Yuri wants to roll his eyes, or hang his head, or find a hood on his jacket suddenly decided to exist for him. But it doesn't, and he can't tell which way he's feeling about it, when the words about him, his face, his action, he doesn't know, something about him right now, is like a slippery patch of ice under his tennis shoes, but his brain latches on to the way Victor says his name.
Differentiating it from earlier. From that low, slow, amused linger on the vowels of it.
This is almost normal, and he can't even tell if that's comforting or just picked apart for comparing.
He should say something, but it's like language is absolutely receptive to his ears, his brain, but nothing is coming back. A dull throbbing heat. In his cheeks. In his skin. Confused confliction that spills and spurs dominoes that don't seem quite able to work right still. Fingers balling up some of the cloth that make the lining of his pockets, because he has to do something. His skin is not stretched right all across him, even though it hasn't changed.
(Except it has. Except he has.
And, oh, that's stupid. It is. There's the press of his mouth and harder ball of his fingers.
He'd never. Not. And. Victor. Now, Victor. Victor, from all the posters and tv. Victor, his coach ... his friend?
Has that word has always
felt off)
He can't reach up and touch his face. His mouth. He'd never live that one down already. He's aware. Especially with Victor commenting already. He just presses his lips together. Ends up with part of the back of his lip, the loose skin beneath it between his teeth, and he even tries to force that down into a single sentence. List. He came to Shanghai. He got a personal best. He might have broken down and screamed. He got second place. He has a silver medal in that suitcase, wheeling between them. And Victor kissed him. They kissed.
Victor Nikiforov is the ... his ... first kiss. And he's a handful up from that. While Victor. Over there. Is just teasing him about here. Right here. About choking and flustering. About everything. Making Yuri want to hide under something.
no subject
Differentiating it from earlier. From that low, slow, amused linger on the vowels of it.
This is almost normal, and he can't even tell if that's comforting or just picked apart for comparing.
He should say something, but it's like language is absolutely receptive to his ears, his brain, but nothing is coming back. A dull throbbing heat. In his cheeks. In his skin. Confused confliction that spills and spurs dominoes that don't seem quite able to work right still. Fingers balling up some of the cloth that make the lining of his pockets, because he has to do something. His skin is not stretched right all across him, even though it hasn't changed.
(Except it has. Except he has.
There's the press of his mouth
and harder ball of his fingers.
Victor, from all the posters and tv.
Victor, his coach ... his friend?
Has that word has always
felt off)
He can't reach up and touch his face. His mouth. He'd never live that one down already. He's aware. Especially with Victor commenting already. He just presses his lips together. Ends up with part of the back of his lip, the loose skin beneath it between his teeth, and he even tries to force that down into a single sentence. List. He came to Shanghai. He got a personal best. He might have broken down and screamed. He got second place. He has a silver medal in that suitcase, wheeling between them. And Victor kissed him. They kissed.
Victor Nikiforov is the ... his ... first kiss. And he's a handful up from that.
While Victor. Over there. Is just teasing him about here. Right here.
About choking and flustering. About everything.
Making Yuri want to hide under something.
Like this is normal.
... Is this normal?
He doesn't have a clue. Obviously.