Victor is still pouting, even with that slant and flattening of eyes, that looks so familiar. It is absolutely nothing like the stony distance that fills his face, his eyes, when Victor actually is disappointed in him. When his words become even more blunt than the bluntness that Yuri has had to get used to because of him, and the divide between them yawns frozen and clear.
The rest -- the rest is so confusing Yuri can feel himself hold still.
The words seeming to freeze in his chest, throat, mouth, even when his heart wobbles confused, suddenly softly pained even as Victor's leaning back into his shoulder. Nose brushing his skin. Soft kisses placed like stamps against his skin. Reinventing disorientation as a feeling. When Victor wants to slow down? To stop? While still not actually stopping touching him?
When Yuri has no clue what that means, and he's. Maybe he does. Maybe when his skin is still shivering, even if his body isn't. When his skin feels like it's aching against the softness of Victor's mouth, that wasn't anything like soft, right there, barely a minute back. When the memory of that makes a true shiver shift his shoulders.
Everything blister bright, chilling and shrinking in retrospect, and still there in every beat of his heart (every breath Victor looses against his shoulder, so easily permeating to his skin). Victor that he's crosslegged curled around, like, like. Like a tree limb. Like a dance pole. Victor, who keeps, and then he keeps -- Victor, who is -- and maybe Victor is right -- or maybe Victor just doesn't -- Except he's said -- and then just said.
Conflicted, bouncing, ricocheting, confusion filling his chest more with each new passing second. We should slow down.Stop. Victor not letting go, but starting to turn his head against Yuri's neck and shoulder, and fingers, maybe like he's having a slow motion, silent argument with all of them, while Yuri stares at the gleaming tray with its abandoned tea cups and plates and food.
Everything feeling suddenly precarious (and he hates that, he always hates that), suddenly disjointed and strings that felt warm, certain, unnoticed, snap by snap slipping, disconnecting. When the only thing that really makes sense is to uncross his legs, a little stiff for the pain he knows will come, and try to let go, pull his hand away.
At least do the things that Victor's first point and the tray needed: him to move.
no subject
The rest -- the rest is so confusing Yuri can feel himself hold still.
The words seeming to freeze in his chest, throat, mouth, even when his heart wobbles confused, suddenly softly pained even as Victor's leaning back into his shoulder. Nose brushing his skin. Soft kisses placed like stamps against his skin. Reinventing disorientation as a feeling. When Victor wants to slow down? To stop? While still not actually stopping touching him?
When Yuri has no clue what that means, and he's. Maybe he does. Maybe when his skin is still shivering, even if his body isn't. When his skin feels like it's aching against the softness of Victor's mouth, that wasn't anything like soft, right there, barely a minute back. When the memory of that makes a true shiver shift his shoulders.
Everything blister bright, chilling and shrinking in retrospect, and still there in every beat of his heart (every breath Victor looses against his shoulder, so easily permeating to his skin). Victor that he's crosslegged curled around, like, like. Like a tree limb. Like a dance pole. Victor, who keeps, and then he keeps -- Victor, who is -- and maybe Victor is right -- or maybe Victor just doesn't -- Except he's said -- and then just said.
Conflicted, bouncing, ricocheting, confusion filling his chest more with each new passing second. We should slow down. Stop. Victor not letting go, but starting to turn his head against Yuri's neck and shoulder, and fingers, maybe like he's having a slow motion, silent argument with all of them, while Yuri stares at the gleaming tray with its abandoned tea cups and plates and food.
Everything feeling suddenly precarious (and he hates that, he always hates that), suddenly disjointed and strings that felt warm, certain, unnoticed, snap by snap slipping, disconnecting. When the only thing that really makes sense is to uncross his legs, a little stiff for the pain he knows will come, and try to let go, pull his hand away.
At least do the things that Victor's first point and the tray needed: him to move.