Victor is grinning, too self-satisfied for anyone's good ever, and Yuri almost wants to follow along out of sheer reflective response, whether it turned out as amusement or disgruntled censure, but it doesn't really make it to his face. Not either. Which might not matter, because then Victor's fingers find the side of his face and Victor is kissing him. Soft and slow, and Yuri's attention can only focus on so many things at once.
Between Victor kissing him and the all too present bed (under every part of his body) the rest just folds. His heart and his head a dizzy set of waves that drifts and floats down toward something almost like bare calm, that burbled warmth, against the sweetness of this kiss, and then tips over like a wave, his fingers on the bed at little tense against the comforter, as though watching for the slide they haven't managed not to slip down yet, repeating Victor's solemn endless complaint.
About not wanting to let go of Yuri. Of both times, forgotten. Of both time, just forgetting and curling into him.
And now he's -- among too many things in his head, trying not to look flushed and jittery at his own thoughts. Which just makes Victor's first question go to all the wrong places. Too fast, too hot, too many images that make him try to swallow his tongue and stop breathing all at once. Like the whole of this thing had become some one-time offer, and he either had to sink or swim.
Except that the startled shock of the question and those images has Yuri looking over,
at Victor who is giving a pretty bland look at the tray while he picks it up -- and Victor meant the food, did he want anything else from their dinner -- and shows it off to Yuri, who can only manage shaking his head and not moving, like a word would make it all come pouring out and the only movement screaming out from his legs and hands would be diving for a pillow to die under. When did he even. How. In his own head. What was he even thinking?
Not that Victor needs much of an answer, taking it away, and looking for something on the floor. Ending up with the tray, and then the laundry bag, and Yuri should have thought about his costumes. When had he stopped thinking about everything? Was it, basically, the end of his own program? How long ago did he get off the ice? How long was it until went back on? What all did he need to do before the Gala, and before they left China, that are not this at all?
Victor's next question makes him wrinkle his nose. "It's fine." Not true, but, also, not like he's trying to make it so. More like he doesn't want to think about it, while acknowledging it exists. "Sore, and stiff. Like everything else." Like it would be. He'd never even gone into practicing Quad Salchow's intending to fall. Not that he'd intended to fall earlier. Only known it was beyond impossible that he would land smoothly.
Which was almost the same, except that it made the argument that it wasn't like everything else.
His face scrunched up, maybe like he was admitting a defeat to the logic in his head, more than to Victor. "Maybe."
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Date: 2017-04-27 11:50 pm (UTC)Between Victor kissing him and the all too present bed (under every part of his body) the rest just folds. His heart and his head a dizzy set of waves that drifts and floats down toward something almost like bare calm, that burbled warmth, against the sweetness of this kiss, and then tips over like a wave, his fingers on the bed at little tense against the comforter, as though watching for the slide they haven't managed not to slip down yet, repeating Victor's solemn endless complaint.
About not wanting to let go of Yuri. Of both times, forgotten. Of both time, just forgetting and curling into him.
And now he's -- among too many things in his head, trying not to look flushed and jittery at his own thoughts. Which just makes Victor's first question go to all the wrong places. Too fast, too hot, too many images that make him try to swallow his tongue and stop breathing all at once. Like the whole of this thing had become some one-time offer, and he either had to sink or swim.
Except that the startled shock of the question and those images has Yuri looking over,
at Victor who is giving a pretty bland look at the tray while he picks it up -- and Victor meant the food, did he want anything else from their dinner -- and shows it off to Yuri, who can only manage shaking his head and not moving, like a word would make it all come pouring out and the only movement screaming out from his legs and hands would be diving for a pillow to die under. When did he even. How. In his own head. What was he even thinking?
Not that Victor needs much of an answer, taking it away, and looking for something on the floor. Ending up with the tray, and then the laundry bag, and Yuri should have thought about his costumes. When had he stopped thinking about everything? Was it, basically, the end of his own program? How long ago did he get off the ice? How long was it until went back on? What all did he need to do before the Gala, and before they left China, that are not this at all?
Victor's next question makes him wrinkle his nose. "It's fine." Not true, but, also, not like he's trying to make it so. More like he doesn't want to think about it, while acknowledging it exists. "Sore, and stiff. Like everything else." Like it would be. He'd never even gone into practicing Quad Salchow's intending to fall. Not that he'd intended to fall earlier. Only known it was beyond impossible that he would land smoothly.
Which was almost the same, except that it made the argument that it wasn't like everything else.
His face scrunched up, maybe like he was admitting a defeat to the logic in his head, more than to Victor. "Maybe."