That is even less real hurt, real shock. He can compare it today so easily now. The look on Victor's face when he started crying. The look on Victor's face when he started and then kept on yelling, while still crying. Those were shocked, if nothing like hurt. They gave birth to the conflicted, heavy silence Victor had held the whole rest of the time until he skated.
Not this artful wounding that read like a play, with Victor's hand to his heart and his betrayed look one shade away from anything. From smiling and laughing, again, or from falling into the bed in a despairing demonstration of how he'd been pierced to the core and was going to die from a handful of words suddenly.
The sigh does almost make Yuri roll his eyes, maybe he even gets close, if there's a tug at one side of his mouth he can't stop. He doesn't know when that started, tonight and in the last year. The ever unending proof that Yuri could never have been unaffected by Victor, or so much time with Victor, any of the acts he puts on. Predictable or not. Even if suddenly in this place where Yuri's never been.
With Victor this close, and the faint shiver that comes when Victor isn't touching him and is moving away, giving the Yuri the chance to reclaim the ice pack fallen to the bed covers by his hip more than on it, and finally stretch out his legs. Even with the heart still thudding along in his chest steadily unsteady when he can take in a breath of air that isn't Victor (and not really be certain he wants that ... just as much as it's relieving, reorienting, too).
These movements all with small glances in Victor's direction, the small distance between them, while his mind has to ask (still flushed, still making sure he isn't vanishing, isn't going somewhere, anywhere else for having let go) when did he become so stupidly fond of this man and his antics? As much as his skating, and who he was?
How far back did that go? Had it been the same thing as this always and he'd just called it that? Or was it, that this had been one of the steps that brought him to this time and feeling?
Was it both? Was that even possible?
When the whole world of possible seemed to have a different definition as he laid down again (trying to not feel it like ice cubes gathering in his stomach), stealing back the same self-pillow he had once already, with the faint curve of a smile still there. Watching for what Victor might do or say next.
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Date: 2017-05-05 12:15 pm (UTC)Not this artful wounding that read like a play, with Victor's hand to his heart and his betrayed look one shade away from anything. From smiling and laughing, again, or from falling into the bed in a despairing demonstration of how he'd been pierced to the core and was going to die from a handful of words suddenly.
The sigh does almost make Yuri roll his eyes, maybe he even gets close, if there's a tug at one side of his mouth he can't stop. He doesn't know when that started, tonight and in the last year. The ever unending proof that Yuri could never have been unaffected by Victor, or so much time with Victor, any of the acts he puts on. Predictable or not. Even if suddenly in this place where Yuri's never been.
With Victor this close, and the faint shiver that comes when Victor isn't touching him and is moving away, giving the Yuri the chance to reclaim the ice pack fallen to the bed covers by his hip more than on it, and finally stretch out his legs. Even with the heart still thudding along in his chest steadily unsteady when he can take in a breath of air that isn't Victor (and not really be certain he wants that ... just as much as it's relieving, reorienting, too).
These movements all with small glances in Victor's direction, the small distance between them, while his mind has to ask (still flushed, still making sure he isn't vanishing, isn't going somewhere, anywhere else for having let go) when did he become so stupidly fond of this man and his antics? As much as his skating, and who he was?
How far back did that go? Had it been the same thing as this always and he'd just called it that?
Or was it, that this had been one of the steps that brought him to this time and feeling?
Was it both? Was that even possible?
When the whole world of possible seemed to have a different definition as he laid down again (trying to not feel it like ice cubes gathering in his stomach), stealing back the same self-pillow he had once already, with the faint curve of a smile still there. Watching for what Victor might do or say next.