At least as much as it seems like it is, impossible to hold a single thought.
Especially with a finger pressed to it. All at once there are absolutely no thoughts and a crescendo of so many whispers, faintly panicked like a patch of darkness with a floodlight on it. Even though Victor has been looking at him this whole time. Close as close can be, when Victor has drug him into his lap (he's in Victor's lap, all but pressed to Victor's chest, while Victor's hands wander over his skin freely).
Victor, who wants to know what he's thinking, when everything he can think comes in rushes and bursts as the sensations under his skin. When there' still that faint frustration for not being able to express this right, and answer Victor's question from seconds ago, as though English truly has betrayed him. Language is clumsy. His feet would know it, if he was on ice right now.
It would be a tremulous glide, sliding into a lunge, hands pulling down, with the face turned up, eyes closed, toward the sun. Except. Then he'd have to close his eyes. Except then he'd have to let go. Except then it all seem so much more a dream.
He doesn't want to close his eyes. Doesn't want to let go just yet. Not while Victor is still looking at him like this, and Victor is still touching him in a way that seems foreign and fragile and careful as the best ballet performance. This way Victor has never touched him, and Victor has touched him quite a lot. So much more than anyone else in his entire life probably together and years combined, and he wants more of it.
He wants to be able to explain what he couldn't seconds ago.
This feeling inside of him that Victor asked for. That is everywhere. Pressing toward Victor's hands, toward Victor's body, toward that soft awe and surprise in Victor's face, that he had worked so hard at earned everytime he got their programs right in practice, every time Victor carelessly shared it in the exploits of his exuberant tourism.
That are his right now ... for no extra reasons which can be pointed to. Just him. It's just focused on him.
He doesn't stop. Victor doesn't stop. His fingers drop to curl at Yuri's neck, still for a moment, for the feeling before the thought of the friction of the earlier touch stopping to rouse, but before it can even become a thought Victor's other hand is moving. Is trailing down his back, making things light up there instead. Making his shiver, shift, sit up straighter as muscles suddenly come to life under those fingers, seem to exist more in the trail of fingertips ands palm than any of the lasting pains of the day.
There is so much he could say, and so little he wants to say, and it keeps coming back to seconds ago. To that question. Which turns something determined at the press of his mouth. He's done so many harder things that seemed impossible. Training under Victor. Returning to the Grand Prix after his failure. Earning a silver medal at his first qualifier. If he's still shivering, shifting as muscles answer Victor's fingers more than a plea to hold still, he still tries.
His hands tighten just faintly on Victor's shoulders, and how strange is that Victor can do all of this at once.
Not just talking and touching him, but this, too. This under Yuri's hands. Pulling him apart and anchoring him all at one.
"There are more than dozen ways to refer to yourself in Japanese."
no subject
At least as much as it seems like it is, impossible to hold a single thought.
Especially with a finger pressed to it. All at once there are absolutely no thoughts and a crescendo of so many whispers, faintly panicked like a patch of darkness with a floodlight on it. Even though Victor has been looking at him this whole time. Close as close can be, when Victor has drug him into his lap (he's in Victor's lap, all but pressed to Victor's chest, while Victor's hands wander over his skin freely).
Victor, who wants to know what he's thinking, when everything he can think comes in rushes and bursts as the sensations under his skin. When there' still that faint frustration for not being able to express this right, and answer Victor's question from seconds ago, as though English truly has betrayed him. Language is clumsy. His feet would know it, if he was on ice right now.
It would be a tremulous glide, sliding into a lunge, hands pulling down, with the face turned up, eyes closed, toward the sun.
Except. Then he'd have to close his eyes. Except then he'd have to let go. Except then it all seem so much more a dream.
He doesn't want to close his eyes. Doesn't want to let go just yet. Not while Victor is still looking at him like this, and Victor is still touching him in a way that seems foreign and fragile and careful as the best ballet performance. This way Victor has never touched him, and Victor has touched him quite a lot. So much more than anyone else in his entire life probably together and years combined, and he wants more of it.
He wants to be able to explain what he couldn't seconds ago.
This feeling inside of him that Victor asked for. That is everywhere. Pressing toward Victor's hands, toward Victor's body, toward that soft awe and surprise in Victor's face, that he had worked so hard at earned everytime he got their programs right in practice, every time Victor carelessly shared it in the exploits of his exuberant tourism.
That are his right now ... for no extra reasons which can be pointed to. Just him. It's just focused on him.
He doesn't stop. Victor doesn't stop. His fingers drop to curl at Yuri's neck, still for a moment, for the feeling before the thought of the friction of the earlier touch stopping to rouse, but before it can even become a thought Victor's other hand is moving. Is trailing down his back, making things light up there instead. Making his shiver, shift, sit up straighter as muscles suddenly come to life under those fingers, seem to exist more in the trail of fingertips ands palm than any of the lasting pains of the day.
There is so much he could say, and so little he wants to say, and it keeps coming back to seconds ago. To that question. Which turns something determined at the press of his mouth. He's done so many harder things that seemed impossible. Training under Victor. Returning to the Grand Prix after his failure. Earning a silver medal at his first qualifier. If he's still shivering, shifting as muscles answer Victor's fingers more than a plea to hold still, he still tries.
His hands tighten just faintly on Victor's shoulders, and how strange is that Victor can do all of this at once.
Not just talking and touching him, but this, too. This under Yuri's hands.
Pulling him apart and anchoring him all at one.
"There are more than dozen ways to refer to yourself in Japanese."