Yuri pushed off the counter, with what was left of his water in his hand and a catch somewhere in his center, as Victor existed, talking about the ice pack he'd gone to get on the other side. There's something that isn't quite a sigh, but he rights himself, weight shifting back onto both hips, knees, and ankles. There's a furrow in his expression, but it's whisper brief, before he leans into that, too, before walking to the door and out.
Victor isn't in the tiny makeshift hallway, but it's not like Yuri expected him to stand there waiting, was it?
(Or had he? Was he out of simple questions, with anything like simple yes-no answers now?)
He's not hard to find though, walking just past that small space, and there's Victor flopped down on his bed, stretched the whole length of the now-empty space on one side of his bed. Hands above his head and toes peeking out and over, pale and relaxed, with none of the bruises that come and go weekly with daily and weekly and monthly regularity on Yuri's own amid training.
There's a small pause somewhere, one he doesn't really even recognize he's taken, when he'd gotten halfway and just ended up staring at Victor, lying across Victor's bed, like some red (or gold) line that it wasn't even like shouldn't be crossed, that just stole away his doing more than thinking. More than simply looking at Victor there, stretched out, the long line of him, well defined by even his sleep clothes. Feeling the tick, tick, tick that birthed the scrabble in the back of his mind, his guts. Tightening his finger incrementally on his cup.
The tumble that asks what now?, and both wanted to be back there already and didn't know how to move, and that scoffed at the notion anything in the world was as simple as his brain's bounce back response of just take a few steps and sit down then. In the same place he'd been sitting (or laying) since they got back here. It wasn't like life's straightforward, simplicity helped him in most normal situations, and this had all become something that was nothing and nowhere near normal.
His eyes drag away from Victor -- or maybe tear is the more proper word, because it feels like the pain in his hip, his joints, shoulders, displaces to the action of looking away, just briefly -- and land beside him. Finding the promised ice pack, and at least he can say, "Thank you."
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Victor isn't in the tiny makeshift hallway, but it's not like Yuri expected him to stand there waiting, was it?
(Or had he? Was he out of simple questions, with anything like simple yes-no answers now?)
He's not hard to find though, walking just past that small space, and there's Victor flopped down on his bed, stretched the whole length of the now-empty space on one side of his bed. Hands above his head and toes peeking out and over, pale and relaxed, with none of the bruises that come and go weekly with daily and weekly and monthly regularity on Yuri's own amid training.
There's a small pause somewhere, one he doesn't really even recognize he's taken, when he'd gotten halfway and just ended up staring at Victor, lying across Victor's bed, like some red (or gold) line that it wasn't even like shouldn't be crossed, that just stole away his doing more than thinking. More than simply looking at Victor there, stretched out, the long line of him, well defined by even his sleep clothes. Feeling the tick, tick, tick that birthed the scrabble in the back of his mind, his guts. Tightening his finger incrementally on his cup.
The tumble that asks what now?, and both wanted to be back there already and didn't know how to move, and that scoffed at the notion anything in the world was as simple as his brain's bounce back response of just take a few steps and sit down then. In the same place he'd been sitting (or laying) since they got back here. It wasn't like life's straightforward, simplicity helped him in most normal situations, and this had all become something that was nothing and nowhere near normal.
His eyes drag away from Victor -- or maybe tear is the more proper word, because it feels like the pain in his hip, his joints, shoulders, displaces to the action of looking away, just briefly -- and land beside him. Finding the promised ice pack, and at least he can say, "Thank you."