Victor's quiet makes a bubble of the room, shrinking and expanding everywhere around him.
The room lights creating a red-orange glow even through his closed eyelids. The stolid steadiness of bed everywhere beneath him, and the even more solid steadiness of Victor collapsed across most of his chest. The way he can feel that with expansion and decompression of his ribs. The weight of Victor. Very real. Very truly there. Breathing against his skin, chest expanding and retracting into his own, and not saying a word.
Not contradicting it, leaving those words to echo in Yuri's ears and the room, while Yuri tries to shove at the two halves of his head, from his own words anywhere else but here. Even though his body retains the tingle of it all, even as his muscles finally start giving into this stillness of Victor, of himself, of everything. Even though his heart can't argue with the directness of the logic either.
Tomorrow, or a week from now, or six. Even if now seemed insane, and tomorrow morning, this all still being here, even more, even if Victor said it would be -- still here, still real -- thinking of it existing to a week, and a place with hanging, dancing lights, thinking of it existing to the GFP, and up to the drop off point of the entire current path of his life. To the space where everything was ink black and unwritten, as riddled with swallowing void-like uncertainty as the beginning of this year.
But so much awareness of how it felt. Losing what he'd gained this year. With each new day.
Losing the one thing he'd given a speech saying he knew he didn't want to lose. But on the dot from when the end of this whole bargain would be. This .... thing ; Victor ; him ; them ... changing again.
The inverted echo of another loss coming to come.
He's glad his eyes are closed when Victor's words finally come, and it's strange that his first thought is to question Victor's voice more than his words. Fingers curling faintly firmer on the skin and bones beneath them instinctively, even when his brow wrinkles a little and his eyelids crack just barely at the question of whether Victor, of all people, suddenly sounds uncertain. Does he even have a second of anything to compare that, too? Could he even if he did?
When it moors him back to the room. Victor's voice brushing air against his shoulder and his neck, and Victor who has grown heavy on him, heavy on heavy bones, against the dark beneath his eyelids, tangling with the glow there, and hooking into and dragging down everything in his skin, slowly again. Even when he orients to those words. That voice. Victor. He's not sure he can imagine that, Victor actually hurting him, aside from the jut of cliff coming, with so many places to stumble and fall before he even gets there.
The idea is so strange, after all these months, that all he can truly latch on to is the last word for a second. Thoughtlessness. The way it makes him want to make some kind of poking joke, about the roughness of how Victor, on any or every average day, talked or expressed any ill feeling he had about Yuri's actions, or Yuri's skating, or Yuri's interaction with the world. That that hurts. But even if that pricks still, exhausted levity to both sides, he's gotten more used to that razored bluntness, too.
That even outisde of it Yuri feels so sensitive sometimes a bubble or breeze could do the same. But it doesn't really form. A joke. Any idea how to phrase it even to any real words.
Instead, Yuri just nods, and lifts his other arm up to wrap over Victor's shoulder again, tightening gently there.
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Date: 2017-05-11 12:09 pm (UTC)Victor's quiet makes a bubble of the room, shrinking and expanding everywhere around him.
The room lights creating a red-orange glow even through his closed eyelids. The stolid steadiness of bed everywhere beneath him, and the even more solid steadiness of Victor collapsed across most of his chest. The way he can feel that with expansion and decompression of his ribs. The weight of Victor. Very real. Very truly there. Breathing against his skin, chest expanding and retracting into his own, and not saying a word.
Not contradicting it, leaving those words to echo in Yuri's ears and the room, while Yuri tries to shove at the two halves of his head, from his own words anywhere else but here. Even though his body retains the tingle of it all, even as his muscles finally start giving into this stillness of Victor, of himself, of everything. Even though his heart can't argue with the directness of the logic either.
Tomorrow, or a week from now, or six. Even if now seemed insane, and tomorrow morning, this all still being here, even more, even if Victor said it would be -- still here, still real -- thinking of it existing to a week, and a place with hanging, dancing lights, thinking of it existing to the GFP, and up to the drop off point of the entire current path of his life. To the space where everything was ink black and unwritten, as riddled with swallowing void-like uncertainty as the beginning of this year.
But so much awareness of how it felt. Losing what he'd gained this year. With each new day.
Losing the one thing he'd given a speech saying he knew he didn't want to lose.
But on the dot from when the end of this whole bargain would be.
This .... thing ; Victor ; him ; them ... changing again.
The inverted echo of another loss coming to come.
He's glad his eyes are closed when Victor's words finally come, and it's strange that his first thought is to question Victor's voice more than his words. Fingers curling faintly firmer on the skin and bones beneath them instinctively, even when his brow wrinkles a little and his eyelids crack just barely at the question of whether Victor, of all people, suddenly sounds uncertain. Does he even have a second of anything to compare that, too? Could he even if he did?
When it moors him back to the room. Victor's voice brushing air against his shoulder and his neck, and Victor who has grown heavy on him, heavy on heavy bones, against the dark beneath his eyelids, tangling with the glow there, and hooking into and dragging down everything in his skin, slowly again. Even when he orients to those words. That voice. Victor. He's not sure he can imagine that, Victor actually hurting him, aside from the jut of cliff coming, with so many places to stumble and fall before he even gets there.
The idea is so strange, after all these months, that all he can truly latch on to is the last word for a second. Thoughtlessness. The way it makes him want to make some kind of poking joke, about the roughness of how Victor, on any or every average day, talked or expressed any ill feeling he had about Yuri's actions, or Yuri's skating, or Yuri's interaction with the world. That that hurts. But even if that pricks still, exhausted levity to both sides, he's gotten more used to that razored bluntness, too.
That even outisde of it Yuri feels so sensitive sometimes a bubble or breeze could do the same.
But it doesn't really form. A joke. Any idea how to phrase it even to any real words.
Instead, Yuri just nods, and lifts his other arm up to wrap over Victor's shoulder again, tightening gently there.