Victor doesn't answer, and doesn't answer, and doesn't answer.
There's only the steady in and out of his breath (that blows pretty much straight through the sheet, against Yuri's bare skin, making it impossible for his mind to quiet or his face to cool, once he's struck by the realization, and by the goosebumps from the feeling of it). He lays there, uncertain in the extreme if Victor is just ignoring him, another part of this isn't a conversation, like if he just doesn't respond Yuri will get the hint and sleep sooner.
Victor hasn't seemed to have learned anything from the sleep Yuri didn't get for hours two days ago, because Yuri lays there, uncertain of anything about time under the sleep mask, except the darkness caused by it, the weight of Victor laying on him, and the sound of Victor's soft breath. Even softer snores. Anytime he so much as twitched or moved the smallest bit. The strange fact that Yuri can feel, and can't not feel, Victor's heart beating against his ribs and stomach.
The contemplation of Yuri moving is a short conversation with himself in that darkness. It's not like the other time. It's not like Victor's hand is just on him, or even like he's just curled up some part of Yuri's back or his shoulder. Victor is actually pressed across him, weighing him to the bed. Making shifting a nonpossibility on basically ever level. Which only makes every part of his body itch to move, fingers and toes, ankles and knees, and shoulders.
So it takes a while. Disjointed and trapped, under Victor, before he realizes that his own personal combination of panic and exhaustion isn't waning. Not once he can breathe. Not once he's given up moving, and given up that he can't see at all. Save the slightest sliver, that's only Victor's hair or his hair and forehead. He lays there inside, staring up at cloth imposed darkness. Time passing without marks, making it both impossibly slow and incredibly fast.
It's not that he doesn't try. He's stuck. He's exhausted in his skin. He's so tired of his own mind.
But trying to plead, to will, to throw himself at the mercy of the darkness does nothing, and more nothing, and even more of it.
Leaving it to his head to move in every single direction that his body can't. To replay and pick apart, every single expression Victor made from the moment Victor woke up, every single word Victor'd said since Victor woke up, since Yuri stepped off the practice ice, every time he should have asked but couldn't make himself. The constant reminding note. Eros was perfect. His jumps were horrible. His movements had been sloppy. Trying to decipher every word he hadn't said from the ones he had. His disappointment.
It's excruciatingly painful to be stuck, then. Not to want to be up. To move the exhausted, sleep-failing, lump of his body, and start practicing Yuri on Ice on the hotel room floor. Down the hallway. Even though everyone out there would probably give him the same non-descript look Victor had given him after his practice of it. But time was tick, tick, ticking, and night was getting closer, it had to be, he wasn't lucky enough for time to stop altogether.
He needed to be ready. He needed to not be a wreck.
He needed the day to start over, and for any second of sleep to find him.
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Date: 2017-04-08 01:04 am (UTC)There's only the steady in and out of his breath (that blows pretty much straight through the sheet, against Yuri's bare skin, making it impossible for his mind to quiet or his face to cool, once he's struck by the realization, and by the goosebumps from the feeling of it). He lays there, uncertain in the extreme if Victor is just ignoring him, another part of this isn't a conversation, like if he just doesn't respond Yuri will get the hint and sleep sooner.
Victor hasn't seemed to have learned anything from the sleep Yuri didn't get for hours two days ago, because Yuri lays there, uncertain of anything about time under the sleep mask, except the darkness caused by it, the weight of Victor laying on him, and the sound of Victor's soft breath. Even softer snores. Anytime he so much as twitched or moved the smallest bit. The strange fact that Yuri can feel, and can't not feel, Victor's heart beating against his ribs and stomach.
The contemplation of Yuri moving is a short conversation with himself in that darkness. It's not like the other time. It's not like Victor's hand is just on him, or even like he's just curled up some part of Yuri's back or his shoulder. Victor is actually pressed across him, weighing him to the bed. Making shifting a nonpossibility on basically ever level. Which only makes every part of his body itch to move, fingers and toes, ankles and knees, and shoulders.
So it takes a while. Disjointed and trapped, under Victor, before he realizes that his own personal combination of panic and exhaustion isn't waning. Not once he can breathe. Not once he's given up moving, and given up that he can't see at all. Save the slightest sliver, that's only Victor's hair or his hair and forehead. He lays there inside, staring up at cloth imposed darkness. Time passing without marks, making it both impossibly slow and incredibly fast.
It's not that he doesn't try. He's stuck. He's exhausted in his skin. He's so tired of his own mind.
But trying to plead, to will, to throw himself at the mercy of the darkness does nothing, and more nothing, and even more of it.
Leaving it to his head to move in every single direction that his body can't. To replay and pick apart, every single expression Victor made from the moment Victor woke up, every single word Victor'd said since Victor woke up, since Yuri stepped off the practice ice, every time he should have asked but couldn't make himself. The constant reminding note. Eros was perfect. His jumps were horrible. His movements had been sloppy. Trying to decipher every word he hadn't said from the ones he had. His disappointment.
It's excruciatingly painful to be stuck, then. Not to want to be up. To move the exhausted, sleep-failing, lump of his body, and start practicing Yuri on Ice on the hotel room floor. Down the hallway. Even though everyone out there would probably give him the same non-descript look Victor had given him after his practice of it. But time was tick, tick, ticking, and night was getting closer, it had to be, he wasn't lucky enough for time to stop altogether.
He needed to be ready. He needed to not be a wreck.
He needed the day to start over, and for any second of sleep to find him.