It's not what he'd imagined, two years ago. The first time he should have dragged Yuri away from a crowd of people and pushed him into a wall, the first time Yuri drove him crazy, that seemed to have been the first and final time Yuri wanted him, too.
Until now. Until Yuri on Ice, and his quad flip, and Yuri asking if it was okay, while it was all Victor could do to haul himself back tackling Yuri right there in the kiss-and-cry all over again.
But when he'd thought about it, pictured it, that night at the banquet, he'd pictured it differently: the soft slam of shoulders against the door is the same, but nothing else is. It's gentler, for one thing; not drunken desperation, not the collision of gravity from a high-velocity full-body tackle onto the ice. That had been as necessary as breathing, but he'd barely gotten the chance to register the fact that he was kissing Yuri before it was over again.
Not this time. He refuses. He stubbornly sets his foot down at the thought of finally getting to do this, and not doing it right, so even though every thud of his heart is only racheting higher and faster and tighter, and every muscle is screaming complaint at being held back, he'll be damned if this kiss, up against this door, finally alone, finally with Yuri, finally, finally, gets rushed.
Not least because when he'd imagined this before, Yuri's hands had always found their way back to his body, his face, his neck, his hair. The way they had on the dance floor, like he was assured permission, arrogant and firm.
But he isn't. Doesn't. Only tips in towards Victor like he's losing his balance and doesn't know if he's trying to push closer or pull himself right through the wooden door to run screaming down the hall. A cat surrounded by sleeping dogs might be more tense, but only just.
That's not right. It's not shoving Victor away, but it's not right, so when he pulls back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead against Yuri's, and let one hand slip down towards the side of his neck, thumb running along his jaw. If he were a believer in the old fairy tales he's skated more times than he can count, he'd say Yuri's ensorcelled him, somehow: stole his soul and won't give it back, not for a king, not for a kingdom.
His own mouth and eyes gone soft and warm, and he already wants to lean back in. "Don't run away, Yuri."
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Date: 2017-04-11 08:17 pm (UTC)Until now. Until Yuri on Ice, and his quad flip, and Yuri asking if it was okay, while it was all Victor could do to haul himself back tackling Yuri right there in the kiss-and-cry all over again.
But when he'd thought about it, pictured it, that night at the banquet, he'd pictured it differently: the soft slam of shoulders against the door is the same, but nothing else is. It's gentler, for one thing; not drunken desperation, not the collision of gravity from a high-velocity full-body tackle onto the ice. That had been as necessary as breathing, but he'd barely gotten the chance to register the fact that he was kissing Yuri before it was over again.
Not this time. He refuses. He stubbornly sets his foot down at the thought of finally getting to do this, and not doing it right, so even though every thud of his heart is only racheting higher and faster and tighter, and every muscle is screaming complaint at being held back, he'll be damned if this kiss, up against this door, finally alone, finally with Yuri, finally, finally, gets rushed.
Not least because when he'd imagined this before, Yuri's hands had always found their way back to his body, his face, his neck, his hair. The way they had on the dance floor, like he was assured permission, arrogant and firm.
But he isn't. Doesn't. Only tips in towards Victor like he's losing his balance and doesn't know if he's trying to push closer or pull himself right through the wooden door to run screaming down the hall. A cat surrounded by sleeping dogs might be more tense, but only just.
That's not right. It's not shoving Victor away, but it's not right, so when he pulls back, it's only far enough to rest his forehead against Yuri's, and let one hand slip down towards the side of his neck, thumb running along his jaw. If he were a believer in the old fairy tales he's skated more times than he can count, he'd say Yuri's ensorcelled him, somehow: stole his soul and won't give it back, not for a king, not for a kingdom.
His own mouth and eyes gone soft and warm, and he already wants to lean back in. "Don't run away, Yuri."