The problem is, he's not sure how to let go of Yuri.
The problem is, there's a tray of food and tea on the bed –– or what's left of it, anyway –– that he needs to put back out in the hall. There's the dry cleaning bag on the other bed that has Yuri's costumes in it, with the note that he never managed to finish sitting somewhere on the floor, wherever it floated to when he dropped it in his haste to get to Yuri, and those need to go outside, too. There are alarms to set, and there's the program to go over, and he should let Yuri get an early night, after Yuri didn't sleep well, and there's tomorrow's exhibition to think about.
Not to mention a plane to catch for Moscow, and rink time to confirm once they get there.
There's so much to do, and all of that is only the smallest percentage, the most immediate, most important things, and he can't bring himself to do so much as move that damn tray, because it would require letting go of Yuri ... and the problem is, he's not sure how to.
When really it's a question of want, and not how, and letting go of Yuri is the very last thing he wants to do, now that he has him, but can he really be blamed? After the last two years, and eight months, is there anyone who would blame him, if they were in his situation?
Yuri on his lap, annoyed but not at him. Yuri leaning down to kiss his mouth, because Victor wanted him to. Yuri's hands spreading over more of his back, his shoulders, the back of his neck, where Yuri's thumb against his bare skin makes him shake like he'd stepped outside, buck naked and soaked to the bone, into St. Petersburg's coldest winter night.
Yuri who wants him, back. And just how is he ever supposed to get used to that thought, that new reality? When did it happen? Has it always been there? Was he wrong, after all, all those months ago?
His hand coming up to brush the back of his knuckles over Yuri's jaw, his cheek, his ear, before fingers slip into just barely damp hair, and he's still not sure how to even begin believing all this is real, but this is the best start he knows.
no subject
The problem is, there's a tray of food and tea on the bed –– or what's left of it, anyway –– that he needs to put back out in the hall. There's the dry cleaning bag on the other bed that has Yuri's costumes in it, with the note that he never managed to finish sitting somewhere on the floor, wherever it floated to when he dropped it in his haste to get to Yuri, and those need to go outside, too. There are alarms to set, and there's the program to go over, and he should let Yuri get an early night, after Yuri didn't sleep well, and there's tomorrow's exhibition to think about.
Not to mention a plane to catch for Moscow, and rink time to confirm once they get there.
There's so much to do, and all of that is only the smallest percentage, the most immediate, most important things, and he can't bring himself to do so much as move that damn tray, because it would require letting go of Yuri ... and the problem is, he's not sure how to.
When really it's a question of want, and not how, and letting go of Yuri is the very last thing he wants to do, now that he has him, but can he really be blamed? After the last two years, and eight months, is there anyone who would blame him, if they were in his situation?
Yuri on his lap, annoyed but not at him. Yuri leaning down to kiss his mouth, because Victor wanted him to. Yuri's hands spreading over more of his back, his shoulders, the back of his neck, where Yuri's thumb against his bare skin makes him shake like he'd stepped outside, buck naked and soaked to the bone, into St. Petersburg's coldest winter night.
Yuri who wants him, back. And just how is he ever supposed to get used to that thought, that new reality? When did it happen? Has it always been there? Was he wrong, after all, all those months ago?
His hand coming up to brush the back of his knuckles over Yuri's jaw, his cheek, his ear, before fingers slip into just barely damp hair, and he's still not sure how to even begin believing all this is real, but this is the best start he knows.