It's hard to say how long he would spend stuck in thoughts of last year, or even just last week, without being tugged out of them, but the answer is probably too long. it's all over and done with, and he won, in the end. So what does it matter?
Except it does. Matter. It matters that Yuri is here in his arms, after all these months, willing and wanting. It matters that he's finally had the chance to say what he feels, everything that's been in his head and heart for longer than he'd care to admit. It matters that he can touch Yuri, like this, now.
And it matters that Yuri touches him, back. That Yuri's fingers unfurl against the back of his neck, and he holds his breath for fear that doing even that much, even taking a breath, would scare him away, before the pad of Yuri's thumb is skating over his skin, sensitive at his hairline, being followed by goosebumps that vanish almost as soon as they disappear. "That feels good."
Yuri touching him. Yuri stroking him, the back of his neck, the edge of his hairline, right over the cluster of nerves that light up over and over again, every time Yuri's thumb slips over them, no matter how light. It feels good to have Yuri hold onto him. It feels good to have Yuri's chest beneath his, and Yuri's neck against his nose and mouth.
It feels good to have Yuri in a way he'd given up ever thinking was possible, and all that old wistfulness and longing gets brushed gently away, like cobwebs Yuri's banishing with the sweep of his fingers, the warmth of his skin, the pressure of his arms, and Victor sighs, a long and low and contented sound, into his neck.
(Is it strange to feel like he's being melted into a puddle of hot water, or molten chocolate, just at the faint brush of those fingers?
Is it that odd to feel dismantled and put back together again on a single touch?)
The sound he makes is one of low, humming contentment, as he shifts a little closer, hand at Yuri's waist tightening, moving up towards his ribs and down again, and he wonders how strange it might be to say that he hopes Yuri never stops touching him. Maybe ever.
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Except it does. Matter. It matters that Yuri is here in his arms, after all these months, willing and wanting. It matters that he's finally had the chance to say what he feels, everything that's been in his head and heart for longer than he'd care to admit. It matters that he can touch Yuri, like this, now.
And it matters that Yuri touches him, back. That Yuri's fingers unfurl against the back of his neck, and he holds his breath for fear that doing even that much, even taking a breath, would scare him away, before the pad of Yuri's thumb is skating over his skin, sensitive at his hairline, being followed by goosebumps that vanish almost as soon as they disappear. "That feels good."
Yuri touching him. Yuri stroking him, the back of his neck, the edge of his hairline, right over the cluster of nerves that light up over and over again, every time Yuri's thumb slips over them, no matter how light. It feels good to have Yuri hold onto him. It feels good to have Yuri's chest beneath his, and Yuri's neck against his nose and mouth.
It feels good to have Yuri in a way he'd given up ever thinking was possible, and all that old wistfulness and longing gets brushed gently away, like cobwebs Yuri's banishing with the sweep of his fingers, the warmth of his skin, the pressure of his arms, and Victor sighs, a long and low and contented sound, into his neck.
(Is it strange to feel like he's being melted into a puddle of hot water, or molten chocolate, just at the faint brush of those fingers?
Is it that odd to feel dismantled and put back together again on a single touch?)
The sound he makes is one of low, humming contentment, as he shifts a little closer, hand at Yuri's waist tightening, moving up towards his ribs and down again, and he wonders how strange it might be to say that he hopes Yuri never stops touching him. Maybe ever.