None of the answers for that question are right enough or wrong enough, and he poses them for the air and himself but, all of them sounding more like questions than answers. All of them just feel foreign in his mouth, the way he feels foreign in his body, and would probably have -- on any night before now, before Victor was half laying on him -- just flopped back on either of their beds, with his arms out and a frustratedly loud huff of annoyance at the ceiling, with no true need for caution or self-examination in expressing it.
He can hear Victor, again. Language is clumsy. Clumsy. Fragile. Flimsy.
Like his fingers and the skin beneath them.
When he can feel every swallow Victor makes, watch the shift in his skin as he breaths. The way he stretches more, pressing to those fingers that tried to be so soft, to not ruin everything with too much. Like there was an idea of too much. Like he hadn't been wrapped around Victor, with Victor's mouth pulling his own skin somewhere near where his fingers were on Victor.
When the building urge, curiosity or necessity, is to know what it would feel like if he curled down and placed his lips right there. (Who is he that even has these thoughts now? That he's allowed? To do this? Touch Victor? Kiss Victor?)
He doesn't curl down, and he adds, admits, after a breath, "Everything feels ... a little different."
That was probably a lot truer at its outset and quick than most of the things he'd said in a while. He felt different, from who he understood himself to be, and he was feeling things that felt different from any way he'd ever considered them or felt them or imagined them to feel before. Like everything in certain parts of him, before Victor kissing him had been cast off shadows burned away by him.
His understanding of how Victor felt about him, and even his own understanding of how he felt about Victor, that there was so much more under all of his carefully figured and martialed out feelings for him. To have the odd thought, strike him only now, about how much of this morning might have been touched by this, too. All of it.
The first night here, in this bed right beneath him, and then, Eros, and worrying about Victor leaving, and sobbing and screaming when Victor answered his every irrational fear saying he would leave, and, then, Yuri on Ice after all of those. Like some strange trail of feathers and snow and pebbles, he should have seen something more in before he got this far.
Before Victor was in his lap, and he was half-curled over him, one elbow on an aching knee balancing his cheek and an aching shoulder, while running his fingers slowly up Victor's neck enough the front of his first knuckle knocked lightly into the bottom of Victor's head. Victor who was so much to so many, and yet it felt like he couldn't be the same more, same everything, that he was to Yuri after these months to anyone else, too.
no subject
He can hear Victor, again. Language is clumsy.
Clumsy. Fragile. Flimsy.
Like his fingers and the skin beneath them.
When he can feel every swallow Victor makes, watch the shift in his skin as he breaths. The way he stretches more, pressing to those fingers that tried to be so soft, to not ruin everything with too much. Like there was an idea of too much. Like he hadn't been wrapped around Victor, with Victor's mouth pulling his own skin somewhere near where his fingers were on Victor.
When the building urge, curiosity or necessity, is to know what it would feel like if he curled down and placed his lips right there.
(Who is he that even has these thoughts now? That he's allowed? To do this? Touch Victor? Kiss Victor?)
He doesn't curl down, and he adds, admits, after a breath, "Everything feels ... a little different."
That was probably a lot truer at its outset and quick than most of the things he'd said in a while. He felt different, from who he understood himself to be, and he was feeling things that felt different from any way he'd ever considered them or felt them or imagined them to feel before. Like everything in certain parts of him, before Victor kissing him had been cast off shadows burned away by him.
His understanding of how Victor felt about him, and even his own understanding of how he felt about Victor, that there was so much more under all of his carefully figured and martialed out feelings for him. To have the odd thought, strike him only now, about how much of this morning might have been touched by this, too. All of it.
The first night here, in this bed right beneath him, and then, Eros, and worrying about Victor leaving, and sobbing and screaming when Victor answered his every irrational fear saying he would leave, and, then, Yuri on Ice after all of those. Like some strange trail of feathers and snow and pebbles, he should have seen something more in before he got this far.
Before Victor was in his lap, and he was half-curled over him, one elbow on an aching knee balancing his cheek and an aching shoulder, while running his fingers slowly up Victor's neck enough the front of his first knuckle knocked lightly into the bottom of Victor's head. Victor who was so much to so many, and yet it felt like he couldn't be the same more, same everything, that he was to Yuri after these months to anyone else, too.