He's not expecting Victor to run toward him, hands slamming the sides of his head.
He's really not expecting Victor to stand there, staring at him, with his fingers dug into his hair, around his ears just looking at him, with this expression Yuri can't even tell if is real for the first few seconds. Things he's not certain he's ever seen on Victor's face. Something like anger -- concern? Is it concern? He can't tell. Or maybe fear? But, no, Victor doesn't fear anything, -- and in it, in that demand before those hands landed, more absolute, unwavering command than Victor had ever shouted at him on a rink back home, sending Yuri from one shock to another, shoulders up and hands down, and spine straight.
But none of it stays, and Victor's hands aren't the same as ear buds, and the cheer exists around and in and through him, and his hands, and his too clear, too bright, too sharp eyes -- even when this one, this one is somehow more terrifying than the last second -- and Yuri can't think, and thinks too fast, and he did this, too. Whatever this is. He did this to Victor, too. Like he's going to tear Victor apart with what he's done, doing, can't stop from happening.
He deserves that, doesn't he? That anger. Disappointment. He waits for there to be more words.
But they don't come.
They don't come at all.
Victor just stands there, staring at him. Pinched brows and firmed mouth pointing down.
Sourness curdling Yuuri's stomach on an endless loop, more and more and more, as this expression he's never seen never lessens. Tells him exactly how Victor feels about everything. About him. But the words still don't come. Like Victor who can find the words and way to charm everyone has nothing left for him. It's almost worst than anything else might be.
But the cheers have died away, and there's something else starting. Some other music. Time is still passing. He still has to go out there and end this. For himself. For both of them. To try. He has to try. Even if that word feels beaten so thin it's something like nonexistent, save for force.
Yuri raised his hands, looping them around Victor's forearms and pushing him back, saying it, if he won't. "Victor. It's almost time. We need to go back." When there aren't any words for that (and that's an answer as much as anything else is, isn't it?), Yuri looked down to a side and started walking past Victor. Stairs and doors, and everything in him, pushing for the back of his throat. (He remembers this too well.) But it's worse than that, too. (Worse because it's not just him. It's Victor, too.)
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He's not expecting Victor to run toward him, hands slamming the sides of his head.
He's really not expecting Victor to stand there, staring at him, with his fingers dug into his hair, around his ears just looking at him, with this expression Yuri can't even tell if is real for the first few seconds. Things he's not certain he's ever seen on Victor's face. Something like anger -- concern? Is it concern? He can't tell. Or maybe fear? But, no, Victor doesn't fear anything, -- and in it, in that demand before those hands landed, more absolute, unwavering command than Victor had ever shouted at him on a rink back home, sending Yuri from one shock to another, shoulders up and hands down, and spine straight.
But none of it stays, and Victor's hands aren't the same as ear buds, and the cheer exists around and in and through him, and his hands, and his too clear, too bright, too sharp eyes -- even when this one, this one is somehow more terrifying than the last second -- and Yuri can't think, and thinks too fast, and he did this, too. Whatever this is. He did this to Victor, too. Like he's going to tear Victor apart with what he's done, doing, can't stop from happening.
He deserves that, doesn't he? That anger. Disappointment. He waits for there to be more words.
But they don't come.
They don't come at all.
Victor just stands there, staring at him.
Pinched brows and firmed mouth pointing down.
Sourness curdling Yuuri's stomach on an endless loop, more and more and more, as this expression he's never seen never lessens. Tells him exactly how Victor feels about everything. About him. But the words still don't come. Like Victor who can find the words and way to charm everyone has nothing left for him. It's almost worst than anything else might be.
But the cheers have died away, and there's something else starting. Some other music.
Time is still passing. He still has to go out there and end this. For himself. For both of them.
To try. He has to try. Even if that word feels beaten so thin it's something like nonexistent, save for force.
Yuri raised his hands, looping them around Victor's forearms and pushing him back, saying it, if he won't. "Victor. It's almost time. We need to go back." When there aren't any words for that (and that's an answer as much as anything else is, isn't it?), Yuri looked down to a side and started walking past Victor. Stairs and doors, and everything in him, pushing for the back of his throat. (He remembers this too well.) But it's worse than that, too. (Worse because it's not just him. It's Victor, too.)