Victor doesn't let go, and Victor doesn't push him away, and Victor doesn't tell him to let go. Doesn't pull back this time for those words in his hair and behind his ear, but still close enough to feel the breath they are said on. When the words aren't even holding entirely, and what Yuri has is exactly broken down into one point for some very long, explodingly silent seconds: holding on to Victor.
Holding on to Victor like it is the only last thing in the world keeping him here on the ground. Which, he knows, it wouldn't make sense to put into words, to try and explain to anyone else. Not that any of this would make sense if tried to tell someone about it. Not that he has someone to tell about it. Someone who isn't Victor. That he's crushed himself against Victor's chest, only vaguely realizing he needs to breathe slower against Victor's neck, because Victor is the only thing he knows, that makes sense, that feels more real than his own skin, his own heart.
Even if he's an absolute idiot, because Victor, Victor Nikiforov -- No. No.Victor, just Victor (-- and maybe his arm tighten fractionally more.)
Victor has, basically, all but thrown himself at Yuri.
Except. No. He did that, didn't he? He did. He actually, literally did. Throw himself at -- on? -- Yuri. In front of thousands there, and millions worldwide.
When I don't care who sees mixes against the locker room door, and the sidewalk, and the elevator, and the spot that can't be five feet away from where they are now. Where he wasn't ... uninterested. Uninvolved. Un- whatever other un-words exists. But it did start, back there. On the ice. With Victor throwing himself literally on Yuri, and arena ice. After his music came to a close. After.
There's a small question Yuri asks, finally, he doesn't know how long into these thoughts, but honestly, given how tight he's hugging Victor, and the fact he doesn't even move his head, doesn't release or pull back in the slightest, it's basically only an unintelligible muffled mumble of a sound in cloth and skin.
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Date: 2017-04-14 06:51 pm (UTC)Holding on to Victor like it is the only last thing in the world keeping him here on the ground. Which, he knows, it wouldn't make sense to put into words, to try and explain to anyone else. Not that any of this would make sense if tried to tell someone about it. Not that he has someone to tell about it. Someone who isn't Victor. That he's crushed himself against Victor's chest, only vaguely realizing he needs to breathe slower against Victor's neck, because Victor is the only thing he knows, that makes sense, that feels more real than his own skin, his own heart.
Even if he's an absolute idiot, because Victor, Victor Nikiforov -- No.
No. Victor, just Victor (-- and maybe his arm tighten fractionally more.)
Victor has, basically, all but thrown himself at Yuri.
Except. No. He did that, didn't he? He did. He actually, literally did.
Throw himself at -- on? -- Yuri. In front of thousands there, and millions worldwide.
When I don't care who sees mixes against the locker room door, and the sidewalk, and the elevator, and the spot that can't be five feet away from where they are now. Where he wasn't ... uninterested. Uninvolved. Un- whatever other un-words exists. But it did start, back there. On the ice. With Victor throwing himself literally on Yuri, and arena ice. After his music came to a close. After.
There's a small question Yuri asks, finally, he doesn't know how long into these thoughts, but honestly, given how tight he's hugging Victor, and the fact he doesn't even move his head, doesn't release or pull back in the slightest, it's basically only an unintelligible muffled mumble of a sound in cloth and skin.