Victor presses in further, and Yuri's heart is somewhere in his head, outside his head, pounding so fast and so hard, that it's both all he can hear and that there's absolutely nothing he can. Nothing in the world exists except the way Victor shifts even closer to him, making even more space evaporate, his head pushing back into the door, even if his mouth feels foreign and clumsy, and electric, impossible to forget and impossible to remember when Victor's mouth so much as moves, which is a constant thing, as everything about this becomes too complicated and too simple.
He doesn't know anything. About anything.
(And Victor probably knows everything. Ever.)
A million images from a million places, common knowledge, all of it deserting him like it never existed. When there's nowhere else to go between the door and Victor, and there's no part of him that can think further than a second before it all falls apart again, breath short and fast.
Until the door suddenly bangs, forcefully, into his shoulders and the back of his head and his hips (one of which gives an angry spasm), and there's a What the--? muffled from the other side of the door, while Yuri's hands finally grab Victor's coat in the shock between the door hitting him, him pitching the no distance into Victor, and back to the door, all while Victor is gasping in air right in front of him. Pulling it straight off Yuri's lips, right from the bottom of his stomach, lighting it on fire and emptying it out all in one go.
Dizziness, disorientation, despair, and panic sprouting up as though they'd been waiting at his ankles to sink their teeth in. His eyes going wide, as he remembers, his heart vaulting straight for the ceiling now, the locker room, the arena, they are still here, here, here, and one of his hands does push at Victor. "We have to --"
Move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Not here. They were -- they weren't supposed to. He'd -- He'd kissed Victor and Victor had kissed him, and everything had become a tumble from there, and there was a person, and Victor was far too solid to scramble straight through, and the lockers were far too far from him to be able to hide in one.
no subject
He doesn't know anything. About anything.
(And Victor probably knows everything. Ever.)
A million images from a million places, common knowledge, all of it deserting him like it never existed. When there's nowhere else to go between the door and Victor, and there's no part of him that can think further than a second before it all falls apart again, breath short and fast.
Until the door suddenly bangs, forcefully, into his shoulders and the back of his head and his hips (one of which gives an angry spasm), and there's a What the--? muffled from the other side of the door, while Yuri's hands finally grab Victor's coat in the shock between the door hitting him, him pitching the no distance into Victor, and back to the door, all while Victor is gasping in air right in front of him. Pulling it straight off Yuri's lips, right from the bottom of his stomach, lighting it on fire and emptying it out all in one go.
Dizziness, disorientation, despair, and panic sprouting up as though they'd been waiting at his ankles to sink their teeth in. His eyes going wide, as he remembers, his heart vaulting straight for the ceiling now, the locker room, the arena, they are still here, here, here, and one of his hands does push at Victor. "We have to --"
Move. Somewhere. Anywhere. Not here. They were -- they weren't supposed to. He'd -- He'd kissed Victor and Victor had kissed him, and everything had become a tumble from there, and there was a person, and Victor was far too solid to scramble straight through, and the lockers were far too far from him to be able to hide in one.