Yuri's fingers wrap around his hand and he nods, without finishing his sentence, and Victor still thinks they might be having two different conversations, but he's not sure they aren't heading towards the same conclusion.
Either way, his smile turns gentle, palm warm and steady over the back of Yuri's hand, the both of them protective over Yuri's heart. "Different, but not different?"
That's not how it worked for him. There was nothing, and then there was everything, and his whole world turned on an instant and on a single touch, a single glance, a single hour. One of thousands. Millions. And even though things have changed since then, since this spring, he's not sure it would count as feeling the same, but different, regardless of how he references himself.
But maybe not. There's a slight wistful tinge to the corners of his smile, even as his fingers tuck themselves under Yuri's, and his thumb runs along the back of Yuri's wrist. "I don't know if I completely understand."
He doesn't. But. "But I know this."
Tapping on Yuri's chest again, because he can't lean down to place a kiss there, over the I that Yuri meant, that doesn't fit into English and probably wouldn't into Russian, either. To him, the self is all once complicated organism, inner and outer, superficial and complex, mundane and sublime. He's always found his feelings as friends, or sometimes as hurtful enemies, but always recognizable, always familiar.
(Even if he hasn't always wanted to accept it right away.)
But he knows the sensation. The feeling of a separate self, a wayward idealist living in his chest and masquerading as his heart. And he knows the words are difficult to find, even in the tongue he grew up with.
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Either way, his smile turns gentle, palm warm and steady over the back of Yuri's hand, the both of them protective over Yuri's heart. "Different, but not different?"
That's not how it worked for him. There was nothing, and then there was everything, and his whole world turned on an instant and on a single touch, a single glance, a single hour. One of thousands. Millions. And even though things have changed since then, since this spring, he's not sure it would count as feeling the same, but different, regardless of how he references himself.
But maybe not. There's a slight wistful tinge to the corners of his smile, even as his fingers tuck themselves under Yuri's, and his thumb runs along the back of Yuri's wrist. "I don't know if I completely understand."
He doesn't. But. "But I know this."
Tapping on Yuri's chest again, because he can't lean down to place a kiss there, over the I that Yuri meant, that doesn't fit into English and probably wouldn't into Russian, either. To him, the self is all once complicated organism, inner and outer, superficial and complex, mundane and sublime. He's always found his feelings as friends, or sometimes as hurtful enemies, but always recognizable, always familiar.
(Even if he hasn't always wanted to accept it right away.)
But he knows the sensation. The feeling of a separate self, a wayward idealist living in his chest and masquerading as his heart. And he knows the words are difficult to find, even in the tongue he grew up with.