Yuri's eyes stick on something just below his chin, and Victor blinks, realizes what he's doing, and lets the button go like it's suddenly searing hot, color and warmth climbing up his throat a little faster now for the looser collar, but before he can apologize –– is that what he should do, apologize? –– Yuri's headed towards the closet, jacket unzipping.
Still in silence, looking awkward and more than a little, what is that. Not suspicious. Wary?
Of Victor?
Victor and his intentions? Victor and his hands? That maybe Victor didn't understand and is going to –– would expect ––
But then Yuri's turning back around, and Victor's hand goes from his collar to the back of his neck, troubled, because Yuri's face is a strange combination of blown open uncertainty and the frantic, careful hold on panic that reminds Victor of a bird caught in a net, trying to keep itself from fluttering too hard and breaking its wings. It hits him as hard as any time he's slammed the ice, a fist smashing into his solar plexus and gripping there, making his hands drop to his sides, helpless and empty. "Oh, Yuri."
It hurts the way his bruises hurt when he smacks them against the ice again and again, the way his back hurts after he's tweaked it in a spin or jump but has to keep going, the way his wrists and ankles and knees have hurt when Yakov helped him bind them against sore and swollen ligaments, tendons, cracked bone and torn muscle, a dull and aching pain that is seeping everywhere from this tear in his chest. "Don't be afraid of me."
Don't look at him like he thinks Victor's out to eat him alive, or like he doesn't know who Victor is anymore. Like he doesn't even recognize him. It's thready and hollow, a little more desperate than he knows what to do with or can control, because he doesn't know how to convince Yuri otherwise.
He would never. Couldn't. Can't even begin to comprehend everything he would have to cut out of himself to even be capable of consciously hurting Yuri. "Please."
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Date: 2017-04-14 03:11 pm (UTC)Still in silence, looking awkward and more than a little, what is that. Not suspicious. Wary?
Of Victor?
Victor and his intentions? Victor and his hands? That maybe Victor didn't understand and is going to –– would expect ––
But then Yuri's turning back around, and Victor's hand goes from his collar to the back of his neck, troubled, because Yuri's face is a strange combination of blown open uncertainty and the frantic, careful hold on panic that reminds Victor of a bird caught in a net, trying to keep itself from fluttering too hard and breaking its wings. It hits him as hard as any time he's slammed the ice, a fist smashing into his solar plexus and gripping there, making his hands drop to his sides, helpless and empty. "Oh, Yuri."
It hurts the way his bruises hurt when he smacks them against the ice again and again, the way his back hurts after he's tweaked it in a spin or jump but has to keep going, the way his wrists and ankles and knees have hurt when Yakov helped him bind them against sore and swollen ligaments, tendons, cracked bone and torn muscle, a dull and aching pain that is seeping everywhere from this tear in his chest. "Don't be afraid of me."
Don't look at him like he thinks Victor's out to eat him alive, or like he doesn't know who Victor is anymore. Like he doesn't even recognize him. It's thready and hollow, a little more desperate than he knows what to do with or can control, because he doesn't know how to convince Yuri otherwise.
He would never. Couldn't. Can't even begin to comprehend everything he would have to cut out of himself to even be capable of consciously hurting Yuri. "Please."