Yuri's looking at him like he's waiting for the punchline to the joke Victor just started, mouth pressing, eyes unbelieving. Like Victor might be lying. Like Victor might have said that without thinking it's true, for some incomprehensible reason clear only to Yuri, and Yuri's too-critical opinion of himself. "You don't think so?"
Palm slipping to the back of his head, thumb warm along his jaw, while Victor leans to nudge their foreheads together with a smile that's small but no less certain for it. "I do."
Has for so long he can't remember when he didn't, or if he didn't. He can't remember what his opinion of Yuri was from before the banquet, but he thinks he had thought it was a shame that Yuri's skating didn't match the potential that was obviously there, the few seconds of perfection that remained unmuddled even after his falls, his mistakes.
But it doesn't matter what he thought before –– there is only after and how it changed everything. "You've made me a fool."
Everyone he knows, or who knows him –– even the ones who figured him a fool well before any of this ever happened –– would agree with that. Dropping his career, leaving his home, flying to Japan without a single glance back over his shoulder: foolish. Thinking he could be a coach, and coax everything out of Yuri that he can see even just as a shadow of itself: even more so, possibly.
The way he has to lean to kiss the corner of Yuri's mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck: has there ever been such a fool as him who's lived? "Your eyes, and your mouth, and your hands ..."
Traced in light kisses across his skin. "The way you make music when you skate."
Like tonight, when it seemed like that waterfall of piano notes, glissades flooding up and down, came not from the speakers, but from Yuri himself, telling his story, his love story, the story of him and the ice and how he discovered love. The perfect rhythm of poetry. The exquisite precision of a ballerina en pointe. The soaring triumph of a soprano's aria: "Beautiful."
Pulling back enough to press a kiss to his mouth, before looking at him with this feeling, this mix of pride and helpless adoration all jumbled together, knotting and clearing and growing in his chest. "Didn't I say you seduced me?"
no subject
Yuri's looking at him like he's waiting for the punchline to the joke Victor just started, mouth pressing, eyes unbelieving. Like Victor might be lying. Like Victor might have said that without thinking it's true, for some incomprehensible reason clear only to Yuri, and Yuri's too-critical opinion of himself. "You don't think so?"
Palm slipping to the back of his head, thumb warm along his jaw, while Victor leans to nudge their foreheads together with a smile that's small but no less certain for it. "I do."
Has for so long he can't remember when he didn't, or if he didn't. He can't remember what his opinion of Yuri was from before the banquet, but he thinks he had thought it was a shame that Yuri's skating didn't match the potential that was obviously there, the few seconds of perfection that remained unmuddled even after his falls, his mistakes.
But it doesn't matter what he thought before –– there is only after and how it changed everything. "You've made me a fool."
Everyone he knows, or who knows him –– even the ones who figured him a fool well before any of this ever happened –– would agree with that. Dropping his career, leaving his home, flying to Japan without a single glance back over his shoulder: foolish. Thinking he could be a coach, and coax everything out of Yuri that he can see even just as a shadow of itself: even more so, possibly.
The way he has to lean to kiss the corner of Yuri's mouth, his cheek, his jaw, his ear, his neck: has there ever been such a fool as him who's lived? "Your eyes, and your mouth, and your hands ..."
Traced in light kisses across his skin. "The way you make music when you skate."
Like tonight, when it seemed like that waterfall of piano notes, glissades flooding up and down, came not from the speakers, but from Yuri himself, telling his story, his love story, the story of him and the ice and how he discovered love. The perfect rhythm of poetry. The exquisite precision of a ballerina en pointe. The soaring triumph of a soprano's aria: "Beautiful."
Pulling back enough to press a kiss to his mouth, before looking at him with this feeling, this mix of pride and helpless adoration all jumbled together, knotting and clearing and growing in his chest. "Didn't I say you seduced me?"