He needs two different words for I, and two different words for feeling, meanings that are as different as night and day, differentiated from themselves, without lessening each the other, or contradicting each other, and as much as he presses his mind for any of the more complicated English, some further vocabulary that must exist from in those thick endless dictionaries, it persists in eluding him.
The cloud of it taking up more and more space in him, with no way to be expressed. The clould of it usurping so much more of him, defying so much more of him, when he has to wonder how long not that he's loved Victor but ... been possibly in love with Victor?
Did that make him more like everyone else in the world, having tried not to be? Or did even that allusion seem patently like a lie, even inside of him, while Victor repeated his words carefully. Not understanding entirely either. And it's not, is it? It can't be the entire same as everyone. The same as everyone who ever got to be this close to him, to have him anywhere nearby this long? Making it impossible not to?
That when Victor is kissing, softly, one side of his neck and then other, how impossible it must be truly for anyone. Not just the idea of a set-aside decades inspiration and obsession, whether that had ever worked. But the more. The things you'd couldn't miss about Victor this close-up. The everything that made up his every day and every night. Things only Yuri could manage to miss changing everything inside his own body.
There's a small sigh, in something like defeat, without being over long or over deep at Victor's last words, especially when mixed with the whole way Victor's lips touching his throat still made him shiver and shift, shoulders pulling and then pressing out again, straight through it. Even gentle and quick and right back to before him again.
It doesn't feel enough. To not have the right words. The right answer. Even inside him.
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Date: 2017-04-23 12:43 pm (UTC)The cloud of it taking up more and more space in him, with no way to be expressed. The clould of it usurping so much more of him, defying so much more of him, when he has to wonder how long not that he's loved Victor but ... been possibly in love with Victor?
Did that make him more like everyone else in the world, having tried not to be? Or did even that allusion seem patently like a lie, even inside of him, while Victor repeated his words carefully. Not understanding entirely either. And it's not, is it? It can't be the entire same as everyone. The same as everyone who ever got to be this close to him, to have him anywhere nearby this long? Making it impossible not to?
That when Victor is kissing, softly, one side of his neck and then other, how impossible it must be truly for anyone. Not just the idea of a set-aside decades inspiration and obsession, whether that had ever worked. But the more. The things you'd couldn't miss about Victor this close-up. The everything that made up his every day and every night. Things only Yuri could manage to miss changing everything inside his own body.
There's a small sigh, in something like defeat, without being over long or over deep at Victor's last words, especially when mixed with the whole way Victor's lips touching his throat still made him shiver and shift, shoulders pulling and then pressing out again, straight through it. Even gentle and quick and right back to before him again.
It doesn't feel enough. To not have the right words. The right answer. Even inside him.