Yuri's fingers stop running through Victor's hair when he moves. Not pulling away, but letting his hand cup Victor's head where it had been, curled over his hair, while Victor seems to be shifting it to look up. Even when the newness of something as simple as that, just leaving his head there, cradled against Victor's head, just holding itself or Victor's head, while Victor moves, is something so small and so new it feels like it wobbles about, coltishly new, like spring and newborn animals, in his chest.
He doesn't seem to get there. Upward. To make it to looking up at Yuri for answering, and Yuri forgets it for a flood of surprising warmth at Victor's first words. When his head ducks, and he's blinking, even when it wouldn't help him in the slightest to avoid anything, given Victor is right beneath his face already, but it's habit. He can't stop it, and his heart is giving that same pleasantly painful, impossible but real, swoop and stumble in his chest, that leaves warmth at the top of his cheeks and pooled in his stomach between Victor's hand on the skin of his back, and Victor's face pressed to his stomach through his shirt.
He feels good? Him? When he can't even stop touching Victor's hair, getting lost on the feeling of it slip, slip, sliding soft and silky between his fingers? Doesn't want to stop any second he does, has, can't stop? When Victor is the one who is perfect, even more this close up, his skin as soft as petals over dense, lean muscles? When Yuri's entire body seems to have become non-existent except for where Victor's face, and Victor's hair, head, and Victor's hand are making him truly real and still solidly here? He? Feels? Good? He? Shouldn't? Stop?
Something as delighted as bashful as ridiculous just colors through all the light in his chest, the sputtered thoughts trying and failing to form and hold in his head, to pull him away, to douse it out with a whisper of cold. The warmth in his face. If his hands weren't busy, and Victor weren't in his lap, he thinks he'd be pressing his hands to face. It might actually help something that Victor keeps talking, and the next bit has more sensible bits scattered in it, making his brain reach for some of the sense.
At least until Victor is suddenly leaning into him, all but headbutting him in a fashion all too like his comparing Victor to Maccachin earlier. As though somehow he could get Yuri to move, to lay down, if he just prods at him, or tips him over, from that spot, in his stomach, without actually coming off of him, or even looking. At Yuri, or the bed, or the floor, or anything. It makes him remember being lowered on the bed and kissed earlier, but that does stop the laugh that comes out because of what is happening.
"You're going to make me fall off the bed." How is it, his own voice makes that sound so funny?
As though there's nothing better in the world than that eventuality? Even though it would hurt a lot, if he tipped backward off?
It reminds him, without warning, of a million moments strung together, his own rare but true laughter like a golden string tying them together, caught somewhere between Victor and Hasestsu and Maccachin and the roll of too many unexpected golden summer days, beach trips and days trips, to truly lay the absolutely familiar, absolutely loved, feeling to any one day or one moment.
no subject
He doesn't seem to get there. Upward. To make it to looking up at Yuri for answering, and Yuri forgets it for a flood of surprising warmth at Victor's first words. When his head ducks, and he's blinking, even when it wouldn't help him in the slightest to avoid anything, given Victor is right beneath his face already, but it's habit. He can't stop it, and his heart is giving that same pleasantly painful, impossible but real, swoop and stumble in his chest, that leaves warmth at the top of his cheeks and pooled in his stomach between Victor's hand on the skin of his back, and Victor's face pressed to his stomach through his shirt.
He feels good? Him? When he can't even stop touching Victor's hair, getting lost on the feeling of it slip, slip, sliding soft and silky between his fingers? Doesn't want to stop any second he does, has, can't stop? When Victor is the one who is perfect, even more this close up, his skin as soft as petals over dense, lean muscles? When Yuri's entire body seems to have become non-existent except for where Victor's face, and Victor's hair, head, and Victor's hand are making him truly real and still solidly here? He? Feels? Good? He? Shouldn't? Stop?
Something as delighted as bashful as ridiculous just colors through all the light in his chest, the sputtered thoughts trying and failing to form and hold in his head, to pull him away, to douse it out with a whisper of cold. The warmth in his face. If his hands weren't busy, and Victor weren't in his lap, he thinks he'd be pressing his hands to face. It might actually help something that Victor keeps talking, and the next bit has more sensible bits scattered in it, making his brain reach for some of the sense.
At least until Victor is suddenly leaning into him, all but headbutting him in a fashion all too like his comparing Victor to Maccachin earlier. As though somehow he could get Yuri to move, to lay down, if he just prods at him, or tips him over, from that spot, in his stomach, without actually coming off of him, or even looking. At Yuri, or the bed, or the floor, or anything. It makes him remember being lowered on the bed and kissed earlier, but that does stop the laugh that comes out because of what is happening.
"You're going to make me fall off the bed." How is it, his own voice makes that sound so funny?
As though there's nothing better in the world than that eventuality? Even though it would hurt a lot, if he tipped backward off?
It reminds him, without warning, of a million moments strung together, his own rare but true laughter like a golden string tying them together, caught somewhere between Victor and Hasestsu and Maccachin and the roll of too many unexpected golden summer days, beach trips and days trips, to truly lay the absolutely familiar, absolutely loved, feeling to any one day or one moment.