Yuri is not even sure he understand how anyone could just say those words. To anyone, but especially to Victor. It makes him feel barer, more at risk than anything short of that moment before Victor came all but running across the room to crush Yuri into his chest and arms and shoulder. It's scary enough to just have said it.
For Victor not to be saying it is, he does, they are or will. That everything that pops out suddenly is a question.
When he thinks he wanted (needed?) to have heard something else, other than an uncertainty (that sounds like him?) when he can't even imagine the existence of people that could say this to just lie. That makes even less sense. That anyone could. That Victor thinks someone could. Yuri could.
That anything more than all of this might make Yuri even attempt to say that. (About Victor. About them. About Victor, of all people in the world, asking him on a date.)
Yuri is torn, first shaking his head and then nodding.
Because one question is a no, and the other, the other is starting to spangle something new, tendril warm, hazy light, like those imagined suspended lights, giving birth to other, newer concerns (what does that mean, how does, what is he supposed to do, wear, say, what is he supposed to know for that that he doesn't). But it doesn't stop the faint warmth in his cheeks, or the way he's torn between wanting to look down at his lap, but can't, can't because he has to look at Victor.
Has to say, "Yes," if, if, if - "If you haven't changed your mind." How often those words keep happening in this room tonight.
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Date: 2017-04-20 02:17 pm (UTC)For Victor not to be saying it is, he does, they are or will.
That everything that pops out suddenly is a question.
When he thinks he wanted (needed?) to have heard something else, other than an uncertainty (that sounds like him?) when he can't even imagine the existence of people that could say this to just lie. That makes even less sense. That anyone could. That Victor thinks someone could. Yuri could.
That anything more than all of this might make Yuri even attempt to say that.
(About Victor. About them. About Victor, of all people in the world, asking him on a date.)
Yuri is torn, first shaking his head and then nodding.
Because one question is a no, and the other, the other is starting to spangle something new, tendril warm, hazy light, like those imagined suspended lights, giving birth to other, newer concerns (what does that mean, how does, what is he supposed to do, wear, say, what is he supposed to know for that that he doesn't). But it doesn't stop the faint warmth in his cheeks, or the way he's torn between wanting to look down at his lap, but can't, can't because he has to look at Victor.
Has to say, "Yes," if, if, if - "If you haven't changed your mind."
How often those words keep happening in this room tonight.