There's a second, here and gone, that Yuri has long enough to question.
If it's not right, he shouldn't have, this was the wrong moment, choice, as Victor's hands find his hips, careful cupping hands, like they are trying to take the weight of his body off his body, like Victor can feel the unforgiving spasms of pain right through his sleep pants, at the same time as Victor makes this confused noise against his mouth, swaying backwards in his swing up. Just long enough for the question marks to form, and metaphoric sweat to bead Yuri's temple, before Victor's hands tighten suddenly on his hips.
Both of them complaining at the sudden grip, even if one is so much the louder, before Victor is kissing him back, and everything explodes outward instead. A delighted, dizzy swoop of rippling triumph, when Victor pulls him in even closer, kisses him back, that he can only compare to the perfect landing of a jump. To the overwrought excitement when he'd come flinging himself at the gate earlier. To the podium in the spotlight, that tugs that question out of his spine, while Victor's hands are slipping up his back, finding his shoulders, his neck.
( You got me.
Isn't that almost as good? )
When Yuri is certain for a blistering, bold, second that nothing in the world is almost as good as Victor. That nothing in the world will ever compare or even brush the touch of how good Victor is. How good, how impossible, how everywhere this suddenly flashes and floods under every inch of his skin, the idea, inflated and impossible, that somehow he has Victor, and he doesn't care if it hurts.
Everything in his life hurts in some amount, and that. That pain has nothing to do with Victor. And everything.
That Victor is all of getting him here, today, there -- and nothing ever almost as good as that --
and all of this
-- nothing is as good as this.
Victor kisses him harder, and Yuri leans into it, into him, wrapping his arms around Victor's neck, in an abandon that fills almost as helpless as it willful as it grateful. Impossible. All of this is impossible. But all of the impossible bits are turning into mist in his hands, because his arms around Victor and Victor's hands are on him, pulling him closer, like the answer to a question that just becomes a surging waves rocking through him, over and over and over.
He doesn't know how long it takes to need a breath. Maybe it's only a few seconds, maybe it's longer than a minute. It's a gasp, loud enough it goes cutting the silence of the room, but he's not sure he can help it. Can even regret it, his head swimming. Can't remember when he last took a breath, not during this, not before it. Only that his cheeks are flushed and his whole body is spinning, and pliant, and pressed along Victor, as much as can be on his knees.
Both of them on their knees. Victor even looking a bit pink, a bit dazed, sounding out of breath. With the room gone silent and the tray still on the bed, and somehow, his first word is still, "Sorry."
Something as sheepish as it is almost surprisingly-proud like maybe he didn't quite mean it. At all. Didn't care what he might have missed, should have said, or done, or listened to more of.
Nothing was almost as good as that. He felt half-drunk on it. His own boldness. Breathlessness. The reckless nearness of Victor.
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Date: 2017-04-21 03:58 am (UTC)There's a second, here and gone, that Yuri has long enough to question.
If it's not right, he shouldn't have, this was the wrong moment, choice, as Victor's hands find his hips, careful cupping hands, like they are trying to take the weight of his body off his body, like Victor can feel the unforgiving spasms of pain right through his sleep pants, at the same time as Victor makes this confused noise against his mouth, swaying backwards in his swing up. Just long enough for the question marks to form, and metaphoric sweat to bead Yuri's temple, before Victor's hands tighten suddenly on his hips.
Both of them complaining at the sudden grip, even if one is so much the louder, before Victor is kissing him back, and everything explodes outward instead. A delighted, dizzy swoop of rippling triumph, when Victor pulls him in even closer, kisses him back, that he can only compare to the perfect landing of a jump. To the overwrought excitement when he'd come flinging himself at the gate earlier. To the podium in the spotlight, that tugs that question out of his spine, while Victor's hands are slipping up his back, finding his shoulders, his neck.
Isn't that almost as good? )
When Yuri is certain for a blistering, bold, second that nothing in the world is almost as good as Victor. That nothing in the world will ever compare or even brush the touch of how good Victor is. How good, how impossible, how everywhere this suddenly flashes and floods under every inch of his skin, the idea, inflated and impossible, that somehow he has Victor, and he doesn't care if it hurts.
Everything in his life hurts in some amount, and that. That pain has nothing to do with Victor. And everything.
That Victor is all of getting him here, today, there --
and nothing ever almost as good as that --
Victor kisses him harder, and Yuri leans into it, into him, wrapping his arms around Victor's neck, in an abandon that fills almost as helpless as it willful as it grateful. Impossible. All of this is impossible. But all of the impossible bits are turning into mist in his hands, because his arms around Victor and Victor's hands are on him, pulling him closer, like the answer to a question that just becomes a surging waves rocking through him, over and over and over.
He doesn't know how long it takes to need a breath. Maybe it's only a few seconds, maybe it's longer than a minute. It's a gasp, loud enough it goes cutting the silence of the room, but he's not sure he can help it. Can even regret it, his head swimming. Can't remember when he last took a breath, not during this, not before it. Only that his cheeks are flushed and his whole body is spinning, and pliant, and pressed along Victor, as much as can be on his knees.
Both of them on their knees. Victor even looking a bit pink, a bit dazed, sounding out of breath.
With the room gone silent and the tray still on the bed, and somehow, his first word is still, "Sorry."
Something as sheepish as it is almost surprisingly-proud like maybe he didn't quite mean it. At all.
Didn't care what he might have missed, should have said, or done, or listened to more of.
Nothing was almost as good as that. He felt half-drunk on it.
His own boldness. Breathlessness. The reckless nearness of Victor.