It's not even a thought. The way Yuri's eyelids flicker three-quarters down, chest aching, when he leans, just a little, without even realizing he's doing that much, into that softest, snowflake falling, wing of a touch. Words aren't always a forte. The things they do. The things that own them. Their actions, and movements, out there on the ice. Even the pieces with words, they aren't singing them. They are, or they hope to be most, the expression of the soul of everything expressed in that music, words or no.
Yuri can feel the weight of his eyelids, heavier, drier, pushing them back up, from the hazy only momentarily mostly dark. Even heavy it's not as good as the sight in front of them. It can't be. From the eyes looking at his from his close, or the fingers trailing along his skin, redefining everything he's ever known about himself, decades obliterated and remade on the softest of fingerpads.
The touch of his lips. His hands. Everywhere. Arms. Laughter. Teasing. Even this unknowing but somehow still certain and serious solemnity.
He doesn't disbelieve Victor. Which isn't exactly the same as knowing how to belive it either. But believing Victor, even when he can't see where he's walking, is daily part and parcel of his life now. He believes in Victor more than he's believed in anyone in his entire life, his family (and himself) included. Victor's antics, and the faces those antics wear, are many, but he doesn't lie and he hasn't let Yuri fall yet.
"Some of what you said earlier." It's hard to find the words, when the only thought for a long second is the want to just follow those fingers back to the source. This suddenly wanting, suddenly brazen urge to push over toward Victor and just bury his face in Victor's shoulder ... or chest ... or neck. Making him blink away to below his face for a second. Stop gap. For swallowing. Trying to push it into thoughts.
"It wasn't all at once." Maybe it's easier not to look up. He feels foolish. Words grating against the fragile skin on all of this, and he's been so bad at them already. "It was throughout. When we were walking." There's a pause that only gets to a harder to say. "Here." Tries to reform for something collectively easier. Clearer. "It was--" No. It feels frustrating. "Most of them, you were talking about Eros, and the Short Program, the next day. Or I thought you were."
He was. He'd just. No one could blame Yuri for not seeing this, then, too, right?
That Victor was so drunk he'd never remember the night, and so then too drunk to think straight.
Or maybe everyone else in the world would have jumped at it, like they would never have needed to be kissed three times before realizing they should be kissing Victor Nikiforov of all people back, or have ever considered whether it meant things it didn't. There were those who probably wouldn't have cared one way or the other against Victor's hands, and Victor's mouth. Whether he was too drunk, and whether it mattered if it mattered at all by dawn, or tomorrow, or in a week. (Or at the end of December.)
Somehow he doesn't like that thought. It's a small cold knot in his stomach searching that face at the thought. Not the thought about other people -- not that he loves that -- that part has been as obvious in the long term of his being Victor's fan, decades before he was Victor's student, and his skater (... and his whatever this is). It's the other part that knots. The other side of the equation entirely. Or the middle of it.
He doesn't like the idea of anyone who doesn't also appreciate the rest of it. The equally annoying and endearing columns of his daily life. Of Victor.
no subject
It's not even a thought. The way Yuri's eyelids flicker three-quarters down, chest aching, when he leans, just a little, without even realizing he's doing that much, into that softest, snowflake falling, wing of a touch. Words aren't always a forte. The things they do. The things that own them. Their actions, and movements, out there on the ice. Even the pieces with words, they aren't singing them. They are, or they hope to be most, the expression of the soul of everything expressed in that music, words or no.
Yuri can feel the weight of his eyelids, heavier, drier, pushing them back up, from the hazy only momentarily mostly dark. Even heavy it's not as good as the sight in front of them. It can't be. From the eyes looking at his from his close, or the fingers trailing along his skin, redefining everything he's ever known about himself, decades obliterated and remade on the softest of fingerpads.
The touch of his lips. His hands. Everywhere. Arms. Laughter. Teasing.
Even this unknowing but somehow still certain and serious solemnity.
He doesn't disbelieve Victor. Which isn't exactly the same as knowing how to belive it either. But believing Victor, even when he can't see where he's walking, is daily part and parcel of his life now. He believes in Victor more than he's believed in anyone in his entire life, his family (and himself) included. Victor's antics, and the faces those antics wear, are many, but he doesn't lie and he hasn't let Yuri fall yet.
"Some of what you said earlier." It's hard to find the words, when the only thought for a long second is the want to just follow those fingers back to the source. This suddenly wanting, suddenly brazen urge to push over toward Victor and just bury his face in Victor's shoulder ... or chest ... or neck. Making him blink away to below his face for a second. Stop gap. For swallowing. Trying to push it into thoughts.
"It wasn't all at once." Maybe it's easier not to look up. He feels foolish. Words grating against the fragile skin on all of this, and he's been so bad at them already. "It was throughout. When we were walking." There's a pause that only gets to a harder to say. "Here." Tries to reform for something collectively easier. Clearer. "It was--" No. It feels frustrating. "Most of them, you were talking about Eros, and the Short Program, the next day. Or I thought you were."
He was. He'd just. No one could blame Yuri for not seeing this, then, too, right?
That Victor was so drunk he'd never remember the night, and so then too drunk to think straight.
Or maybe everyone else in the world would have jumped at it, like they would never have needed to be kissed three times before realizing they should be kissing Victor Nikiforov of all people back, or have ever considered whether it meant things it didn't. There were those who probably wouldn't have cared one way or the other against Victor's hands, and Victor's mouth. Whether he was too drunk, and whether it mattered if it mattered at all by dawn, or tomorrow, or in a week. (Or at the end of December.)
Somehow he doesn't like that thought. It's a small cold knot in his stomach searching that face at the thought. Not the thought about other people -- not that he loves that -- that part has been as obvious in the long term of his being Victor's fan, decades before he was Victor's student, and his skater (... and his whatever this is). It's the other part that knots. The other side of the equation entirely. Or the middle of it.
He doesn't like the idea of anyone who doesn't also appreciate the rest of it.
The equally annoying and endearing columns of his daily life. Of Victor.