He shifts, and Yuri stops, making Victor crack one heavy eye, like a sleepy and suspicious dragon, but before he decides to do or say anything, Yuri's fingers slip down into his hair and he stops thinking altogether.
It feels like warm water pouring over his head, down the back of his neck and along his spine. He's gone boneless and heavy, and he probably shouldn't be putting the weight of his whole head and half his torso on Yuri when Yuri is sore and tired, but Yuri's fingers are in his hair and he doesn't have a choice. It's like being slowly liquefied. He wonders if this is how ice feels when the sun kisses it in the spring, if it's happy to melt, to pool into warm water and shimmer there under the gentle rays, and, really, it's just unfair. Yuri dismantling him with no more than a few fingers in his hair, barely touching him at all.
But touching him with purpose. Touching him on purpose. In a way that can't be mistaken for all the other ways Yuri has touched him, leaned on him like he's furniture or fallen against him when he crashes after a long day of practice. It's not even anything like that night at the banquet, when Yuri had reached for him like Victor's body and skin were things he owned, was entitled to. It's just ...
Nice. Nicer than anything. So nice his eyelids are heavy and he's relaxing so deeply that he might actually fall asleep if he's not careful. Which is why he shouldn't say: "Don't stop."
Mumbled just loudly enough to hear, while his fingers stroke the back of Yuri's shirt lazily, right where the edge of it has rucked up against the small of his back and a thin sliver of bare skin is exposed between the edge of the shirt and the waistband of his sleep pants. It's soft, and warm, and Victor spreads his hand to cover it, too, feeling protective of that tiny, vulnerable spot.
He'd blanket Yuri entirely if he could, until he knows. Until he believes. There's nothing to be afraid of.
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He shifts, and Yuri stops, making Victor crack one heavy eye, like a sleepy and suspicious dragon, but before he decides to do or say anything, Yuri's fingers slip down into his hair and he stops thinking altogether.
It feels like warm water pouring over his head, down the back of his neck and along his spine. He's gone boneless and heavy, and he probably shouldn't be putting the weight of his whole head and half his torso on Yuri when Yuri is sore and tired, but Yuri's fingers are in his hair and he doesn't have a choice. It's like being slowly liquefied. He wonders if this is how ice feels when the sun kisses it in the spring, if it's happy to melt, to pool into warm water and shimmer there under the gentle rays, and, really, it's just unfair. Yuri dismantling him with no more than a few fingers in his hair, barely touching him at all.
But touching him with purpose. Touching him on purpose. In a way that can't be mistaken for all the other ways Yuri has touched him, leaned on him like he's furniture or fallen against him when he crashes after a long day of practice. It's not even anything like that night at the banquet, when Yuri had reached for him like Victor's body and skin were things he owned, was entitled to. It's just ...
Nice. Nicer than anything. So nice his eyelids are heavy and he's relaxing so deeply that he might actually fall asleep if he's not careful. Which is why he shouldn't say: "Don't stop."
Mumbled just loudly enough to hear, while his fingers stroke the back of Yuri's shirt lazily, right where the edge of it has rucked up against the small of his back and a thin sliver of bare skin is exposed between the edge of the shirt and the waistband of his sleep pants. It's soft, and warm, and Victor spreads his hand to cover it, too, feeling protective of that tiny, vulnerable spot.
He'd blanket Yuri entirely if he could, until he knows. Until he believes. There's nothing to be afraid of.