Oh. Yes. It's absolutely certain now. He doesn't understand anything.
When Victor's eyes widen, startled, no, maybe it's shocked even, and then he's suddenly closer. Dropping Yuri's hand, and cradling the full sides of his face in those gloved fingers, staring at him with such stricken intensity Yuri doesn't even know how he's supposed to remember to breathe, or whether to start apologizing now. For anything. For everything.
After Victor has shouted his name, in this small space of theirs. Is holding his face. Saying. Saying no. Saying he's not apologizing for kissing Yuri.
Saying.
Saying.
Saying.
Saying . . . he's been waiting to do that? He ... wants him? Victor wants him?
He wanted to kiss Yuri before now? He.
Yuri is blinking. He doesn't even know if he's breathed in, and his eyes aren't closed this time, they go wider, but Victor is kissing him again. So close everything blots out but the pale of his skin, the cut of his cheek bones, the shape around his eyes, and the shine of his hair, eyebrow, his eyelashes, and Yuri is trembling before he can stop himself.
Everything, everything hurts and swells and falls sideways, pained, shot through with sliced need, desperate from asking, desperate from that single thought, cheeks warming, chest singing with sudden tension, even when he can't stop himself, terrified and falling and relieved, but only painfully, can't stop anything, can't stop. The way his eyes snap closed. The way he presses into Victor. Victor's lips. The way his face tips up in those hands for more, for this unnamed, confusing, absolute unknown that everything in him slams toward, more important than air or words or sense.
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Date: 2017-04-13 02:57 pm (UTC)When Victor's eyes widen, startled, no, maybe it's shocked even, and then he's suddenly closer. Dropping Yuri's hand, and cradling the full sides of his face in those gloved fingers, staring at him with such stricken intensity Yuri doesn't even know how he's supposed to remember to breathe, or whether to start apologizing now. For anything. For everything.
After Victor has shouted his name, in this small space of theirs. Is holding his face.
Saying. Saying no. Saying he's not apologizing for kissing Yuri.
Saying.
Saying.
Saying.
Saying . . . he's been waiting to do that?
He ... wants him? Victor wants him?
He wanted to kiss Yuri before now? He.
Yuri is blinking. He doesn't even know if he's breathed in, and his eyes aren't closed this time, they go wider, but Victor is kissing him again. So close everything blots out but the pale of his skin, the cut of his cheek bones, the shape around his eyes, and the shine of his hair, eyebrow, his eyelashes, and Yuri is trembling before he can stop himself.
Everything, everything hurts and swells and falls sideways, pained, shot through with sliced need, desperate from asking, desperate from that single thought, cheeks warming, chest singing with sudden tension, even when he can't stop himself, terrified and falling and relieved, but only painfully, can't stop anything, can't stop. The way his eyes snap closed. The way he presses into Victor. Victor's lips. The way his face tips up in those hands for more, for this unnamed, confusing, absolute unknown that everything in him slams toward, more important than air or words or sense.
Right as the elevator dings behind them.