Nothing about sleep when it finds him, so long denied, is gentle. Nor is it tumultuous. Even the options are not optionable. Everything about this sleep is plunging him down, down, down, deeper, deeper, deeper, submerging Yuri into a dumbed and dreamless sleep. A blanket spread across everything that is and ever was and ever would be, heavier than the darkest night or the deepest winter. Down, and down, and down, and down some more for good measure.
To the bare aching bones of that place even, as raw with throbbing overcharge as everything else.
For a long time, it's all there is. Consuming, endless, nothingness, so deep it's beyond blackness even. Long and slow and deep, until something else slowly, ever so very slowly pushes up. Chafes denied for long, against a buried face and a far more buried mind, denied and denied, again, but sticking, and sticking, and sticking. Warm and insistent, until there's finally a crinkle of a nose in the dark, while a face pushes into a pillow, sliding on and hiding in soft high-count cotton pillow case material.
All of it disorienting. All of it unwelcome. All of it Yuri's face scrunches up against, hugging his pillow, not ready, not ready to wake up, because he's still so tired it feels like pieces of him have rolled off and fallen all around him, even the flicker of awareness feels painful, like his awareness of not wanting to wake up is trying just as had to slip off, and something annoying tap, tap, tap, tapping at him toward a sharp, loud crescendo, is still strung together on only the tenderest of vines that aren't even strong as ribbon or string.
It doesn't stop it. Louder for burgeoning awareness. Loud enough he cracks an eye as the center of him complains busily, abusedly, while the darkness swims as the only thing truly in his vision at all at. Darkness in his eyes, and ears, and chest, and head. Everywhere except his bladder that he can't just wish into a lack of existence. He shouldn't need -- but when did he even last. There was water across the day, and tea at dinner, and he hadn't, had he? He'd never gotten up before falling asleep, had he? Yuri almost groans into his pillow, but it just comes out a quiet, lip-pressed, barely there, grumble of consternation.
Just wanting to sleep. But the sooner he gets up, the sooner he can lay down, sooner he can sleep again.
Yuri turned for the edge of the bed, feeling the weight that shifted with him, reaching for it in confusion. Like he might have caught the sheet. Only to remember as he found a wrist -- Victor's wrist, connected to Victor's hand, which he could suddenly feel lightly against his shirt, prone with no grasp -- and looked back from the blanket he'd started lifting. Some muddle of confusion at remembering, a question at the reality, and necessity to see if the facts matched his confused thought, if the world this late, this dark, had any facts at all.
Even as he lifted Victor's hand with his own gently, memories swimming in like a school of too bright, too smooth, too blurred fish, of the other night, when all he wanted was to get beyond one hand, and now, with the shape of Victor there, behind him, all he wanted was not to wake him. Because. Somehow. It was him. At least as much him as a lumped black shadow that might have been Victor as much as any other prone body in the little to focus on darkness. But Victor was the only other one staying in this room.
Victor was the one who kissed him, who asked him, again, to stay.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zaluzianskya and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
skylark_photos
no subject
Date: 2017-05-16 12:04 am (UTC)To the bare aching bones of that place even, as raw with throbbing overcharge as everything else.
For a long time, it's all there is. Consuming, endless, nothingness, so deep it's beyond blackness even. Long and slow and deep, until something else slowly, ever so very slowly pushes up. Chafes denied for long, against a buried face and a far more buried mind, denied and denied, again, but sticking, and sticking, and sticking. Warm and insistent, until there's finally a crinkle of a nose in the dark, while a face pushes into a pillow, sliding on and hiding in soft high-count cotton pillow case material.
All of it disorienting. All of it unwelcome. All of it Yuri's face scrunches up against, hugging his pillow, not ready, not ready to wake up, because he's still so tired it feels like pieces of him have rolled off and fallen all around him, even the flicker of awareness feels painful, like his awareness of not wanting to wake up is trying just as had to slip off, and something annoying tap, tap, tap, tapping at him toward a sharp, loud crescendo, is still strung together on only the tenderest of vines that aren't even strong as ribbon or string.
It doesn't stop it. Louder for burgeoning awareness. Loud enough he cracks an eye as the center of him complains busily, abusedly, while the darkness swims as the only thing truly in his vision at all at. Darkness in his eyes, and ears, and chest, and head. Everywhere except his bladder that he can't just wish into a lack of existence. He shouldn't need -- but when did he even last. There was water across the day, and tea at dinner, and he hadn't, had he? He'd never gotten up before falling asleep, had he? Yuri almost groans into his pillow, but it just comes out a quiet, lip-pressed, barely there, grumble of consternation.
Just wanting to sleep. But the sooner he gets up, the sooner he can lay down, sooner he can sleep again.
Yuri turned for the edge of the bed, feeling the weight that shifted with him, reaching for it in confusion. Like he might have caught the sheet. Only to remember as he found a wrist -- Victor's wrist, connected to Victor's hand, which he could suddenly feel lightly against his shirt, prone with no grasp -- and looked back from the blanket he'd started lifting. Some muddle of confusion at remembering, a question at the reality, and necessity to see if the facts matched his confused thought, if the world this late, this dark, had any facts at all.
Even as he lifted Victor's hand with his own gently, memories swimming in like a school of too bright, too smooth, too blurred fish, of the other night, when all he wanted was to get beyond one hand, and now, with the shape of Victor there, behind him, all he wanted was not to wake him. Because. Somehow. It was him. At least as much him as a lumped black shadow that might have been Victor as much as any other prone body in the little to focus on darkness. But Victor was the only other one staying in this room.
Victor was the one who kissed him, who asked him, again, to stay.