It's so gentle, this kiss, and he thinks he's going to break on it. Everything tightening all at once in a held breath, every nerve and cell and thought and heartbeat bending towards Yuri like light bends towards gravity, like a flower bends towards the sun. When has he ever cared so much about anything? When has he ever cared so little about absolutely everything left in the world, beside this?
Beside Yuri. Finally. Impossibly. In his arms, and –– when his fingers lift from the towel to his neck, cold palm against warm skin, and then slid into his hair at the back of his head –– under his hands. Bending towards him. Like Yuri's the flower, and Victor's the sun.
He doesn't know how it happened. Why, or when, or what it was, that made this different but not different, when Yuri feels the same but everything, everything has changed, and he still wants to know, wants to keep asking until something makes sense, even knowing it doesn't, won't. Can't, possibly. Maybe he'll never know. He's not sure it even matters, not really. All he has to be certain of is his own feelings, and he's known those now as old friends, old enemies. Old certainties, that now have to be questioned, thrown out, re-established, because here they are: Yuri's mouth soft as petals on his. Yuri's fingers in his hair, and his own sliding through Yuri's. The quiet of this room, only interrupted by the pandemonium inside his head, his chest. Real, at last. It must be: fantasy could never hurt this much.
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Date: 2017-05-02 05:49 pm (UTC)It's so gentle, this kiss, and he thinks he's going to break on it. Everything tightening all at once in a held breath, every nerve and cell and thought and heartbeat bending towards Yuri like light bends towards gravity, like a flower bends towards the sun. When has he ever cared so much about anything? When has he ever cared so little about absolutely everything left in the world, beside this?
Beside Yuri. Finally. Impossibly. In his arms, and –– when his fingers lift from the towel to his neck, cold palm against warm skin, and then slid into his hair at the back of his head –– under his hands. Bending towards him. Like Yuri's the flower, and Victor's the sun.
He doesn't know how it happened. Why, or when, or what it was, that made this different but not different, when Yuri feels the same but everything, everything has changed, and he still wants to know, wants to keep asking until something makes sense, even knowing it doesn't, won't. Can't, possibly. Maybe he'll never know. He's not sure it even matters, not really. All he has to be certain of is his own feelings, and he's known those now as old friends, old enemies. Old certainties, that now have to be questioned, thrown out, re-established, because here they are: Yuri's mouth soft as petals on his. Yuri's fingers in his hair, and his own sliding through Yuri's. The quiet of this room, only interrupted by the pandemonium inside his head, his chest. Real, at last. It must be: fantasy could never hurt this much.