His thumb pauses in its slow track up and down the back of Yuri's hand, before it lifts and sinks into his hair with the rest of his fingers as he tries to think back. "Not much."
They arrived here already a little late in the evening, and he was hungry and tired and impatient to get some food, impatient to get away from the reporters, impatient to get Yuri to himself. "I remember we went to get hot pot."
And that Yakov didn't come. More than that: Yakov said Victor made him feel sick, that he was playing pretend-coach, and maybe that hit a little harder than it should have.
(He knows he's been drinking too much, occasionally, these last few months. But what else can he do? There's no other release, no other way to numb it all, no other path for this energy to take.) "We got some food, and I had that rice wine." That image is still clear, but all he really remembers is Yuri's dejected face across the table, and the steaming food between them. He doesn't recall what the restaurant looked like, or what happened after. He thinks he remembers it being unbearably hot, but it's winter here in Shanghai, so that can't be right.
And then, nothing. There's a slight, frustrated lift of his shoulders, hand slipping further back through his hair like he might be able to grip the memory and tug it out of his unhelpful head. "We walked back here together. That's all."
And now Yuri's saying ... saying ...
Ice crystals growing in his stomach, making him feel sick, almost like the hangover he didn't have yesterday morning decided to wait until now to strike. "I didn't do anything, did I?" It's a horrifying thought, that maybe he had. Tried something with Yuri that Yuri didn't want. Forced ... anything. The very thought makes him feel lower than pond scum. "I didn't ––"
But he doesn't know how to ask it, how much he should despise himself, how truly low a person he really is. What words are there to ask if he tried to make Yuri do anything that he knew Yuri didn't want? It all comes in a rushing, desperate tumble, searching for absolution he no longer knows if he deserves.
no subject
They arrived here already a little late in the evening, and he was hungry and tired and impatient to get some food, impatient to get away from the reporters, impatient to get Yuri to himself. "I remember we went to get hot pot."
And that Yakov didn't come. More than that: Yakov said Victor made him feel sick, that he was playing pretend-coach, and maybe that hit a little harder than it should have.
(He knows he's been drinking too much, occasionally, these last few months. But what else can he do? There's no other release, no other way to numb it all, no other path for this energy to take.) "We got some food, and I had that rice wine." That image is still clear, but all he really remembers is Yuri's dejected face across the table, and the steaming food between them. He doesn't recall what the restaurant looked like, or what happened after. He thinks he remembers it being unbearably hot, but it's winter here in Shanghai, so that can't be right.
And then, nothing. There's a slight, frustrated lift of his shoulders, hand slipping further back through his hair like he might be able to grip the memory and tug it out of his unhelpful head. "We walked back here together. That's all."
And now Yuri's saying ... saying ...
Ice crystals growing in his stomach, making him feel sick, almost like the hangover he didn't have yesterday morning decided to wait until now to strike. "I didn't do anything, did I?" It's a horrifying thought, that maybe he had. Tried something with Yuri that Yuri didn't want. Forced ... anything. The very thought makes him feel lower than pond scum. "I didn't ––"
But he doesn't know how to ask it, how much he should despise himself, how truly low a person he really is. What words are there to ask if he tried to make Yuri do anything that he knew Yuri didn't want? It all comes in a rushing, desperate tumble, searching for absolution he no longer knows if he deserves.
"To you, I didn't do anything to you, did I?"