The first: His own breath, scraping in and out of his lungs, accompanying the thunder of his pulse in his ears, so loud it nearly drowns out both of the only other sounds in this room. Even if it doesn't, everything feels delayed, all his reactions slower than usual, like he's existing underwater.
The second: Yuri's voice, gasping out his name, and his own rusted-out laugh hearing it. It sounds half scandalized and half turned on and goes directly to his gut, burning a smoking path along the way, and he doesn't care. Can't. Not with Yuri saying his name like that. Not with Yuri's fingers sinking into his hair, and his arm and legs tightening around him, but it's when he's shifting to tip them both over that he hears that third, final sound.
The faint clatter of plates and silverware that have been disturbed.
It makes him freeze, mouth leaving Yuri's throat to glance foggily over his shoulder to see the tray that's still there, somehow, because the universe hasn't been kind enough to remove it from that spot on the bed between them and the pillows. Just there. In his way. Looking, he thinks, a little more primly judgmental than is strictly necessary for a few porcelain bowls and tea cups.
Which makes him draw his head back to find Yuri's face and try to catch his breath, ears ringing and chest burning, and this is a problem, because he can't do anything without moving the tray, and he can't move the tray without letting go of Yuri.
He wonders, briefly, how badly this would all go if he just opted for the floor, instead.
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Date: 2017-04-26 08:59 pm (UTC)Victor hears only three things.
The first: His own breath, scraping in and out of his lungs, accompanying the thunder of his pulse in his ears, so loud it nearly drowns out both of the only other sounds in this room. Even if it doesn't, everything feels delayed, all his reactions slower than usual, like he's existing underwater.
The second: Yuri's voice, gasping out his name, and his own rusted-out laugh hearing it. It sounds half scandalized and half turned on and goes directly to his gut, burning a smoking path along the way, and he doesn't care. Can't. Not with Yuri saying his name like that. Not with Yuri's fingers sinking into his hair, and his arm and legs tightening around him, but it's when he's shifting to tip them both over that he hears that third, final sound.
The faint clatter of plates and silverware that have been disturbed.
It makes him freeze, mouth leaving Yuri's throat to glance foggily over his shoulder to see the tray that's still there, somehow, because the universe hasn't been kind enough to remove it from that spot on the bed between them and the pillows. Just there. In his way. Looking, he thinks, a little more primly judgmental than is strictly necessary for a few porcelain bowls and tea cups.
Which makes him draw his head back to find Yuri's face and try to catch his breath, ears ringing and chest burning, and this is a problem, because he can't do anything without moving the tray, and he can't move the tray without letting go of Yuri.
He wonders, briefly, how badly this would all go if he just opted for the floor, instead.