It's only been a little over an hour, but it's been such a full and confused one that he hasn't really had time to feel it. This dramatic, comprehensive shift, that feels like the earth has started spinning the other direction all at once, and tomorrow morning the sun will rise in the west and not the east as it always has. That could hardly be as unbelievable as having Yuri in his arms, hands against his chest, kissing him back so soft and shy that every muscle in Victor's body starts shivering with the strain of holding back.
Not just crushing him to his chest, or against a wall. With anyone else, this would already be half over, clothes scattered on the floor and the sheets flung off the bed, but Yuri ––
Yuri, who has only just been kissed for the first time. When Victor should have made it like this, if he'd known: the perfect careful press of lips, even as it's starting to fall apart on its own, like the decay of a spin before it kicks off again. He can't help it, the way his breath hitches and his heart speeds, thudding so swiftly against his ribs he feels a little light-headed, drowning on dry land, here in this hotel room, on having Yuri in his arms.
One hand leaving Yuri's back to drift up between them and cover Yuri's, pressing them a little more firmly into his chest, but even that is almost too much, tugs a low, sore sound from the back of his throat, from the eight months he'd tried to convince himself to accept and adjust, from the year and a half before that when there was nothing, nothing, nothing. How is it that with Yuri here, finally, pressed warm and wanting up against him, he can be so suddenly flooded with the crystal clear ache of all those months, the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness and bewildered heartache that he hated to call love? Why is now when all of that is resurfacing, when the last eight months have been so happy, and he's finally holding everything he wanted, the one person he has ever wanted, the only one he's ever loved?
He doesn't know, only knows that the press of Yuri's palm hurts and heals all at that same time, and that, more than Yuri melting in to him, he's pouring himself towards Yuri, led by this idioty heart of his that can't tell happiness from pain, or air from drowning.
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Date: 2017-04-14 12:04 am (UTC)Not just crushing him to his chest, or against a wall. With anyone else, this would already be half over, clothes scattered on the floor and the sheets flung off the bed, but Yuri ––
Yuri, who has only just been kissed for the first time. When Victor should have made it like this, if he'd known: the perfect careful press of lips, even as it's starting to fall apart on its own, like the decay of a spin before it kicks off again. He can't help it, the way his breath hitches and his heart speeds, thudding so swiftly against his ribs he feels a little light-headed, drowning on dry land, here in this hotel room, on having Yuri in his arms.
One hand leaving Yuri's back to drift up between them and cover Yuri's, pressing them a little more firmly into his chest, but even that is almost too much, tugs a low, sore sound from the back of his throat, from the eight months he'd tried to convince himself to accept and adjust, from the year and a half before that when there was nothing, nothing, nothing. How is it that with Yuri here, finally, pressed warm and wanting up against him, he can be so suddenly flooded with the crystal clear ache of all those months, the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness and bewildered heartache that he hated to call love? Why is now when all of that is resurfacing, when the last eight months have been so happy, and he's finally holding everything he wanted, the one person he has ever wanted, the only one he's ever loved?
He doesn't know, only knows that the press of Yuri's palm hurts and heals all at that same time, and that, more than Yuri melting in to him, he's pouring himself towards Yuri, led by this idioty heart of his that can't tell happiness from pain, or air from drowning.