Yuri's eyes open in something like suspect confusion, though more at the second set of words than the first. As though Yuri had made some conscious decision to not want Victor -- as though anyone in the world ever could. This, again, making him think about Victor's reference earlier. About offering it on the beach, and that tangles, confusedly, against the warmth of Victor's fingers against his scalp, running through his hair -- and how does that feel so good?
So good he doesn't want to think about confusing, complicated questions. He wants to close his eyes more, and pray that Victor won't stop touching him. Making ripples of warm relaxation skip out across the skin radiating from those touches. Across his scalp, down his neck, seeming to get everywhere.
But even against the whine of want to fall into the warmth, to just close his too heavy eyelids, he can't forget the question.
The first one. The second is literally impossible. No one, certainly not Yuri, could not have wanted Victor. Case in point with Yuri's brain melting at this lightest touch, mind struggling valiantly to be able to speak to Victor, or at least think about things Victor had said, while Victor's hands tried to melt his brain into an early spring puddle.
(It's still not the same, either. Not if he argues everyone had wanted Victor. If he was somewhere in the blur of everyone. It's not this. It's not the same as this at all.
Even if, and the if is so pressed and insane, Victor had been serious -- and it has to be insane, right? Because if he was serious about that, was he also serious about offering to be Yuri's Father? Brother? Friend? And Boyfriend? All in once? And if so, then didn't that make all of them equally still untrue? -- even then, it wouldn't be this. It wouldn't be everything this year had been. Everything they'd become. How much more Victor had become.
More than just Victor, and exactly that. A more that defied words but filled his whole heart now.)
That. That he can at least answer to. Even if it's not much of a first few words.
He can make himself open his eyes, and hope it doesn't sound incredibly stupid to whisper, "I don't know."
"I don't feel different," follows, in soft, almost deep earnestness, even when he looks clouded, catches himself, and negates, just as quickly. Like it's the worst and wrong thing. And it is. Untrue, too. "I mean. I do." He did, sitting up, pulling away from that hand to look more at Victor. "Obviously. This is all--" The touching. The kissing. This being curled up in Victor's lap.
This every rush and catch and explosion under his skin, like Victor had given his body more life in two hours than it had ever had under his own touch even once in all his life. (The only comparison that came even swimming up was that of skating, and even it wasn't the same. That was him outward, and this pressed in.)
"Different." Beat. "New." And nice. Better than nice. Better than whatever better than nice was.
But wasn't the point. There's a small flush, ducking his head. His mouth and his head rambling. "Obviously."
"But I--" And the words is not good enough. Gums in his teeth. He means a different thing, but it's the same self-addressing word in English. Not his skin, but still him. Everything under. Everything inside. The him deep in. No 内, or 拙者, or こっち. "--don't feel different." Except he just said this, and then that he did. The same word. "This doesn't. I--" It breaks off with a decided frown, for,
"Pronouns," grumbled in guilty, aggravated, consternation, scrunching up his face.
The feeling was there, in his chest, only burning brighter for looking at it
(overwhelming certainty of Victor, of what Victor was, Victor meant, how he felt about Victor, always did, always had, grown together, hand in hand, through the whole process of their work through the spring and summer and fall, from that day on the beach, the reason he'd crumbled into Victor crushing him into his chest across the room being the same reason he'd screamed at him in the garage, and done the quad flip, and gone flying toward the gate, had to defy pain and gravity and kiss Victor minutes ago, and isn't that even more unsettling?
If maybe it isn't a change of feelings for him? If he doesn't know when, and really, when did this happen, then? When did it start and how long has it been going on?)
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Date: 2017-04-23 04:51 am (UTC)So good he doesn't want to think about confusing, complicated questions. He wants to close his eyes more, and pray that Victor won't stop touching him. Making ripples of warm relaxation skip out across the skin radiating from those touches. Across his scalp, down his neck, seeming to get everywhere.
But even against the whine of want to fall into the warmth, to just close his too heavy eyelids, he can't forget the question.
The first one. The second is literally impossible. No one, certainly not Yuri, could not have wanted Victor. Case in point with Yuri's brain melting at this lightest touch, mind struggling valiantly to be able to speak to Victor, or at least think about things Victor had said, while Victor's hands tried to melt his brain into an early spring puddle.
(It's still not the same, either. Not if he argues everyone had wanted Victor.
If he was somewhere in the blur of everyone. It's not this. It's not the same as this at all.
Even if, and the if is so pressed and insane, Victor had been serious -- and it has to be insane, right? Because if he was serious about that, was he also serious about offering to be Yuri's Father? Brother? Friend? And Boyfriend? All in once? And if so, then didn't that make all of them equally still untrue? -- even then, it wouldn't be this. It wouldn't be everything this year had been. Everything they'd become. How much more Victor had become.
More than just Victor, and exactly that. A more that defied words but filled his whole heart now.)
That. That he can at least answer to. Even if it's not much of a first few words.
He can make himself open his eyes, and hope it doesn't sound incredibly stupid to whisper, "I don't know."
"I don't feel different," follows, in soft, almost deep earnestness, even when he looks clouded, catches himself, and negates, just as quickly. Like it's the worst and wrong thing. And it is. Untrue, too. "I mean. I do." He did, sitting up, pulling away from that hand to look more at Victor. "Obviously. This is all--" The touching. The kissing. This being curled up in Victor's lap.
This every rush and catch and explosion under his skin, like Victor had given his body more life in two hours than it had ever had under his own touch even once in all his life. (The only comparison that came even swimming up was that of skating, and even it wasn't the same. That was him outward, and this pressed in.)
"Different." Beat. "New." And nice. Better than nice. Better than whatever better than nice was.
But wasn't the point. There's a small flush, ducking his head. His mouth and his head rambling. "Obviously."
"But I--" And the words is not good enough. Gums in his teeth. He means a different thing, but it's the same self-addressing word in English. Not his skin, but still him. Everything under. Everything inside. The him deep in. No 内, or 拙者, or こっち. "--don't feel different." Except he just said this, and then that he did. The same word. "This doesn't. I--" It breaks off with a decided frown, for,
"Pronouns," grumbled in guilty, aggravated, consternation, scrunching up his face.
The feeling was there, in his chest, only burning brighter for looking at it