What is it to say that with his eyes open, with easy dots and lines, that would clearly draw the exact characters, with several of the same said words, same said sentences, explanations for bits he has to take on faith were somewhere close to the Russian he didn't know and couldn't remember or repeat for the life of him, syllables unyielding that had become burning fire and whispered trailing smoke, in a thick Russian Victor almost never slipped into;
That all of that might make sense, on paper, in the painted line of brush strokes, but that this isn't the same. That just because his eyes open -- and how very hard it is to do that, just keep his eyes open, when Victor is touching him, like this, this soft, talking this soft, shifting closer, touching him more, eyelids trying to drift, his body mooring like a magnet to the closer and closer dip of the mattress as Victor shiftss closer, never second guessing his own movement -- that doesn't make it make actual sense. "That, maybe, you weren't."
That maybe he had meant it. Trying to kiss Yuri in the restaurant, familiarly giddy and not entirely familiarly drunk and then absolutely nothing like familiar apologetic, quiet, still, afraid, ashamed. Phichit's picture flashes into his head for the first time in what must be a day and half. Since his fears what people would have assumed. Victor's blurred, slice of eyes, and Yuri's shocked terror at Victor, flabberghasted betrayal from Phichit for not even helping Yuri, only himself to a selfie of the night's new antics.
He was an idiot, was what he thought. Even while Victor's fingers trailing gentle sparks across his cheek, and small dots against the shell of his ears, where fingertips brushed back his probably-now mess of dry hair. Two things. An idiot, and a mess. And absolutely missed any of this when it first showed up. When Victor first ... whatever this, however it. With several of the same said words etched on his heart, in his eyes, as on the skin at the base of his neck, about him, with no other comparison in sight.
"It probably didn't help that I seemed to frustrate you a lot." The dizzy tilted whirl of that walk home. The shouting in the restaurant. The arguments and stopping on the sidewalk. The sly barbed comments from Victor with edges he couldn't help feeling. The way everything he said, everything he did was only wrong, wrong, wrong. Trying to take care of Victor which seemed to only earn annoyance or wary threat. The occasional compliance after the newest apology. "I don't think I helped much. With anything."
Not in the way he should have, but he'd meant more: "I kept saying all the wrong things."
Like tonight, isn't on his tongue, but it burns in his chest and his mind, behind the semi-closed set of his eyes.
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Date: 2017-05-08 12:28 pm (UTC)That all of that might make sense, on paper, in the painted line of brush strokes, but that this isn't the same. That just because his eyes open -- and how very hard it is to do that, just keep his eyes open, when Victor is touching him, like this, this soft, talking this soft, shifting closer, touching him more, eyelids trying to drift, his body mooring like a magnet to the closer and closer dip of the mattress as Victor shiftss closer, never second guessing his own movement -- that doesn't make it make actual sense. "That, maybe, you weren't."
That maybe he had meant it. Trying to kiss Yuri in the restaurant, familiarly giddy and not entirely familiarly drunk and then absolutely nothing like familiar apologetic, quiet, still, afraid, ashamed. Phichit's picture flashes into his head for the first time in what must be a day and half. Since his fears what people would have assumed. Victor's blurred, slice of eyes, and Yuri's shocked terror at Victor, flabberghasted betrayal from Phichit for not even helping Yuri, only himself to a selfie of the night's new antics.
He was an idiot, was what he thought. Even while Victor's fingers trailing gentle sparks across his cheek, and small dots against the shell of his ears, where fingertips brushed back his probably-now mess of dry hair. Two things. An idiot, and a mess. And absolutely missed any of this when it first showed up. When Victor first ... whatever this, however it. With several of the same said words etched on his heart, in his eyes, as on the skin at the base of his neck, about him, with no other comparison in sight.
"It probably didn't help that I seemed to frustrate you a lot." The dizzy tilted whirl of that walk home. The shouting in the restaurant. The arguments and stopping on the sidewalk. The sly barbed comments from Victor with edges he couldn't help feeling. The way everything he said, everything he did was only wrong, wrong, wrong. Trying to take care of Victor which seemed to only earn annoyance or wary threat. The occasional compliance after the newest apology. "I don't think I helped much. With anything."
Not in the way he should have, but he'd meant more: "I kept saying all the wrong things."
Like tonight, isn't on his tongue, but it burns in his chest and his mind, behind the semi-closed set of his eyes.