Yuri isn't even sure he knows. Has words. That they won't come out too loud, even uncollected. He's flat on the bed and he feels like he's going to fall off it, plummet through it. The room is too big. His head is too small. How much worse is there? What else did he say? What else is everyone else saying?
His chest feels like ice, and Victor is just sleepily rubbing his eyes. His hair still a shadowed smudge, but his features are almost clear enough.
Beautiful. He'll be beautiful whenever Yuri's brain or Yuri's eyes get there. He's never not beautiful. Never not been. Yuri had touched almost all of that face last night. Last night that feels suddenly yards and days away from him, and scaling, burning this second past. Burns left on this skin, the ruin of where Victor's hands had been. Suddenly ripped apart.
How many of them agree he doesn't deserve this? How many of them would have done so much more with the possibility of even one night? Would hate him even more than they already did for stealing Victor, for this, too?
The terror is an ice worse than the morning chill in the air. While Victor lays there. Beautiful. Confused. Innocent.
"You told them?" His voice sounds wrong. Too high. Almost shrill. It's like the quiet, dark room that had been calm, safe, dark, is suddenly filled with a thousand voices, a thousand eyes. There's a hand, he doesn't know when got there, against his chest, and he's leaning back, back away, even when he's showing off the front of his phone. The article still there. Damning headline and all.
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His chest feels like ice, and Victor is just sleepily rubbing his eyes.
His hair still a shadowed smudge, but his features are almost clear enough.
Beautiful. He'll be beautiful whenever Yuri's brain or Yuri's eyes get there. He's never not beautiful. Never not been. Yuri had touched almost all of that face last night. Last night that feels suddenly yards and days away from him, and scaling, burning this second past. Burns left on this skin, the ruin of where Victor's hands had been. Suddenly ripped apart.
How many of them agree he doesn't deserve this? How many of them would have done so much more with the possibility of even one night? Would hate him even more than they already did for stealing Victor, for this, too?
The terror is an ice worse than the morning chill in the air.
While Victor lays there. Beautiful. Confused. Innocent.
"You told them?" His voice sounds wrong. Too high. Almost shrill. It's like the quiet, dark room that had been calm, safe, dark, is suddenly filled with a thousand voices, a thousand eyes. There's a hand, he doesn't know when got there, against his chest, and he's leaning back, back away, even when he's showing off the front of his phone. The article still there. Damning headline and all.