It's soft. Simple. A prayer. Touching the dawn. Or any of those things he'd just compare Victor to.
The touch of his lips, like pressing against the skin of a bubble. Another popping in his head. Because. He's kissing Victor. Again. He is.
It's crazy how he gets here, before reminding himself, he's allowed to touch Victor, has been touching Victor.
That keeps telling him but don't stop everytime he does reach out, does do something. Victor. Tangled up in that rippling, expansive, unaware-absolutely aware thing, that wants to touch all of the face he's been staring at. Like it would be possible to brush his fingertips, and thumb -- and the dangerous, giddy slipped image of, his lips -- across all those pieces of Victor's face that make him more than any piece of irresistible art.
Victor is shifting and Yuri almost whimpers, a tendril of something like sliding through his ribs, impaling his lungs, an impossible almost whine of denied complaint, before he realizes it's not away. Victor's not pulling back. Not untangling Yuri's fingers. That Victor's shift has only moved him higher up and brought him even closer in.
When it's the brush off the oddest thought, spinning out, a leaf or a flower petal, sliding and gliding and spinning slowly on the breeze, on this touch: since when did Victor start listening to him?
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Date: 2017-05-02 11:51 am (UTC)Or any of those things he'd just compare Victor to.
The touch of his lips, like pressing against the skin of a bubble.
Another popping in his head. Because. He's kissing Victor. Again. He is.
It's crazy how he gets here, before reminding himself, he's allowed to touch Victor, has been touching Victor.
That keeps telling him but don't stop everytime he does reach out, does do something. Victor. Tangled up in that rippling, expansive, unaware-absolutely aware thing, that wants to touch all of the face he's been staring at. Like it would be possible to brush his fingertips, and thumb -- and the dangerous, giddy slipped image of, his lips -- across all those pieces of Victor's face that make him more than any piece of irresistible art.
Victor is shifting and Yuri almost whimpers, a tendril of something like sliding through his ribs, impaling his lungs, an impossible almost whine of denied complaint, before he realizes it's not away. Victor's not pulling back. Not untangling Yuri's fingers. That Victor's shift has only moved him higher up and brought him even closer in.
When it's the brush off the oddest thought, spinning out, a leaf or a flower petal, sliding and gliding and spinning slowly on the breeze, on this touch: since when did Victor start listening to him?