soon. He wasn't ready. It shouldn't exist. Horrified, comes back, and he tries not to cringe or sigh because of it. He was probably the only person on the planet who would have that reaction to Victor, of all people, suggesting a date. What was he, defective?
He doesn't know, but he presses on anyway. Just needing. Having. To know.
"Did you?" Yuri was looking at him carefully. "Not mean it?"
Somehow he thinks it would make so much more sense if Victor would just say yes, or laugh at him finally.
That every time he doesn't, every time he smiles, says these things, kisses him, everything changes more.