There's an all too clear moment of panic -- not wild, but desolate.
When the last thing he feels is worthy of touching Victor, trying to convey this thing he's already messed up more than he should, and how could it be any different, how could he ever be allowed anything more if he cannot even manage less. While at the same time, some part of his brain, even awash in those feelings, recognize the words as a directive. Not exactly command, but not the same as
You can touch me if you want. But you don't have to.
It's on his lips to argue, to say something, he doesn't even know. Something that had been determined and found itself instead despairing. Even if it only ends up being one or two words. Except. Except Victor is staring at him so close, and so clear. Victor who has pushed his hand under Yuri's, as though he could reach it through Yuri's skin instead of Yuri's words. Like he might curl his hand, not around Yuri's fingers, but Yuri's feelings.
All those feelings that were already his, without ever letting Yuri know. That they were this, too. That somewhere along the way this happened, too. All of them caught up in Victor's eyes, and Victor's decree, and Victor's fingers against his chest. Already failed and still not forsaken. Victor who he shouldn't be allowed to touch, and everything about Victor saying he stole Victor's heart, he seduced Victor, Victor loves him, like this ... makes no sense. It feels impossible. All of it, again.
Just as impossible as how it all presses up just as strongly. Every feeling under that hand, straining toward Victor's fingers, Victor's eyes, and his mouth, when Yuri's drop even further to them. Like it's all louder for the failure of not coming out at all right. Like it's wilder for that sadness, stronger for being trapped inside of him even now.
When he raises his other hand and his fingertips touch Victor's cheek so very gently, hold them just pressed there a second, before smoothing back, letting more and more of the whole of his fingers slide back and settle across Victor's cheek. Not allowed, and somehow allowed. Not different at all, and absolutely different.
The Victor everyone reveres, for his grace and genius and gorgeousness, perfect features pale under his so small hand.
The Victor, beyond that image, every image, that Yuri hasn't had to share with anyone, in the same way, this whole year, everything that is everything, that makes him laugh and cry and try, had made him terrified to fail, and, also, need to bury himself against.
These things he can't imagine how he'll mke it past letting go of him so very soon, not after realizing this, too. But even that is too far away to think of more than a pained list of his heart because he doesn't know how he ever didn't do it the first second. Any more than he couldn't help it minutes ago. He leans down and places his lips soft, soft as his fingers had been on his cheek, against Victor's.
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When the last thing he feels is worthy of touching Victor, trying to convey this thing he's already messed up more than he should, and how could it be any different, how could he ever be allowed anything more if he cannot even manage less. While at the same time, some part of his brain, even awash in those feelings, recognize the words as a directive. Not exactly command, but not the same as
But you don't have to.
It's on his lips to argue, to say something, he doesn't even know. Something that had been determined and found itself instead despairing. Even if it only ends up being one or two words. Except. Except Victor is staring at him so close, and so clear. Victor who has pushed his hand under Yuri's, as though he could reach it through Yuri's skin instead of Yuri's words. Like he might curl his hand, not around Yuri's fingers, but Yuri's feelings.
All those feelings that were already his, without ever letting Yuri know. That they were this, too. That somewhere along the way this happened, too. All of them caught up in Victor's eyes, and Victor's decree, and Victor's fingers against his chest. Already failed and still not forsaken. Victor who he shouldn't be allowed to touch, and everything about Victor saying he stole Victor's heart, he seduced Victor, Victor loves him, like this ... makes no sense. It feels impossible. All of it, again.
Just as impossible as how it all presses up just as strongly. Every feeling under that hand, straining toward Victor's fingers, Victor's eyes, and his mouth, when Yuri's drop even further to them. Like it's all louder for the failure of not coming out at all right. Like it's wilder for that sadness, stronger for being trapped inside of him even now.
When he raises his other hand and his fingertips touch Victor's cheek so very gently, hold them just pressed there a second, before smoothing back, letting more and more of the whole of his fingers slide back and settle across Victor's cheek. Not allowed, and somehow allowed. Not different at all, and absolutely different.
The Victor everyone reveres,
for his grace and genius and gorgeousness,
perfect features pale under his so small hand.
The Victor, beyond that image, every image, that Yuri hasn't had to share with anyone, in the same way, this whole year, everything that is everything, that makes him laugh and cry and try, had made him terrified to fail, and, also, need to bury himself against.
These things he can't imagine how he'll mke it past letting go of him so very soon, not after realizing this, too. But even that is too far away to think of more than a pained list of his heart because he doesn't know how he ever didn't do it the first second. Any more than he couldn't help it minutes ago. He leans down and places his lips soft, soft as his fingers had been on his cheek, against Victor's.