It's not the words that catch hard in his chest (not that they don't have their own power, not that he doesn't know them, doesn't still reel to hear them, like this, pressed to his skin by lips buried against his neck). It's his tone. This tone that seems to find his ears by a brutually direct path straight through his chest and his heart first. That tone that is so wrong, and Yuri knows that tone.
Which is why, terrible as it is, maybe for a second he believes Victor in a way he can't entirely believe in the intensity of those eyes above him, icy blinding fire, or the laughter in the air, like maybe a bout of madness just swept through with the wind and might pass just as fast.
This isn't those. That is raw helpless inevitability laid on an altar. That is the way Yuri's head always says he'll lose, no matter how hard every other part of him desperately wants to win, or ever gets certain he can win, will show them, the world, Victor, himself. That is the way, even though that thought comes and goes, as Yuri's fingers tighten at the wrongness of that tone on these lips, what comes to mind suddenly isn't that either.
It's Stammi Vicino.
It's the feelings that filled him every time he watched Victor's performance of it last year.
It's those first beats of that sweeping music. It's the way the hands come to his chest, and Victor turns, curls, as almost hiding. It's the plantive beseech soon after on his one knee before he throws himself away to the side. His face turned skyward, gaze turned always in, his expression one of inescapable, soul deep, agony, for something lost that would not let you forget it and would not let you outrun it.
It had spoken to Yuri on such a visceral level. When he was only drowning darkness, and still--
For a disastrous second he wants to whisper, You couldn't. You saved me, before you even showed up.
What would Victor even do with that? Would he just graft to it with his camera bulb flash giddy arrogance, that was just as blinding, and then just as quick as a camera flash was over, leave it to his distant mild acceptance? Maybe it was still getting hits, that unintended capture of his skate of it, but that didn't make it any more or less, than one of a dozen videos just like it.
Yuri just one more trying to brush the shadows' edge of brilliance Victor cast.
When it's thinner than twilight's shift to whisper, "I know."
Victor loves him, loves their skates.
Even with his awkwardness and distance and inability to ever just be normal.
Victor loves him (wants him, doesn't want to hurt him). Victor loves him. Victor keeps saying it. Burned edges. Laughing smile. From laughed excuse to pained confession. Yuri doesn't know that he understands, everything that feels like is trying to push him apart and knit him together, that feels on the edge of making sense but, also, so far out of reach as the moon from the sun.
But he knows this, too. This harder part.
He's known this since he was twenty three, and eighteen, and twelve. Hopelessly and inescapably itself. Foolish and not enough, not deserving and painted on him as a passion, and it's never mattered, the way his depression couldn't keep him from returning to the ice, the way drops of water returned to the sea. He loves Victor, too.
Maybe like ... all of this, too. Maybe has for a while.
When everything is new, and just isn't at all somehow, too. All of it echoing so hard into everything that already came before.
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Date: 2017-05-11 07:31 pm (UTC)Which is why, terrible as it is, maybe for a second he believes Victor in a way he can't entirely believe in the intensity of those eyes above him, icy blinding fire, or the laughter in the air, like maybe a bout of madness just swept through with the wind and might pass just as fast.
This isn't those. That is raw helpless inevitability laid on an altar. That is the way Yuri's head always says he'll lose, no matter how hard every other part of him desperately wants to win, or ever gets certain he can win, will show them, the world, Victor, himself. That is the way, even though that thought comes and goes, as Yuri's fingers tighten at the wrongness of that tone on these lips, what comes to mind suddenly isn't that either.
It's Stammi Vicino.
It's the feelings that filled him every time he watched Victor's performance of it last year.
It's those first beats of that sweeping music. It's the way the hands come to his chest, and Victor turns, curls, as almost hiding. It's the plantive beseech soon after on his one knee before he throws himself away to the side. His face turned skyward, gaze turned always in, his expression one of inescapable, soul deep, agony, for something lost that would not let you forget it and would not let you outrun it.
It had spoken to Yuri on such a visceral level.
When he was only drowning darkness, and still--
You couldn't. You saved me, before you even showed up.
What would Victor even do with that? Would he just graft to it with his camera bulb flash giddy arrogance, that was just as blinding, and then just as quick as a camera flash was over, leave it to his distant mild acceptance? Maybe it was still getting hits, that unintended capture of his skate of it, but that didn't make it any more or less, than one of a dozen videos just like it.
Yuri just one more trying to brush the shadows' edge of brilliance Victor cast.
When it's thinner than twilight's shift to whisper, "I know."
Victor loves him, loves their skates.
Even with his awkwardness and distance and inability to ever just be normal.
Victor loves him (wants him, doesn't want to hurt him). Victor loves him. Victor keeps saying it. Burned edges. Laughing smile. From laughed excuse to pained confession. Yuri doesn't know that he understands, everything that feels like is trying to push him apart and knit him together, that feels on the edge of making sense but, also, so far out of reach as the moon from the sun.
But he knows this, too. This harder part.
He's known this since he was twenty three, and eighteen, and twelve. Hopelessly and inescapably itself. Foolish and not enough, not deserving and painted on him as a passion, and it's never mattered, the way his depression couldn't keep him from returning to the ice, the way drops of water returned to the sea. He loves Victor, too.
Maybe like ... all of this, too. Maybe has for a while.
When everything is new, and just isn't at all somehow, too.
All of it echoing so hard into everything that already came before.