Victor does nearly the exact same thing he'd done before. He doesn't kiss Yuri, but sags against him, buries his head into Yuri's shoulder, while Yuri is still blinking at the world and Victor, and the tray beyond, and trying to parse the tone of his own voice just used. Until Victor is whining softly into his shoulder, a beleaguered childish sound that is so familiar Yuri's can place it to a million times and days before now.
Except ... not too, right? Not when Victor is pulling back and his eyes are sweeping across Yuri's face, seeing, what, Yuri can't begin to guess anymore than he can really begin to fathom how any of this is real, is happening, while it's happening. That it's somehow been happening inside of Victor ( ... for ... awhile?). Or himself. For however long that is, and, or true it is.
The last words are, again, too. The same. New, but the same as earlier. Catching under Yuri's breastbone like a patch of silly ice, when those ribs are still preoccupied doing the job of catching his falling-floating heart trying to unwind, again. None of it really holding, because Victor is curling around him, closer, more ... tighter?, and he doesn't quite remember when his fingers ended up burried in Victor's hair, but it's so soft and he doesn't, but he's almost as tempted to laugh as he is to pat Victor's head. Or shoulder.
He's not sure he has a clue what's happening, or who he's become in the last ... while.
But between the whined complaint and the quiet reason, under the dizzy drunken bee buzzing that is cooling on his skin, still rumbling on in his skin, Yuri feels -- what is that? Amusement? Patient exasperation? Relief? Fondness? -- at Victor sounding like Victor, over something absolutely trivial. While tightening his arms around Yuri, like he's afraid Yuri will vanish. Or wants to be holding him more? The way that catches like a slippery patch, too, in clearing thoughts.
Yuri's mouth quirks, giving something easily logical, the way he might any other time like it, even if it isn't entirely in from out of breath still. "It's not that far away."
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Date: 2017-04-27 12:00 pm (UTC)Except ... not too, right? Not when Victor is pulling back and his eyes are sweeping across Yuri's face, seeing, what, Yuri can't begin to guess anymore than he can really begin to fathom how any of this is real, is happening, while it's happening. That it's somehow been happening inside of Victor ( ... for ... awhile?). Or himself. For however long that is, and, or true it is.
The last words are, again, too. The same. New, but the same as earlier. Catching under Yuri's breastbone like a patch of silly ice, when those ribs are still preoccupied doing the job of catching his falling-floating heart trying to unwind, again. None of it really holding, because Victor is curling around him, closer, more ... tighter?, and he doesn't quite remember when his fingers ended up burried in Victor's hair, but it's so soft and he doesn't, but he's almost as tempted to laugh as he is to pat Victor's head. Or shoulder.
He's not sure he has a clue what's happening, or who he's become in the last ... while.
But between the whined complaint and the quiet reason, under the dizzy drunken bee buzzing that is cooling on his skin, still rumbling on in his skin, Yuri feels -- what is that? Amusement? Patient exasperation? Relief? Fondness? -- at Victor sounding like Victor, over something absolutely trivial. While tightening his arms around Yuri, like he's afraid Yuri will vanish. Or wants to be holding him more? The way that catches like a slippery patch, too, in clearing thoughts.
Yuri's mouth quirks, giving something easily logical, the way he might any other time like it, even if it isn't entirely in from out of breath still. "It's not that far away."