Victor doesn't back away and he doesn't take his word back. Not either of them, in English or Russian. Not that he's entirely certain it's the same, just that it's not taken back either. It's not the first phrases of Russian to get swallowed in this room, into silence or sound or something wholly more ... physical. Especially not when Yuri can feels his cheeks heating for Victor correcting his, apparently, incredibly obvious knowledge to the contrary.
When his forehead settles against Yuri's and his eyes are even closer, making Yuri's heart ache fiercely against the bonds keeping it there in his chest only. He can't imagine that anything could make Victor into a fool -- but that's a lie as much as it is the truth, when dozens of moments slide through, of Victor in Japan, nowhere near the ice, a barrage of faces, antics, whines, wheedling, laughing, being sillier than a child -- none of it really sticking, because Victor hasn't stopped talking.
Has started kissing his face, his skin, making Yuri shiver and his fingers tighten, while he starts intoning a list.
Like helping Yuri to know he had body parts was going to help. Even though the whole part where his skin was giving a soft swell of surprised warmth every place his lips landed, isn't hurting the shorting out between his ability to form those thoughts. The impossibility to not list toward each touch. He can guess well enough the point of the list, but he's not sure it helps him to understand at all.
Not certain there's a way to translate words in clear English, or an idea that translates just as fine in either of his, to anything that makes sense in his brain.
That Victor thinks his skating is beautiful on the ice is something he'd come to grudgingly accept, then recognize, then almost hunger for the approval and celebratory sight of. He knows. It's the only reason this whole year even happened. That Victor saw all of this in him, still there. Somehow. That he came and made it flourish into something so much more.
But that Victor thinks that about him. Him. Just him. Sitting here. That seems ludicrous, even when it's splintering on the lips against his skin. Falling apart, with all denial and logic, when Victor is kissing his lips, again, and his whole body presses toward that on an instinct it can't be possible to have ingrained so soon, can it?
"Yes," Yuri says, quietly, like it's a recitation that he had heard, memorized. Both times. Whether he believed it or not, he'd never have forgotten it. It'd gotten looped into his dreams, and Eros the first time already, and if he hadn't been busy with so much else last night, it probably would have been there, too. He couldn't even imagine what his head might do with all of this now.
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Date: 2017-05-03 02:58 pm (UTC)Victor doesn't back away and he doesn't take his word back. Not either of them, in English or Russian. Not that he's entirely certain it's the same, just that it's not taken back either. It's not the first phrases of Russian to get swallowed in this room, into silence or sound or something wholly more ... physical. Especially not when Yuri can feels his cheeks heating for Victor correcting his, apparently, incredibly obvious knowledge to the contrary.
When his forehead settles against Yuri's and his eyes are even closer, making Yuri's heart ache fiercely against the bonds keeping it there in his chest only. He can't imagine that anything could make Victor into a fool -- but that's a lie as much as it is the truth, when dozens of moments slide through, of Victor in Japan, nowhere near the ice, a barrage of faces, antics, whines, wheedling, laughing, being sillier than a child -- none of it really sticking, because Victor hasn't stopped talking.
Has started kissing his face, his skin, making Yuri shiver and his fingers tighten, while he starts intoning a list.
Like helping Yuri to know he had body parts was going to help. Even though the whole part where his skin was giving a soft swell of surprised warmth every place his lips landed, isn't hurting the shorting out between his ability to form those thoughts. The impossibility to not list toward each touch. He can guess well enough the point of the list, but he's not sure it helps him to understand at all.
Not certain there's a way to translate words in clear English,
or an idea that translates just as fine in either of his,
to anything that makes sense in his brain.
That Victor thinks his skating is beautiful on the ice is something he'd come to grudgingly accept, then recognize, then almost hunger for the approval and celebratory sight of. He knows. It's the only reason this whole year even happened. That Victor saw all of this in him, still there. Somehow. That he came and made it flourish into something so much more.
But that Victor thinks that about him. Him. Just him. Sitting here. That seems ludicrous, even when it's splintering on the lips against his skin. Falling apart, with all denial and logic, when Victor is kissing his lips, again, and his whole body presses toward that on an instinct it can't be possible to have ingrained so soon, can it?
"Yes," Yuri says, quietly, like it's a recitation that he had heard, memorized. Both times. Whether he believed it or not, he'd never have forgotten it. It'd gotten looped into his dreams, and Eros the first time already, and if he hadn't been busy with so much else last night, it probably would have been there, too. He couldn't even imagine what his head might do with all of this now.