It's all aborted at first. Victor's disbelief, Victor's unfinished sentences, is nothing -- nothing at all -- to the sudden crescendo in Yuri's head that actually defines what fear is, between the thought of not being ble to be afraid of Victor and the wholly new, wholly foreign, idea, slamming to life, catching fire to every next thought and throwing shadows on every lingering other, that he might be.
When everything feels like it's ready to shatter on anything so much as his taking a breath in. Because.
Because. That can't be true. Because. If that is true -- then -- thenthenthen --
Except the next second, Victor is throwing his arms around him, and Yuri, on something like pained reflex, can't tell whether he's flinching or half prepared for Victor to just be kissing him again, tossing this terror of him with everything else he's stopped and started several times now. Which makes it even more confusing for the first second, when Victor is still talking. Next to his ear. Pressed to his cheeks, his head. Hugging him -- ? Hugging him. And something in Yuri, something in his chest, in his heart, gives a drowning cough, spasmed sharpness, foundering on air.
As Victor says that he'd never hurt him. That he loves him.
Why does it hurt? Why is the only reaction he has to suddenly realize his arms are already around Victor's back, not even having realized he moved them? Only to know they are there when he was crushing himself so much closer against Victor, arms tightening down hard against his back, hard enough to make him real, hard enough to push through him, send them backward a step. When the thought of any of it being true (he can't be afraid of Victor, he can't, he can't, he can't) is something Yuri doesn't want to be true. Feels bordering, blurring the mania of this afternoon.
Except it's worse. It's so much worse. He can't have lost, or lose, Victor. Not while he's right here. Not because he kissed him. That makes no sense, and it's everywhere suddenly. Everywhere when Yuri presses his face into Victor's shoulder and his neck. Into warm skin and darkness. The last and only respite he knows. The one thing he trusts. Beyond trust, beyond faith, beyond every self-admitted fault and flaw in his own thinking, his own feelings, all the lies in his own head that already run the other half of his days.
The one thing he even said to the world, he knew he had to hold on to, couldn't let go of. Victor. Just Victor.
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Date: 2017-04-14 04:28 pm (UTC)When everything feels like it's ready to shatter on anything so much as his taking a breath in. Because.
Because. That can't be true. Because. If that is true -- then -- thenthenthen --
Except the next second, Victor is throwing his arms around him, and Yuri, on something like pained reflex, can't tell whether he's flinching or half prepared for Victor to just be kissing him again, tossing this terror of him with everything else he's stopped and started several times now. Which makes it even more confusing for the first second, when Victor is still talking. Next to his ear. Pressed to his cheeks, his head. Hugging him -- ? Hugging him. And something in Yuri, something in his chest, in his heart, gives a drowning cough, spasmed sharpness, foundering on air.
As Victor says that he'd never hurt him. That he loves him.
Why does it hurt? Why is the only reaction he has to suddenly realize his arms are already around Victor's back, not even having realized he moved them? Only to know they are there when he was crushing himself so much closer against Victor, arms tightening down hard against his back, hard enough to make him real, hard enough to push through him, send them backward a step. When the thought of any of it being true (he can't be afraid of Victor, he can't, he can't, he can't) is something Yuri doesn't want to be true. Feels bordering, blurring the mania of this afternoon.
Except it's worse. It's so much worse. He can't have lost, or lose, Victor. Not while he's right here. Not because he kissed him. That makes no sense, and it's everywhere suddenly. Everywhere when Yuri presses his face into Victor's shoulder and his neck. Into warm skin and darkness. The last and only respite he knows. The one thing he trusts. Beyond trust, beyond faith, beyond every self-admitted fault and flaw in his own thinking, his own feelings, all the lies in his own head that already run the other half of his days.
The one thing he even said to the world, he knew he had to hold on to, couldn't let go of. Victor. Just Victor.