Me, is the ruthless, unremorseful, first thought, and Yuri stills against it.
The faintest wince that makes his eyes close and then snap right back open, looking down, at Victor, still not looking at him. Not looking up. Who didn't see, and who somehow misses that Yuri is an idiot sometimes. More often than he should be. More often than Victor should have to deal with. Victor who keeps staying. This year, and right now. As his coach, and as ... whatever this is -- and what is this?
Not moving at all, except when his arms tighten, and his thumb starts brushing Yuri's own ribs. A splash of unexpected warmth, that ripples outward from that touch, while the questions repeat, over and over in his head, vying with the remainder of the morning, and the skate that had somehow flourished from it, his medal, and Victor, this, his questions repeating, a small whirlwind, demanding some answer of him.
Some answer that wasn't his first answer. That couldn't be that one. He traces that edge of the fabric as far as he can reach before deciding to follow the same line back. Safe, when nothing else in his head really feels it. Maybe it makes his words that, too. (Safe.) "Not knowing what to say." Or do. Beat. "Now."
Circling back around, back to the beginning, back to what he was already on. Without actually touching them, or dragging them into the light. Not sure if he'd just given up without trying, or if he still didn't even know how to put his hands to them, or them into his mouth. Every stubborn, stupid million unending question. Confusing feeling. The way new ones crept in to reflect each small word he did manage.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zaluzianskya and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
skylark_photos
no subject
Date: 2017-04-29 01:38 am (UTC)The faintest wince that makes his eyes close and then snap right back open, looking down, at Victor, still not looking at him. Not looking up. Who didn't see, and who somehow misses that Yuri is an idiot sometimes. More often than he should be. More often than Victor should have to deal with. Victor who keeps staying. This year, and right now. As his coach, and as ... whatever this is -- and what is this?
Not moving at all, except when his arms tighten, and his thumb starts brushing Yuri's own ribs. A splash of unexpected warmth, that ripples outward from that touch, while the questions repeat, over and over in his head, vying with the remainder of the morning, and the skate that had somehow flourished from it, his medal, and Victor, this, his questions repeating, a small whirlwind, demanding some answer of him.
Some answer that wasn't his first answer. That couldn't be that one. He traces that edge of the fabric as far as he can reach before deciding to follow the same line back. Safe, when nothing else in his head really feels it. Maybe it makes his words that, too. (Safe.) "Not knowing what to say." Or do. Beat. "Now."
Circling back around, back to the beginning, back to what he was already on. Without actually touching them, or dragging them into the light. Not sure if he'd just given up without trying, or if he still didn't even know how to put his hands to them, or them into his mouth. Every stubborn, stupid million unending question. Confusing feeling. The way new ones crept in to reflect each small word he did manage.