It's the first words since -- since something else and in the reverse of helpful, of listening, it makes Yuri go still, in surprise at the sound in the silence. Even the mumbled whisper of it. Takes him a second, while his cheeks are warming in surprise -- or, or, or, no something else, too, something warm, with wide nebulous arms, pushing everywhere in his chest right above where Victor's head is pressed -- and he is blushing, by the time he puts his hand down again.

Starts closer to the top of Victor's head, of what he can reach of it. Which touching down, again, reminds him of poking the top of his head and then patting it before his skate. How as that only a few hours ago? When he'd wanted to point out that everything was fine, but he didn't have the words for that any more than he had the words to explain his head was broken, and he knew it was, and he was trying his best. That Victor didn't have to look so distant or confused or frustrated.

That he'd decided to play off his own so much earlier embarrassing loss of control and Victor's own vanity, like a reminder.

Victor's perfect hair and concern over it, and everything else about how he looked. As fussy and pointless, and impossible for Yuri to even pretend he or anyone human could emulate as it seemed on a daily basis. Yuri wasn't certain Victor knew how to look one hair out of place from perfect. Not in a suit and not in a single robe. Even now, curled into him, like this, while Yuri was running his fingers through it. Still soft, but with just a tiny bit more pressure against his head, and just a little less slowly, like he might not need to stop after each new millisecond.

When everything is pushing up toward the top of his chest and he doesn't have any clue how to catch it into words. It's just getting so big and so nebulously warm, curling up inside his chest and rising like a balloon, the way Victor is curled up against him, sinking and holding him where he is on the edge of this bed. Everywhere, everything, all at once.