Victor says nothing will change and the first thing Yuri's heart or head, or whatever's left of the mess of them together and fading, coughs up is promise. Except he just did. He said that. He promised. Without Yuri's distant but desperate longing for it spiked the next second. Already given. Freely. Undemanded. (Undeserved?) While Victor's fingers have started stroking his hair again.
The first touch making his eyes widen a little in recognition of it, or startle at being touched, before tumbling him harder the other direction when it feels like the warmth, slippery embracing darkness just gets bolder, deeper, drags him down faster with the stroke of those fingers against his hair and his scalp. Instead of tingles, it's like his thoughts, and his ability to keep them in any order, even at all, slides away with those fingers. Everything melting into drops of water, rolling away, away, away from his head, his mouth.
There's a moment, looking up, at Victor, before he finally, shifts his shoulders, tucks his chin, with a rub of his cheek against the pillow, and lets his eyes close. As much a relief as a distant clamor. It's almost like counting, except there are no numbers. There are no American sheeps. There is only the length of the slow strokes of Victor's fingers through his hair, against his head, and the quietest of quiet, so needed, thought-whispered refrains to each one, in the slipping (I promise nothing will have changed when you wake up),
slipping . . . (I promise nothing will have changed)
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Date: 2017-05-15 03:59 am (UTC)The first touch making his eyes widen a little in recognition of it, or startle at being touched, before tumbling him harder the other direction when it feels like the warmth, slippery embracing darkness just gets bolder, deeper, drags him down faster with the stroke of those fingers against his hair and his scalp. Instead of tingles, it's like his thoughts, and his ability to keep them in any order, even at all, slides away with those fingers. Everything melting into drops of water, rolling away, away, away from his head, his mouth.
There's a moment, looking up, at Victor, before he finally, shifts his shoulders, tucks his chin, with a rub of his cheek against the pillow, and lets his eyes close. As much a relief as a distant clamor. It's almost like counting, except there are no numbers. There are no American sheeps. There is only the length of the slow strokes of Victor's fingers through his hair, against his head, and the quietest of quiet, so needed, thought-whispered refrains to each one, in the slipping (I promise nothing will have changed when you wake up),
slipping . . .
(I promise nothing will have changed)
(I promise nothing)
(I promise)