He does, though. Start letting go. Victor. The fingers against his bare skin coming off, drawing so much attention to his skin there, finally feeling the air and his shirt, while still pulsing with the touch just lost, the heat evaporating faster than his breath or attention can try to hold even the flicker of the memory of it.
It's for a good reasons, Yuri realizes, when he's looking down the same way Victor's head is turning from his neck, not touching that anymore, too, a strained ache that joins the other, and so they are both looking down as Victor's now-free hand finds the ice pack and holds it against him instead. There's an insane second where, as Victor shifts again, to look up at him, Yuri is devastatingly certain in every cell of his body, he'd rather have Victor touching him than Victor holding the ice pack touching him.
But it only exists for the flaring brilliant ache of a second, before everything, everything, slides completely.
Parts like the sand or the sea dividing on a line, between everything that was only seconds ago secure, and this, now, where Victor is staring up at him, so warm, so beautiful.
Inescapably and impossibly beautiful. Pushing into all of his thoughts. Filling all of his chest. With Victor's face. The way his hair looks graceful and perfect, even for being mussed from being pressed into Yuri's stomach and fluffed from his fingers. The way his face is just ... perfect, high cheek bones, and graceful hollow of cheeks that drops to his perfect smiling mouth, all over looked the wide smooth set of his half-obscured forehead.
The delicate summer white peach of his skin, the silver fall of his bangs, as liquid as it is like half a layer of ice, over the warmest sunlit blue eyes, komorebi of the sea, of the early winter sky, just as hypnotic in the barren open as flitting, like a dazzling streamer, behind strands of shifting hair.
Yuri's not even sure his body knows how to work.
That his heart has forgotten how to beat and his lungs how to expand or compress.
There's nothing but the stunning face in front of him, and blindingly pleasedness Victor looks. So beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Beyond any of the words that do and don't work in the two languages he has, or even the spare pocket change of Victor's own. There was no wonder why this face ensnared a universe of souls. Yuri's whole body, soul, fought against the flickering reality trying to turn itself back on in his head. Losing even in the realization of anything other.
His heart returns with something of a stab of motion -- or maybe it's that he returns, and it's been marching to this sudden escalation the whole time? He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to look away. Even though he's supposed to be answering. Just agreed he should move, hadn't he? That he should be treating his body better? That he needed to think about skating tomorrow?
Like there was a tomorrow. A more than this second, more than just wanting this. Wanting to lean in, to kiss the light that shining up from the inside of Victor, getting all over him.
When his mouth says, "You're in the way," but it sounds wrong in his ears.
![[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: 2017-05-01 04:50 am (UTC)It's for a good reasons, Yuri realizes, when he's looking down the same way Victor's head is turning from his neck, not touching that anymore, too, a strained ache that joins the other, and so they are both looking down as Victor's now-free hand finds the ice pack and holds it against him instead. There's an insane second where, as Victor shifts again, to look up at him, Yuri is devastatingly certain in every cell of his body, he'd rather have Victor touching him than Victor holding the ice pack touching him.
But it only exists for the flaring brilliant ache of a second, before everything, everything, slides completely.
Parts like the sand or the sea dividing on a line,
between everything that was only seconds ago secure,
and this, now, where Victor is staring up at him, so warm, so beautiful.
Inescapably and impossibly beautiful. Pushing into all of his thoughts. Filling all of his chest. With Victor's face. The way his hair looks graceful and perfect, even for being mussed from being pressed into Yuri's stomach and fluffed from his fingers. The way his face is just ... perfect, high cheek bones, and graceful hollow of cheeks that drops to his perfect smiling mouth, all over looked the wide smooth set of his half-obscured forehead.
The delicate summer white peach of his skin, the silver fall of his bangs, as liquid as it is like half a layer of ice, over the warmest sunlit blue eyes, komorebi of the sea, of the early winter sky, just as hypnotic in the barren open as flitting, like a dazzling streamer, behind strands of shifting hair.
Yuri's not even sure his body knows how to work.
That his heart has forgotten how to beat and his lungs how to expand or compress.
There's nothing but the stunning face in front of him, and blindingly pleasedness Victor looks. So beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Beyond any of the words that do and don't work in the two languages he has, or even the spare pocket change of Victor's own. There was no wonder why this face ensnared a universe of souls. Yuri's whole body, soul, fought against the flickering reality trying to turn itself back on in his head. Losing even in the realization of anything other.
His heart returns with something of a stab of motion -- or maybe it's that he returns, and it's been marching to this sudden escalation the whole time? He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to look away. Even though he's supposed to be answering. Just agreed he should move, hadn't he? That he should be treating his body better? That he needed to think about skating tomorrow?
Like there was a tomorrow. A more than this second, more than just wanting this.
Wanting to lean in, to kiss the light that shining up from the inside of Victor, getting all over him.
When his mouth says, "You're in the way," but it sounds wrong in his ears.
Too distant. Too soft. Too breathless. Too --