Victor looks up, only smiling, his eyes still bright as stars, and it really was the right word.
Impossible. In every definition. Impossible is the word for Victor. It always has been. For the people skating after him, as he broke every record, and then only came back around to break his own records time and time and time, again. For the people standing on the sidelines for a single glance of him passing them behind ropes, or skating in front of them in some part of the season, for every reason.
When Yuri feels impossibly accosted by Victor's face, looking up from being pressed into his shoulder, his neck for that faint kiss, being as gorgeous as it is, pale skin and silver frame of hair, and his eyes, that are just so bright, this close, this clear, while he just smiles like he's never had an impure or ulterior thought in his life. It's impossible that he's real, and impossible that Yuri is here, and impossible that there's nothing in Yuri's head but the word impossible and the urge to reach out and touch Victor's impossible face again.
Even while he's teasing Yuri, as though Yuri might be wrong. He might actually be the tray first.
Before asking, without moving, without so much as shifting or tilting or looking away, if he should. Let go. Get the tray.
When Yuri's fingers tighten reflexively, like traitors, against Victor's shoulders and neck in some combination, perhaps, both of not wanting to be let go of so quickly, but, also, of half preparing to hold on if the next second Victor just upended the gravity of the world again, only these seconds later, and dropped him on the bed, as unceremoniously as he'd dragged Yuri on to his lap. Or something.
It is a little embarrassing that this close he can't really disguise things like that.
The smallest tic's of movement that on any other day, any other place -- even like this morning and before he skated -- he could just push his hands into his pockets, or under tables, even just against himself, and it'd be hidden. Only he'd ever know. But he can't, and maybe that does send a soft flash of embarrassed pink to just the very tops of his cheeks, exasperated at himself as much as at Victor for being Victor and being something Yuri's never found a true last defense against.
There's something just faintly rueful that touches his voice because of it. "If you meant to."
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Date: 2017-04-22 01:09 pm (UTC)Impossible. In every definition. Impossible is the word for Victor. It always has been. For the people skating after him, as he broke every record, and then only came back around to break his own records time and time and time, again. For the people standing on the sidelines for a single glance of him passing them behind ropes, or skating in front of them in some part of the season, for every reason.
When Yuri feels impossibly accosted by Victor's face, looking up from being pressed into his shoulder, his neck for that faint kiss, being as gorgeous as it is, pale skin and silver frame of hair, and his eyes, that are just so bright, this close, this clear, while he just smiles like he's never had an impure or ulterior thought in his life. It's impossible that he's real, and impossible that Yuri is here, and impossible that there's nothing in Yuri's head but the word impossible and the urge to reach out and touch Victor's impossible face again.
Even while he's teasing Yuri, as though Yuri might be wrong. He might actually be the tray first.
Before asking, without moving, without so much as shifting or tilting or looking away, if he should. Let go. Get the tray.
When Yuri's fingers tighten reflexively, like traitors, against Victor's shoulders and neck in some combination, perhaps, both of not wanting to be let go of so quickly, but, also, of half preparing to hold on if the next second Victor just upended the gravity of the world again, only these seconds later, and dropped him on the bed, as unceremoniously as he'd dragged Yuri on to his lap. Or something.
It is a little embarrassing that this close he can't really disguise things like that.
The smallest tic's of movement that on any other day, any other place -- even like this morning and before he skated -- he could just push his hands into his pockets, or under tables, even just against himself, and it'd be hidden. Only he'd ever know. But he can't, and maybe that does send a soft flash of embarrassed pink to just the very tops of his cheeks, exasperated at himself as much as at Victor for being Victor and being something Yuri's never found a true last defense against.
There's something just faintly rueful that touches his voice because of it. "If you meant to."