For a very long stretch, there is nothing. Or everything. The only second to compare it to never happened in this the room.
Exists only in a shock so bald, it slammed the ice, with a kiss that rattled (the world) bones.
It's like that, when Yuri has nowhere to fall. Not when he's never so much as pushed off of sitting on the bed, even for all that Victor is on his knees. Not when Victor's hands are warm and smooth against his neck, his shoulders, thumbs brushing over skin and shirt cloth alike. Never stopping. The touching. The not-falling. The words that keep coming out of Victor's mouth.
That fall first with abject shock, and then even more so with alarming familiarity.
Ones trapped in the dark. Trapped in a stumbling walk, and hotel walls. Trapped in a patch of skin, against the back of his neck where knuckles and fingers brush carelessly, that burns to be remembered so clearly. Words in the dark, behind the wall of himself, so untrue, unmeant, and still they left him burned and burning in speech and memory. Words in the light, now, said, while Victor stares at him in such a peerless pleasure, to be saying them, no cent of hesitation or pause, except searching for English, and Yuri can't remember if he's ever seen this expression Victor has before. Like this.
While Victor talks about this as though it is absolutely none of the even hazy, helpfully grounding, assumptions Yuri has held on to. Since that moment on the ice. On the sidewalk. In the elevator. In this room. Taking all the struts and columns and gravity and air, again.
Making it so, even though he isn't standing, isn't falling, his fingers reflexively tighten, one against Victor's side, all thin soft fabric and muscle, and the other over soft fabric, and the synch of elastic, and the gentle curve of a hip bone so very solid under both. When those become the only certainties. He isn't falling, and Victor is solid under his fingers, and Victor's fingers are on his, and Victor is saying -- Victor looks ... so beautiful like this.
Even in the whispers of logic, or confusion, of the ramping he has no word for it, they are thin as smoke in air, not enough to be enough to even be heard, and they have none of the solidness of those few things left. On the baffled shock, refusing to be fought, taking no prisoners, whiting out everything between his ears, with only room to leave that beaming fond sincerity and something else, something even warmer, even brighter in Victor's eyes.
When the only word that even manages to stumble out, ends up, sounding half like it's not even sure it exists or was even chosen, "Me?"
Barely a whisper, as though maybe Victor has forgotten which of them is a fairytale brought to life.
no subject
For a very long stretch, there is nothing. Or everything.
The only second to compare it to never happened in this the room.
Exists only in a shock so bald, it slammed the ice, with a kiss that rattled (the world) bones.
It's like that, when Yuri has nowhere to fall. Not when he's never so much as pushed off of sitting on the bed, even for all that Victor is on his knees. Not when Victor's hands are warm and smooth against his neck, his shoulders, thumbs brushing over skin and shirt cloth alike. Never stopping. The touching. The not-falling. The words that keep coming out of Victor's mouth.
That fall first with abject shock, and then even more so with alarming familiarity.
Ones trapped in the dark. Trapped in a stumbling walk, and hotel walls. Trapped in a patch of skin, against the back of his neck where knuckles and fingers brush carelessly, that burns to be remembered so clearly. Words in the dark, behind the wall of himself, so untrue, unmeant, and still they left him burned and burning in speech and memory. Words in the light, now, said, while Victor stares at him in such a peerless pleasure, to be saying them, no cent of hesitation or pause, except searching for English, and Yuri can't remember if he's ever seen this expression Victor has before. Like this.
While Victor talks about this as though it is absolutely none of the even hazy, helpfully grounding, assumptions Yuri has held on to. Since that moment on the ice. On the sidewalk. In the elevator. In this room. Taking all the struts and columns and gravity and air, again.
Making it so, even though he isn't standing, isn't falling, his fingers reflexively tighten, one against Victor's side, all thin soft fabric and muscle, and the other over soft fabric, and the synch of elastic, and the gentle curve of a hip bone so very solid under both. When those become the only certainties. He isn't falling, and Victor is solid under his fingers, and Victor's fingers are on his, and Victor is saying -- Victor looks ... so beautiful like this.
Even in the whispers of logic, or confusion, of the ramping he has no word for it, they are thin as smoke in air, not enough to be enough to even be heard, and they have none of the solidness of those few things left. On the baffled shock, refusing to be fought, taking no prisoners, whiting out everything between his ears, with only room to leave that beaming fond sincerity and something else, something even warmer, even brighter in Victor's eyes.
When the only word that even manages to stumble out, ends up,
sounding half like it's not even sure it exists or was even chosen, "Me?"
Barely a whisper, as though maybe Victor has forgotten which of them is a fairytale brought to life.