He's still a little stung when he pulls Yuri closer, but there's a sudden pressure against his chest that makes him look down to see Yuri's hands laid flat there, and whatever he was thinking, it's gone in a second.
In the lift of his chest as he breathes, and how that shifts the weight of Yuri's hands, the warm perfect flat of his palms and the delicate curve of his fingers, and it takes him the space of another breath and a few skipped heartbeats to realize that this is the first time Yuri's touched him so far. At least, that hasn't been Victor tugging him around, or pushing him into doors, or taking his hand, or kissing him. Even when Yuri was pushing back into that kiss a second ago, his hands had still been mid-air, like he wasn't sure what to do with them, and even now it's accidental, that's clear.
Certainly from the way Yuri's staring at them, himself, like he'd forgotten he even had hands, or what they might be for, and even when he's touched Victor idly in the past, it's never been like this. Has always been a hug, or an arm around Victor's neck while holding his balance to wipe snow off his blade, or the occasional loose pile of limbs that could be Yuri's or Victor's or Maccachin's, and Victor isn't used to being touched with purpose by Yuri.
Or, at least, if it started as an accident, it's on purpose now because Yuri keeps them there, even as his eyes track back up to Victor's face, with something sweet and shy playing at the corners of his mouth that just manages to punt Victor straight back off the edge of this cliff he'd somehow managed to scale and cling to.
(Somewhere on the horizon, a very long way away, the tiny shimmering dot that was Victor's logical forebrain winks out in a brilliant twinkle.)
They can circle back to ... whatever that was. How just being Victor isn't helpful, or whatever Yuri meant to say, because all Victor can do in this moment, right now, with Yuri's hands over his chest, directly over where his heart is attempting to barrel out towards them, is kiss him again, soft and careful and as achingly sweet as this thing in his chest that he's never known how to express, except in ballet and the tight control of spins and the wide white sweep of the ice.
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Date: 2017-04-13 11:24 pm (UTC)In the lift of his chest as he breathes, and how that shifts the weight of Yuri's hands, the warm perfect flat of his palms and the delicate curve of his fingers, and it takes him the space of another breath and a few skipped heartbeats to realize that this is the first time Yuri's touched him so far. At least, that hasn't been Victor tugging him around, or pushing him into doors, or taking his hand, or kissing him. Even when Yuri was pushing back into that kiss a second ago, his hands had still been mid-air, like he wasn't sure what to do with them, and even now it's accidental, that's clear.
Certainly from the way Yuri's staring at them, himself, like he'd forgotten he even had hands, or what they might be for, and even when he's touched Victor idly in the past, it's never been like this. Has always been a hug, or an arm around Victor's neck while holding his balance to wipe snow off his blade, or the occasional loose pile of limbs that could be Yuri's or Victor's or Maccachin's, and Victor isn't used to being touched with purpose by Yuri.
Or, at least, if it started as an accident, it's on purpose now because Yuri keeps them there, even as his eyes track back up to Victor's face, with something sweet and shy playing at the corners of his mouth that just manages to punt Victor straight back off the edge of this cliff he'd somehow managed to scale and cling to.
(Somewhere on the horizon, a very long way away, the tiny shimmering dot that was Victor's logical forebrain winks out in a brilliant twinkle.)
They can circle back to ... whatever that was. How just being Victor isn't helpful, or whatever Yuri meant to say, because all Victor can do in this moment, right now, with Yuri's hands over his chest, directly over where his heart is attempting to barrel out towards them, is kiss him again, soft and careful and as achingly sweet as this thing in his chest that he's never known how to express, except in ballet and the tight control of spins and the wide white sweep of the ice.