Victor reaches toward him and Yuri can't even help the flinched-jump the sends him back further, and probably, very likely, would have sent him toppling right off the bed, if it wasn't for Victor's arm. He still falls backward. There just isn't a hard impact, unless it's that Victor has to come tumbling more further forward, directly onto him, to keep him where he is, to keep him from falling in earnest, catching half his weight on that arm around him.
Against him, above him. Yuri's heart trying to explode and collapse all at once. To bang out his back still held aloft, still caught in the desperate freefall and scramble to get anywhere but near Victor, Victor who is with the rest of the world, and, also, still, straining toward him. Trying to push out the front of his chest, the iron band of his ribs choking him. To the fingers that had been overly sleep-warm on his wrist, pressed to his front. To Victor's hair hanging from Victor's face, and Victor's face him.
Confused. Worried? Everything too fast. Too much. All of his body orienting to Victor.
"You -- it shouldn't have--" It wasn't right. Wasn't proper. Wasn't how he wanted.
He shouldn't have. He. Him. Yuri. It hits like a wall.
Him. Him, too. Struck dumb with surprise every time Victor had kissed him right at the beginning. Hadn't stopped him. Not. Not like that. Not entirely. Not to have stopped Victor from kissing him. On the ice, and in the locker room, and here, so, so, so many times, from getting here, to those last seconds before bed. But not on the way back. Not where so many cameras existed everywhere.
This is his fault. His. Too. Isn't it always?
But Victor hadn't said anything to it earlier. Hadn't given it any fire. Fuel. Credence.
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Date: 2017-05-16 05:02 pm (UTC)Against him, above him. Yuri's heart trying to explode and collapse all at once. To bang out his back still held aloft, still caught in the desperate freefall and scramble to get anywhere but near Victor, Victor who is with the rest of the world, and, also, still, straining toward him. Trying to push out the front of his chest, the iron band of his ribs choking him. To the fingers that had been overly sleep-warm on his wrist, pressed to his front. To Victor's hair hanging from Victor's face, and Victor's face him.
Confused. Worried? Everything too fast. Too much. All of his body orienting to Victor.
"You -- it shouldn't have--" It wasn't right. Wasn't proper. Wasn't how he wanted.
He shouldn't have. He. Him. Yuri. It hits like a wall.
Him. Him, too. Struck dumb with surprise every time Victor had kissed him right at the beginning. Hadn't stopped him. Not. Not like that. Not entirely. Not to have stopped Victor from kissing him. On the ice, and in the locker room, and here, so, so, so many times, from getting here, to those last seconds before bed. But not on the way back. Not where so many cameras existed everywhere.
This is his fault. His. Too. Isn't it always?
But Victor hadn't said anything to it earlier. Hadn't given it any fire. Fuel. Credence.