Caught up in the feel of Victor's heart and the spin of kissing Victor, a thing that had less and less beginning or ending or gravity when it went on, it's only really at holding still too long, so long Victor notices, that he notices anything else about himself with it. The way his breath is sailing in and out of his lips so fast, uncertain if it reaches his shoulders, no less his lungs. Or how his heartbeat in ears, his teeth, his everywhere, is at least as fast as Victor's under his fingers. Maybe disastrously faster.
Clarity is confusing, as Victor pulling back to look at him, Victor who is so, and a part of Yuri wants to make it all vanish, as it starts to slips fingers back around an ankle, and another part of him wants to pull back into it. The safety even in the bitter smash and splash of cold water he knows over building warmth, caustic and careless and everywhere, that he doesn't. When the last thing he really said was that he was sorry -- wasn't it? -- and then this happened all over again. (Again, and again, and again.)
Victor saying that doesn't matter, and calling him his. That had to be what that word was. Didn't it? It's the only thing it could be. When he's not sure the prior is as comforting, or if it ever was, or if it ever solved any of its problems, or if it got lost in all of this. The same way his thoughts are splintering and spinning when Victor leans back in close, close enough it makes shadows, keeping his heart fast and high, a smoldered burn of itself digging through his skin, and one of Victor's hands, still curled around his from clenching it tight seconds ago, starts rubbing dizzyingly lines on the back of his hand.
When all he can do, and he's amazed how much it takes so even do that -- especially compared to what he'd just been doing ; how exactly he had lost on him already -- is shake his head and say quietly, "No."
Even if he's disastrously uncertain suddenly about the question, and answer, and everything on the floor around it.
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Date: 2017-04-14 12:22 pm (UTC)Clarity is confusing, as Victor pulling back to look at him, Victor who is so, and a part of Yuri wants to make it all vanish, as it starts to slips fingers back around an ankle, and another part of him wants to pull back into it. The safety even in the bitter smash and splash of cold water he knows over building warmth, caustic and careless and everywhere, that he doesn't. When the last thing he really said was that he was sorry -- wasn't it? -- and then this happened all over again. (Again, and again, and again.)
Victor saying that doesn't matter, and calling him his. That had to be what that word was. Didn't it? It's the only thing it could be. When he's not sure the prior is as comforting, or if it ever was, or if it ever solved any of its problems, or if it got lost in all of this. The same way his thoughts are splintering and spinning when Victor leans back in close, close enough it makes shadows, keeping his heart fast and high, a smoldered burn of itself digging through his skin, and one of Victor's hands, still curled around his from clenching it tight seconds ago, starts rubbing dizzyingly lines on the back of his hand.
When all he can do, and he's amazed how much it takes so even do that -- especially compared to what he'd just been doing ; how exactly he had lost on him already -- is shake his head and say quietly, "No."
Even if he's disastrously uncertain suddenly about the question, and answer, and everything on the floor around it.