The silence drags on, and Yuri doesn't know if that's good or bad. Doesn't have any clue the longer it goes on, except why? Why and why and why. It bounces around his head, confused and dizzy. He can feel his steps more as he takes them, more as everything isn't dissolving. The pain in his side is greater than everything else, but there still is an everything else. There is still all the pain and soreness of competition skate. Pulling his bones and muscles down heavy and sore, full of complaints about speed, weight, time. Mixing with that iron leaded exhaustion clinging to the bottom of his spine.
He hasn't slept in more than a day, not for lack of his or Victor's trying, which makes his glance flick to Victor. How much more sensible would this be as a dream? If he'd just passed out somewhere, in a chair, by a wall.
(How much does that ache, confusedly, in a retort to the idea. Of not real, not Victor. Not him.)
The door gets opened and he steps through, even though his eyes drag a little on his bag, still at Victor's side, in Victor's hand, and the person behind the counter, and he goes pink, like all the world knows. Can see all of this on him. When they aren't even touching. Aren't even near each other. When for all he knows, which amounts to nothing, it might be over. He hasn't the faintest clue. But that makes his heart stumble hard into a wall, too, while he's mumbling a polite arigato for the door holding.
He's not entirely incapable of using his mouth, apparently.
But they are. At the hotel. Where the lights in the lobby are bright and butter yellow, and they are going back to their room. A thought that catches up with Yuri against the back of his teeth. A thought he's been having, without really having for the last five or ten minutes of quiet walking, and occasional glances to his side. Just at the edge of his vision, trying not to even turn his head too much.
It's so very few steps to cross the lobby and be waiting in front of the elevator, and he thinks he might be starting to have a heart attack. Again. Because they are. Going back to their room. And what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Is this over. Is it not. Now that Victor has finally subsided to his side of the sidewalk, the doorway, teasing him, enough quiet to think. Not that everything could be. He has to skate, and Victor's going to teach him his flip now. But.
But. Anything - everything - else. Wherever - whatever - this. This is. If it even is an is and isn't already past.
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Date: 2017-04-13 12:39 pm (UTC)He hasn't slept in more than a day, not for lack of his or Victor's trying, which makes his glance flick to Victor.
How much more sensible would this be as a dream? If he'd just passed out somewhere, in a chair, by a wall.
(How much does that ache, confusedly, in a retort to the idea. Of not real, not Victor. Not him.)
The door gets opened and he steps through, even though his eyes drag a little on his bag, still at Victor's side, in Victor's hand, and the person behind the counter, and he goes pink, like all the world knows. Can see all of this on him. When they aren't even touching. Aren't even near each other. When for all he knows, which amounts to nothing, it might be over. He hasn't the faintest clue. But that makes his heart stumble hard into a wall, too, while he's mumbling a polite arigato for the door holding.
He's not entirely incapable of using his mouth, apparently.
But they are. At the hotel. Where the lights in the lobby are bright and butter yellow, and they are going back to their room. A thought that catches up with Yuri against the back of his teeth. A thought he's been having, without really having for the last five or ten minutes of quiet walking, and occasional glances to his side. Just at the edge of his vision, trying not to even turn his head too much.
It's so very few steps to cross the lobby and be waiting in front of the elevator, and he thinks he might be starting to have a heart attack. Again. Because they are. Going back to their room. And what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Is this over. Is it not. Now that Victor has finally subsided to his side of the sidewalk, the doorway, teasing him, enough quiet to think. Not that everything could be. He has to skate, and Victor's going to teach him his flip now. But.
But. Anything - everything - else. Wherever - whatever - this. This is. If it even is an is and isn't already past.